Читать книгу Wherever You Are: The Military Wives: Our true stories of heartbreak, hope and love - The Wives Military - Страница 9

Mechelle Cooney

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 for you or anyone.’

He didn’t give up, and we were soon an item. We moved into a flat together but he was a slow starter: it took him six years to get round to proposing. We married 18 months after that, and bought a house in Plymouth. I’ve never moved around the country with Phil’s job as so many military wives do. He’s the one who travels, and I see him at weekends.

Nothing prepares you for military life; there’s no way to learn except by doing it. You don’t know what you are letting yourself in for – not truly. Before we had children my friends accepted that when he was around I’d be with him, and when he was away I’d see them.

I soon got used to him and his mates. He’d ring me up and say, ‘Chelle, can you do tea for the lads?’

‘How many?’

‘Fifteen.’

They’d all crowd into our little flat and I’d do Chinese or a roast. There would always be people sleeping over. I’d find his mates on the settee, in the bath, on the kitchen floor – they’d crash anywhere. So I had two different lives: one when he was here, and another when he was away, but then I had my job and my mates around.

But it changes after you have kids. I can pick myself up when there’s just me to look after. You worry when he’s somewhere scary, but it affects you so much more when you have children. You think: Am I going to be strong enough to help them as well?

I decided early on that I’d rather stay in one place, and I think it was the right decision, especially now that we’ve got kids. But it’s not easy; you have to be very independent. Our oldest, Jake, was born in 2001, and since then I reckon if you add it all up me and Phil have only had 12 months or so together under the same roof. He’s done 13 tours altogether, including Northern Ireland, two to Iraq and four to Afghanistan, so even if I moved to live near his base, he’d be away much of the time.

I love the Royal Marines. They’re a real family who always stand by each other. All our children have marines as godparents, and one gave Jake a christening gift of a ship’s compass with the inscription ‘If you ever get lost in life, point the compass in my direction and I will find you.’ It’s a warm feeling, that you are part of this supportive family. But it’s a tough choice, being a military wife.

It doesn’t get easier watching him go off to somewhere like Afghanistan, no matter how many times you do it. Anyone who says they can get used to it is a stronger person than me. I’m better at hiding my feelings from the children now, but the first time he was in Iraq I was crying, probably because I was hormonal and pregnant, and I was afraid.

Jake, who was five, put his arms round me and said, ‘It’s all right, Mummy.’

I said, ‘Of course it is. Mummy’s being silly.’ But inside, my heart was breaking.

You have to learn to go through a lot of things on your own, things where you would normally rely on your husband. Aaron was born while Phil was in Afghanistan. I managed to get a message to the ship he was on that I was in labour, and Phil rang back 20 minutes after he was born, but it’s not the same as having him holding your hand. Then he rang again two hours later and he was legless. He told me the whole ship had decided the baby should be called Valentino, as it was Valentine’s Day. I said, ‘No chance.’

When he leaves, I always try to drive him in to camp, rather than say goodbye at home. It’s a few precious extra minutes. But the last time he went was horrendous, because the children are old enough to understand what’s happening. Jake and Aaron, who were ten and nine, were distraught, and Jessie, who was five, was on the floor hanging on to his ankle.

‘This is destroying me,’ he said. ‘You’ll have to go. Don’t wait.’

So I dragged them away, and we came home. The house feels like a big, empty space when he’s gone, even though we’re used to him not being here. We sit on the stairs and hug each other and cry our eyes out. Then one of the kids says: ‘What do we do now, Mum?’

My mum mode kicks in, and I pick myself up and get on with it. Again. But when I get the children to bed I sit there thinking: Jesus wept. Can I do this? Can I keep this up for all these months, having to be strong for the kids as well as for me?

Emotionally, it takes it out of you. I got very upset one time when he told me he stops thinking about us as soon as he leaves. He said, ‘As soon as I walk away, I put you out of my mind. It’s nothing to do with you. I couldn’t do my job if I was worried about you, and I’ve got a lot to do.’

It hurt, even though I know it’s right that he has to focus on his job. So I try to put a brave face on it, and not let him know how much I am going to miss him. I act upbeat on the phone. I always say everything is hunky-dory, no matter what’s happening here, and then I cry my eyes out when I put the phone down. We write lots of e-blueys – the kids do about three a day, I do one every day. I used to write great long essays, and send parcels every day. But this last tour I was working and I just didn’t have time, what with the kids’ swimming and Jessie’s ballet. So I was only sending one parcel a week. About three months in he phoned up and said, ‘Are you sending me anything, darling?’ I thought he wasn’t getting the ones I was sending, but it turned out he wanted a box a day, because some of the lads were getting more than him. Turns out they were having a contest. He admitted the ones who were sending the most were new girlfriends, not long-time wives. But in the end I think he came second or third in the competition, so I didn’t do too badly.

