Dis-appointer.

Back to life, back to reality. My post holiday feeling lasted a matter of minutes before Hubby felt the need to unburden himself. We were literally sitting down at the dining table having just driven back from Exeter airport; the weather was as sunny as it was in Menorca, the windows were flung wide open onto the garden and my own olive trees were bowed as though in deference to the heat. Hubby had prepared a selection of delicatessen-worthy salads, the bread was Continental and chewy, the cheese Continental and creamy. All was well with the world.
I was relaxed, contented and brown. The girls were excited to be home and regaled their father with all sorts of stories, some taller than others. As I munched and dipped and sipped my cold beer, I gazed at them all lovingly. Perhaps moments like this are memorable because they are so few; it is as though we instinctively know that we must take a snapshot of them to save to the hard drive in our minds, before they are deleted forever. Hubby, who up to that point was relishing having his girls back, had one on his lap helping herself to his salad and the other attached to his thigh, beaming up at him. Did he sense my gaze? Was he aware of my watching them? Did he feel the time was right, or that it was best to spoil this perfect moment lest I became too happy? He looked up at me, his expression solemn.
“I’ve heard from the appointer”. That as any military wife will tell you, is all you need to hear, that or “I’ve heard from drafty”. It all means the same thing. Change. The need to once again readjust one’s professional and domestic life to fit in with the needs and requirements of the Royal Navy. Undoubtedly to some who have recently lost their jobs in this recession, I will sound churlish and ungrateful. After all my mortgage is being paid, I have a good standard of living, my children rarely go without, and we can and do entertain friends regularly. But still, at the mention of the appointer’s name my stomach instantly went into knots and my once delicious salad was now a bowlful of slimy, inedible leaves, the delicate garlic dressing which had evoked the epitome of Mediterranean al fresco dining, now smelt pungent and made me feel instantly nauseous.
“Oh yeah”, I said so articulately, “And what did the appointer have to say? Keep it to words of one syllable. I doubt I could take on board your naval acronyms at this point. Tell it as it is”. So he did.
“Mid August. Middle East. Seven months”.
“When mid August?”
“18th”
“You actually have to go on your daughter’s 14th birthday. Actually on that day? You can’t postpone it by a few hours”. You could tell by his expression that he’d never even made the connection between the dates.
I got up from the table. All my plans were immediately stymied. My mind raced as I recalled all the things I’d intended to do in the next few months. How could I now take up my place at university? It was going to be a full on, one year intensive course. It would have been hard enough with Hubby at home, my children wouldn’t have seen much of me, but at least we would both have been around to work out the logistics of various extra- curricular activities the children enjoy. My assignments would have been written at the weekends. This would now be impossible. How on earth could I leave a four and seven year old to fend for themselves whilst I holed myself up writing essays? My place would have to be deferred if the university would accept it. Even my cafe job, which I love, seemed another headache to organise. Hubby’s leave would have taken up the month of August; ergo I wouldn’t have to think twice about childcare. Now my basic salary would be used up paying for someone else to look after them in the holidays. Who that someone else would be, I had no idea. My mind flitted from one thing to another. Hubby came looking for me and tried to put his arm around me, I shrugged him off.
“I can’t even do something as trivial as the quiz anymore”, I said, a distinctive lump in my throat.
“Of course you can”, he replied.
“No actually I can’t. Thursday nights are when our son has band practise. It’s a rush as it is. I teach from 4.30 to 5.30, then I throw food down everyone’s throats, then I drive our son to the train station in St German’s, then I go home and clean up, put the kids to bed, you come home, I go out and whilst I am at the quiz you fetch him from Saltash. I can’t be in two places at the same time and it goes without saying that band practise will come before the quiz”.
“Will you be home for Christmas?”
“No”.
“We’ll come out to you then”.
“Impossible”
“I can’t even get into the loft. How will I get the decorations out? What if there is an emergency? What if the kids are ill? What if our son fails his GCSEs? What if his school won’t have him back?” The what ifs have gone on and on, most of them I haven’t even voiced. It’s just pointless. I have no control about him going whatsoever. It’s a fait accompli.
We’ve reached an impasse. Hubby and I just skirt around each other now, neither of us willing to communicate our deepest thoughts i.e my bitter resentment and fear, his anger at my being an ‘unreasonable basket case’. My life once again, is on hold. It’s good training for him though. By the time he goes, he will be accustomed and inured to living in a hostile environment.