Soldiers' Wives (34 page)

‘On the mend. Well, out of danger at any rate. And I
can
be around.'

Barry looked at her with raised eyebrows. ‘And what about your husband? What about when he's convalescing?'

‘He's supposed to be flying back, but not till next week, and then he'll be in hospital for a while and then he'll need all sorts of other treatment, they say…'

Barry shook his head. ‘So how will you be available?'

‘There isn't anything I can do for him, is there? It's not like I can nurse him, is it?'

‘But don't you want to be there, by his bed? Stay with him? I thought that was what army wives were allowed to do these days.'

‘If they want.' She stared coolly at Barry. ‘And I don't, not really. His mother'll be there, vile old bat, making out that I'm not good enough and being sarky, giving me evils all the time.'

‘But…' Barry looked completely nonplussed.

‘So as there's nothing I can do, till he comes home I might as well make myself useful and earn a bob or two.'

‘I suppose. If you really want to.'

‘I do. So, can I have that contract?'

Barry nodded and slid his office chair across the floor to a low filing cabinet. He pulled open a drawer and fished out some paperwork. ‘But if you sign this, I won't be able to let you have a mountain of leave when your husband does come home. You do understand that, don't you? I'm not being hard, but I've got a business to run.'

Jenna nodded. ‘I'm sure he'll be able to manage on his own for a few hours while I'm out working. Well, he'll just have to, won't he?'

‘If you say so,' said Barry. Although his face was still a study in incredulity.

Taking off, thought Lee as the Globemaster roared into the air, wasn't half as scary as landing had been, although it was still done in pitch darkness, and the angle was so steep he reckoned that the pilot was trying to escape the pull of earth's gravity rather than just get airborne. However, he felt pretty relaxed because on take-off, there was nothing solid to hit – like the ground, which was what they'd been aiming at when they'd landed. He reckoned Chrissie would have no need for the sick bag this time, which would be a relief for everyone who knew her. After about ten minutes, the lights came back on and the medics on the flight unstrapped themselves from their seats towards the front of the cavernous space and came towards the back of the aircraft to check on their patients. The stretchers were stacked like bunks, three high along the sides, with the medical equipment for the sicker patients lashed to the metal frame of the aircraft. It might look Heath Robinson, but there was no reduction in the level of care between Bastion and the hospital in Birmingham, regardless of how intensive it needed to be.

To start with, Lee felt quite lucky to be on the top stretcher. He wasn't claustrophobic, but from up here he could see what was going on – well, he could now the lights were on again – and he watched Phil as he checked the patients he'd been allocated to make sure they were all comfortable, that those who were connected to monitors were still stable, that nothing untoward had happened during the previous twenty minutes. Then he saw Phil go and sit next to Chrissie – who, as an ambulatory patient, wasn't stretcher-bound. Suddenly he wasn't quite so happy to have a grandstand view.

Once again, he felt a spike of jealousy stick into him. And once again, he bashed it down. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Why did he feel so attracted to her? She had done nothing to encourage him; he was married and yet he'd found himself wondering what his life would have been like if he'd met Chrissie before he'd got hitched to Jenna. He realised he was staring at her again. He really had to stop this obsession; if he didn't he'd turn into one of those spooky stalkers. He looked away, trying to feel happy for Chrissie that she'd found such a good bloke, for he had no doubt that Phil was. Surely, the fact that Chrissie really rated him was endorsement enough.

Thankfully, over the previous week, although Chrissie had been a regular visitor, she'd come along on her own, so he hadn't had to witness again the Chrissie and Phil Show at his bedside. While Chrissie waited for her flight to the UK and cosmetic surgery for the scar on her arm, Phil had been on duty and had rarely dropped by to see him. Lee had been tempted to tell him, on the few occasions he had visited, that he didn't have to bother, but couldn't bring himself to be quite that brutal. The guy hadn't done anything wrong, had he? Instead Lee'd concentrated on trying to be indifferent to his feelings for Chrissie. And if it made him seem a bit cold towards her, then so be it. What the hell did it matter
how
she viewed him? It wasn't going to make any difference; she had Phil, and he was stuck with Jenna.