I send wine gums, vitamin tablets, deodorant, sweet chilli sauce, dry food. When I was first with him I sent all the wrong stuff – nobody told me. I sent tins of food, which he couldn’t open, or food he needed to reconstitute with water. They only get enough of a water allowance for drinking. Now I always advise the younger girls.

He’s away so much that a civvy friend of mine said, ‘You are actually married, aren’t you?’

I said, ‘I don’t just wear the rings to pretend.’

Last year was the first time Phil, who was a sergeant then, saw a school Christmas play, ever, and that was Jessie’s. Civvy friends say things like, ‘You knew what you were letting yourself in for when you married him.’ That’s one that all military wives hear. Others say, ‘Phil will be all right. If anyone knows his job, Phil does.’ But that’s not always what it’s about. Things happen out there that you can’t control, however good you are.

I’ve had nightmares when I’ve woken up in a cold sweat, because I was dreaming about his funeral and it was so real. I’ve been through it in my head a hundred times; I’ve even compared notes with another wife. I’ve visualised the knock on the door, I’ve thought about the flowers and songs we’ll have. Phil tells me I’ve got to be strong for the children, and he’s right. But who’s going to be strong for me?

Once, I had to ask the welfare people to bring Phil home. It was during his second tour of Afghan, when I was really poorly with a serious kidney infection. I told him on the phone I wasn’t well. Later I had to be rushed into hospital, and the welfare people arranged for him to come back to look after the kids. We both felt utterly guilt-ridden about it, me as much as him. He kept telling me it was OK but I could see in his face that he wanted to be back there.

I was ill for nearly eight weeks, and it was a terrible time, because he was watching every possible news bulletin, texting people, phoning to find out what was happening. Two of his lads got injured while he was back here with me. It was unspoken between us, but I know he was thinking: I wish you had never called me back. It had to be pretty serious for me to do it. I cope with most things on my own. When Jake had to have an operation Phil was out in Iraq, and I fainted when they gave him the anaesthetic. The nurse told me he’d be fine, but the person I wanted to hold me and say those words wasn’t there, and I couldn’t even speak to him.

I have to make decisions about important matters, like the kids’ education, without him, and then explain it all when he’s back. It’s down to me to get it right. When all Jake’s mates’ dads were helping them make go-carts, Jake’s granddad came over. But Jake said, ‘Why can’t my dad be here?’ He knows the answer, but he asks anyway.

When Jake was younger he had speech problems, and I had to make decisions about his therapy that could affect him for ever. Phil always says he trusts my judgement, but I think: If I balls this up it will be down to me for the rest of his life. It won’t be his dad’s fault.

It’s great when Phil comes home, but it’s weird readjusting to him being back in the house. I’m so used to doing my own thing I once forgot that he was here. I got the kids organised to go to the park with the dog, locked the door, and then two minutes later he was running after me:

‘Chelle, where you going?’

‘Christ, I’d forgotten you were here.’

We laugh about it now, but I was so used to running my own life without thought of him that I’d completely forgotten he was back.

I don’t start counting down with the kids until about two weeks before he’s due back. I don’t want them to spend the whole tour focusing on his return. Then, when it’s close, we start making the banners and the ‘welcome home’ cards.

Coming home is a tricky time, as any military wife will tell you. He’s got to get used to it, and so have we. He won’t tell the kids off, because he’s missed them so much, so I’m always the baddie. We’re better at doing this readjustment bit than we used to be. We used to have right barneys when he got back, because he’d do things I was used to doing.

I’m fiery and strong-willed, so I would say, ‘I’m not some little woman. I’m quite capable of doing this.’

He’d say, ‘Well, what do you want me here for?’

Then at other times I’d be thinking: You’re here, you should be doing this.

It’s a balance, and you get better at finding it, and knowing when to back off. When he comes home he’s tired and wants to stay at home – after all, he hasn’t seen the place for six or seven months. But I’m fed up with the house, and I want to get out and do things with the kids, have some fun. I know I try to cram too much in, but he’s away such a lot I need to make the most of it.

Before he went Afghan last time he started building a beautiful walk-in wardrobe in our bedroom. It’s absolutely gorgeous. But while he was away I was left with a lot of mess, and the back garden was full of rubbish. He loves DIY and he hates it if I pay someone else to do something, but I really resent it if the only time we have together he is working on the house.

I feel I spend my whole life on a pair of scales, trying to balance what’s right for him, right for the children and right for me.