I was glad we went to Gosport, because until four weeks before our wedding I thought I was going up to Arbroath in Scotland, where David was posted at the time. Every time I’d visited him up there the weather had been atrocious. Coming from Sheffield, I’m used to bad weather, but that was something else. So when he was posted to Gosport it was a relief. We didn’t see the flat until after the wedding and I wanted to cry when we walked in. I was pregnant and hormonal, which made it all seem worse. The walls were covered in woodchip wallpaper, which had been patched in places with different kinds of woodchip. There was some awful 70s furniture. There was a little serving hatch between the kitchen and the dining area and I thought: I’ve seen that on TV sitcoms set in the 1950s.
I’d made our house in Sheffield really homely, and this seemed terrible. I knew nobody, and I hated the quarter. I didn’t know the rules: I thought I couldn’t even put pictures on the walls. But once I found out I could change the hideous curtains and get all our own stuff in, it looked better.
When we leave a place I always scrub it from top to bottom and leave it spotless, and then move into one that’s disgusting, so I have to start scrubbing again. That’s something you hear from wives all the time and I can’t understand how some people can get away with leaving the houses in such a poor state, because it’s inspected when we move out.
Looking back, my introduction to being a military wife was a horrible time, and I think now: How the hell did I do that? Luckily, it’s got better ever since, and I can drive now. Our next move was to Plymouth, then to Bordon for a year, which wasn’t a lot better than Gosport; then we went to Lympstone, where we had a lovely house in Exmouth. I’d go back there in a heartbeat. Owen, my second child, was born there, a home delivery with the same midwife I’d had all the way through my pregnancy – a lovely experience. After that it was Chivenor, briefly, and then back to Bordon again. You get completely used to packing everything up and starting again in a new house, finding new schools and nurseries.
We write to him all the time. When he was on his second tour I worked opposite the Hive, so I could pop in every day and fax blueys. I wrote in bed every night with a cup of tea. The blueys were more a diary of what we’d been doing than love letters. On his first two tours out there I sent a letter every day, and on his third tour I did e-blueys, which are good because you can send photos. I always send one or two parcels a week, mostly with sachets of hot chocolate and cappuccinos, and lots of munchies. He lets me know when he needs toiletries. The kids send their paintings, and he decorates the wall behind his bed with their drawings and photos.
During his second tour of Afghan his nan died, but there was no way to get him home for the funeral, as she wasn’t a close enough relative. I went to the funeral. I didn’t tell him how much his nan had suffered at the end, because he couldn’t be here and it wouldn’t have helped him to know. On the same tour his nephew was born, so that was great news and we could send lots of pictures. It’s good to have something positive from home.
That was the tour when there was a change of public mood towards the troops out there. I think it was because everyone became aware that children were being used as suicide bombers, after there was a terrible story of a little boy blowing himself up. During his first tour, our involvement in Afghan was frowned on: people didn’t approve of it at all, they were against the decision to go there and we were associated with that. But after that second tour, the mood of the whole nation changed, and there was a big ‘welcome home’ march through Barnstaple. I felt so proud. I’m always proud of him, but it was great to be able to show it in public, and see thousands of people cheering the lads.
The second tour was not an issue with the children. They both missed their dad but they weren’t difficult. But the third tour was bad because Callum was ten, and much more media aware. He had a recurring nightmare, and he’d wake up crying. When I went to him he’d say: ‘I keep having horrible thoughts.’ I’d hold him and he’d tell me he’d dreamt that two men came to the door to tell him that his daddy was dead. It broke my heart. All I could do was reassure him that it was only a bad dream. I told him that Daddy’s job was just fixing vehicles, and that he didn’t go anywhere dangerous. It wasn’t true: David was on difficult and dangerous convoys. But I needed to get Callum through and I wanted him to sleep. I just held him and comforted him as much as I could.
I make a point of planning a holiday abroad for David’s POTL. He needs to relax, and so do I. We need to be a family, without school, housework or mates around. It’s good for him to have fun with the kids. If we stay at home he doesn’t want to tell them off when they’re out of line, because he’s been away, so it’s difficult. And he feels he should be doing stuff around the house, helping me, not just taking it easy. On holiday, we get back to being us. His mum comes, and she looks after the kids to give us a bit of time together.
I’m lucky, because he’s very laid-back, so there aren’t emotional or mental problems when he gets back. He just looks a bit odd: he’s mucky, smelly, hairy and a funny colour.
When he’s away, it’s as if your whole life is on pause. You don’t even like to go out and have fun: it feels wrong while he’s out there, as though you are betraying him in some way. But you can’t spend a whole tour sitting by the telephone. As soon as the kids were old enough, I found a job. I can’t imagine sitting around all day; I like to keep busy. When we were in Bordon I worked in a home with adults with learning and physical disabilities, and I loved it. A year later we were on the move again, back to Chivenor. We’ve been here now for seven years, which for a military wife is fantastic. I haven’t had to pack my home up for ages, but I know we’ll be on the move again soon, first to Plymouth and then possibly back to Bordon. I’m not looking forward to leaving all my friends, but I already know loads of the girls in Plymouth.
I’d heard so many bad stories about Chivenor being unfriendly and isolated. But we moved in the summer, which makes a big difference. When the sun shines, everything looks good, and there are great beaches and great walks. I thought: What the hell’s wrong with everybody? This is a really good place.
I guess if you move in winter it’s different. And I’m lucky because I’ve got a great job as the deputy manager of the local nursery. We’ve made the tough decision to put the boys into boarding school, because of the moves that are coming up. It’s important for them to have continuity of education, so that they keep the same friends all the way through school, and they don’t have the disruption of packing up and moving. Callum loves it, and Owen is joining him at the same school. It’s me that misses them; they’re really happy. It’s a decision you have to face. We get a lot of help with the fees, and we’ve decided it’s better for the boys. For me it means that every time David, who will soon be a sergeant, moves, I’ll go with him.
The choir has been one of the best things ever, for me: I know that if he goes away again, I’ll have the choir to support me.
I was giving up on men altogether, after having a few useless dates. But a good mate was married to a marine, and she persuaded me to go to the pub with her one night, in Plymouth, where I’m from.
My friend’s husband said, ‘There’s someone here I’d like you to meet, Phil Cooney.’
‘Not if he’s a marine, thank you very much. I don’t want to know.’
Then this drunken thing came over and said, ‘Hiya, gorgeous, I’m going to take you on the dance floor and show you my moves …’
He was that drunk I was wetting myself, but I liked that he didn’t take himself seriously. He asked if he could see me the next day, a Sunday, and I said, ‘I’m not missing my mum’s roast dinner