Yet again, he pulled himself up. He was
so
out of order, thinking of Jenna in those terms, but he was still mad at her for rinsing his savings. And she hadn't answered her phone when he'd rung – so where was she? What was she doing that made her out of contact
every
evening? He didn't want to think badly of her, but what else
could
he think?

Slowly, almost all the activity on the aircraft came to a halt. As with all passenger flights, as opposed to cargo ones, they'd taken off well after dark, to minimise the chances of an enemy attack, and now that it was gone midnight the patients and non-essential staff were grabbing some sleep. The white noise of the giant jet engines was kind of soothing and the dim green light was restful, and soon Lee found himself slipping into a doze and then sleep. But it was a sleep dogged by weird dreams, involving Jenna and Chrissie, and when he awoke again, as the plane was buffeted by turbulence, it was almost a relief.

Phil was also awake and came over to check if Lee needed anything.

‘A drink would be good,' he said.

‘Water?'

‘I'd rather have a beer.'

Phil shook his head. ‘Sorry, buddy, no can do – even if you weren't on meds, this is a dry flight.'

‘Water it is then.'

Phil went to fetch a cup and a straw and brought it back to Lee. He held the cup while Lee slaked his thirst.

‘I've been meaning to ask,' said Lee. ‘Is there any news of Johnny Flint?'

‘Flint?'

‘Yeah, the guy who got his foot blown off, same time as I picked up this.' Lee glanced down at his bandaged shoulder.

‘Oh, him. He was stabilised and sent back almost immediately so, sorry, I can't help. But there's been nothing to say that he isn't all right.'

‘Being minus a foot is hardly all right, though, is it?' It came out harsher than Lee intended.

‘He's in the best hands,' said Phil placatingly. He offered Lee more water, and then went to check on some other patients, before sitting down next to Chrissie again.

Lee watched them chatting, wishing that it was him in Phil's place. Maybe Chrissie picked up his thought subliminally, for she suddenly turned and looked back at him. Even across the width of the aircraft, he could see her blush. Lee made a private bet they were talking about him. The thought made him even crankier.

What was the matter with me? he wondered. He put it down to lack of sleep, but he knew it wasn't just that. No matter how much he tried to deny it, he knew he'd fallen for Chrissie and he didn't want to go home to Jenna.

Jenna crawled into her quarter at about eleven thirty at night, dead on her feet. The job at Coronet Foods might pay reasonably for casual work, and the tips were a nice bonus, but it was knackering. How come her feet had
never
ached like this when she was a hairdresser? Now she had to move around all evening, not stand in one place, they killed her. And she had another job tomorrow, so by the time she got to the weekend, her feet were going to be in tatters. Maybe she'd pop into town in the morning and try and buy some shoes that didn't pinch anywhere. She'd hoped she'd get used to being on her feet, rushing around for hours at a stretch, but it wasn't getting any easier – worse, if anything. She was pleased she had this work, really she was, but it was playing havoc with her social life. How was she ever supposed to get out and have a good time if she was going to have to work every weekend?

Wearily she took her phone from her handbag and switched it on again. While she waited for it to connect and find a signal, she grabbed a bottle of white wine from the fridge and poured herself a large glass. On the counter her mobile gave a series of chirps. Six missed calls – all from the same number, a number she didn't recognise. But she also had voicemail. She hit the screen to call up the messages. If it was some spammer she'd be livid.

‘Hi, sweetheart. Just to say I've landed safely at Birmingham. I'm now in hospital. Mum's here, Captain Fanshaw's coming up in the week, but it's you I really want to see. I guess you're busy, that's why you're not answering…' Well done, Sherlock, what a bit of deduction that was. There was a pause. Lee was obviously trying to think of something else mind-blowing to say. ‘I'll ring again tomorrow. Take care.'

