The Wives - Wherever You Are - The Military Wives - Our true stories of heartbreak, hope and love

We were thrilled that David had managed to get his R & R over Christmas: we thought it would be great for the children. I built myself up for it, getting really excited. But then we all caught some horrible vomiting bug. We were being sick, all of us, the whole time. We didn’t even have Christmas dinner. When he went back to Brize Norton the flight was delayed, and the other lads were sent home for another night with their families. But he was vomiting so much they kept him there. He had to be injected with an anti-vomiting drug before he could get on the flight to go back to Afghan. So that was our wonderful R & R.

Now I say to him, ‘Don’t bother with Christmas. See if you can get back for half term. Otherwise, just leave it as late as possible.’ If it’s delayed, you don’t get extra time at the end. It’s rubbish, but I’m a veteran and I don’t wind myself up thinking about it. That’s how it happens. Don’t worry.

When I first met David and he told me what he did, I said, ‘What the hell is a Royal Marine?’ I’d heard of the army, navy and air force, but I’d never heard of the marines. When I told my mum I was going out with him she said, ‘It’s not like Soldier Soldier , you know.’

My family were worried because when I met him I was 16, and he was eight years older than me and in the armed forces. We met because my best friend from school was dating his brother, and I was invited to a party David’s mum threw to celebrate his passing out into the marines, in Sheffield where we are both from.

We’ve been together for over 14 years now and married over 12, so we’ve proved everyone wrong. But I think for the first two years, when I lived in Sheffield and he came down at weekends, out of the whole of that time we spent less than five months together.

I was pregnant when we got married, in Christmas week. We got married on 27 December 1999, when I was 18, so it was a crazy week – Christmas, the wedding, then the millennium. We moved down to Gosport on 2 January, and then I had Callum in May.

At first he was away one week every month and I’d go back to Sheffield then, getting a bus to the ferry, the ferry to Portsmouth, a bus to the station and then three trains to Sheffield. I didn’t have a friend in Gosport, and I didn’t know how to meet anyone. Most of the people living near us were in the navy, not the marines, so David couldn’t introduce me to anyone, and they didn’t make an effort to befriend me. It was all right when he was coming home at night, but when he was away for a whole week I couldn’t stand the loneliness.

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.