Jenna chucked her phone onto one of the sofas. Oh God, as if she didn't have enough on her plate with this job, now, to cap it all, Lee expected her to hike all the way up to Birmingham. But Lee's direct request was going to be harder to ignore than Alan Milward bleating to her that she had a duty to welcome him home. Milward had phoned twice earlier that week, telling her about Lee's flight and almost ordering her to go and see him. As if it was any of his bloody business. And the more he'd badgered her, the more stubborn and contrary she'd felt. Eventually he'd got the hint and hung up, but he'd left her feeling even more angry with the army. They had
no
right to order her about, tell her what she should and shouldn't do and tell her how she ought to behave towards her husband.

And now Lee had joined in. She sighed heavily. The thought of his mother
and
a hospital visit was almost more than flesh and blood could stand. She hated them both with equal intensity, and the thought of both activities being joined into one fuck-awful day trip was too much. Well, she couldn't do it tomorrow – she had to be back for an event starting at six, so she'd be needed for the set-up from around four thirty. No way was she going to drive all that distance for just an hour or so of playing Florence Bloody Nightingale. And the next day would be no better. The M25 and the M6 on a Friday…? He had to be joking. Maybe she'd think about going up there on Sunday. Or maybe not.

Seb strolled into the military wing of Queen Elizabeth hospital and gave his name to the receptionist. He'd been astounded by the hospital's architecture as he'd driven into the car park – three towering, oval, shiny glass-and-steel buildings – and he just hoped, as he waited to be told where to find Lee Perkins, that the inside was as good as the outside. The area he was in, while still recognisable as part of the NHS, with blue signs directing patients and visitors to every conceivable type of clinic and treatment centre, was more like a military unit when it came to the dress code, and he was far from out of place in his combats. All around him were medical staff, in various types of services uniform: army QA nurses, discussing notes with air force doctors, naval consultants talking to injured soldiers, with some dressed in multicam and some in barrack dress. Only the number of civvy staff made it more like a normal hospital, which, Seb supposed, it was. It certainly sounded and smelt like one: squeaky clean floors, low voices, blips from machinery, the clang of trolleys being moved about…

The receptionist directed him to the military trauma department – follow the yellow line painted on the floor – and a couple of minutes later Seb was strolling onto the ward. The beds were in a mixture of single bunks and four-man bays, and Seb tried hard not to stare at some of the more grotesque injuries as he passed: the burns, the missing limbs, the scars, the disfigurements… Partly because he didn't want the guys to think he was enjoying some sort of freak show, but mostly because he'd witnessed a couple of dreadful incidents on his own tour out there and had spent the past twelve months trying to crowbar the images out of his head. He didn't want to stuff new ones back in. It always amazed him how the medics coped – the things they saw, the things they treated and the pain they witnessed. How on earth did they manage to sleep? He knew he couldn't. He knew, in the past, he hadn't.

He found Lee looking surprisingly bright and chipper. On the other side of the bed was a large woman with a mouth like a steel trap and glittering eyes which looked as if they rarely missed anything. If this was Lee's mother, Seb could see exactly why she and Jenna were hardly likely to see eye-to-eye.

‘Hiya, buddy,' he said easily to Lee. Now was not the moment for parade square formality.

‘Hello, boss. Good to see you.'

‘I don't want to interrupt…' Seb glanced at Lee's mum.

‘Sorry, boss, this is my mum, Sonia – Sonia Perkins. Mum, this is my boss from the barracks back here, Captain Fanshaw.'

‘But call me Seb,' said Seb, holding out his hand to Sonia Perkins.

She shook it. ‘I don't think that would be right, Captain Fanshaw,' she said in a broad Geordie accent. ‘I'm old-fashioned that way. My late husband was military and he wouldn't have approved.' Then she stood up. ‘I expect you lads want to talk shop, and I need a tea and some fresh air, like.'

‘Please stay,' said Seb, ‘I don't want you to feel you ought to go.'

‘No, I need to stretch my legs. It's no bother.' She strode off.

Seb grimaced at Lee. ‘I really don't want to disturb you.'

‘Seriously, boss, it's good to see you. Don't get me wrong, I love me mam, but…' He paused and gave Seb a lopsided smile. ‘Let's just say, this is the third time she's visited me in about twelve hours and I'm running out of things to say.'