LITMIR.BIZ

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TWO Sandra

      Allen sailed off to the Gulf in April 1991, leaving me at home to look after our two children: Liam, aged six, and Zoe, aged five. It was always hard when he went away but after seven years of marriage I was beginning to get used to it. It goes with the territory when you’re a naval wife. However, this was the first time since I’d met him that he’d been posted to a war zone, and although the fighting was over and Saddam Hussein’s troops had been chased out of Kuwait, I was still nervous. Every time I read news stories about random shootings, friendly fire incidents or that missile that hit a military base in Saudi Arabia, a knot tightened in my stomach.

      I’d been suffering from anxiety and panic attacks since I had a severe case of post-natal depression following Zoe’s birth. Some days I found it hard to look after myself, never mind two children, and I struggled to cope with all the incessant chores and responsibilities that come with running a house. Allen was my rock during that period, the person who could always calm me down and make everything all right. He’d walk in the front door and cook us all a nice meal, and whatever I was stressed about, he’d say, ‘Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it. I’ll go and get the shopping, I’ll pay the bills, I’ll pick the children up from school.’ He was a calm, capable, very caring kind of man.

      Now that Liam was at school and Zoe’s difficult baby years were past, I was managing a lot better but I still missed Allen very badly. Silly things, such as the central heating breaking down or one of the kids falling and scraping their knees, could reduce me to a panicky wreck again. He called from the ship when he could, but it was a complicated process. He had to book a call in advance, wait to get a line, and then if I happened to be out he would miss his slot. I had no idea when he would be back in the UK. We were hoping that he would be home for Christmas but there were no guarantees. There never were.

      Then tragedy struck when my sister Valerie died of liver failure on Monday 12 August 1991. For most of her adult life she’d been battling complex health issues, but the end came suddenly and shockingly and I was distraught. Right up to the last moment we hoped she would pull through but it wasn’t to be. She left behind a little boy who was just five, two months older than Zoe, and it was a horrible family tragedy.

      I contacted the Navy’s Family Services and asked if I could speak to Allen urgently. They called the ship and a few hours later he was able to ring me briefly.

      ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said, his voice breaking up across the crackle of international airwaves. ‘I just wish I could be standing there right now with my arms round you.’

      I started crying so much I could hardly speak. ‘Please come home, Allen,’ I begged. ‘Please.’

      ‘I’ll put in a request with Family Services. We should know soon. When’s the funeral?’

      ‘I don’t know yet. Early next week.’

      ‘I’ll do my best to get there. I love you,’ he said. Then the line was abruptly cut off.

      ‘Love you too,’ I sobbed into the vast distance between us.

      I’d never needed him more in my life, but the next day I got a call from Family Services to say that he couldn’t get leave because it wasn’t a member of his family who had died.

      ‘It’s his sister-in-law!’ I cried. ‘He was very close to her.’

      ‘I’m afraid that’s not considered a close relative in Navy terms. If it was his own sister that would be different.’

      I argued but they had made up their minds, so I just got on with trying to deal with it myself, along with my mum and my two remaining sisters Marion and Jennifer. There were the funeral arrangements to make, Valerie’s little boy to look after, her possessions to deal with; it was all too much on top of caring for my two lively kids. I staggered through each day, barely coping, just doing the minimum because my energy levels were so low. It was as though there was a huge weight pressing down on me making it virtually impossible to do anything.

      Every day I prayed that Allen would at least be able to get access to a phone to ring and see how I was. Even a few words of comfort from him would have helped. I’d never felt so utterly alone. My sisters and my mum were immersed in their own grief and couldn’t deal with mine as well, and the kids were just too young to understand.

      The following week, on 21 August, I got another phone call from Family Services. When I heard who it was, I assumed they were calling to see how I was managing after Valerie’s death and couldn’t make sense of what they were saying at first.

      ‘We’re calling to tell you that Allen’s back in hospital again,’ a woman’s voice said.

      ‘What do you mean he’s back in hospital?’ I was stunned.

      ‘After his accident,’ she said.

      My heart started pounding hard. ‘What accident?’

      I heard an intake of breath. ‘Didn’t anyone call you? Last week. He was involved in an accident. He’s OK, but he’s had a bang on the head.’

      ‘When last week? Why wasn’t I told?’

      There was a rustle of paper. ‘Last Friday, the sixteenth. I thought you knew. I’m sorry. He was admitted to hospital with concussion but then the ship was sailing and they didn’t want to leave him behind so they took him back on board to treat him there. But I suppose his condition has deteriorated a bit so he’s been transferred to a hospital again.’

      ‘Where is he? I need to speak to him. Do you have a number I can call?’ I needed to hear him tell me what had happened in his own words.

      ‘I’ll have to get back to you on that. But honestly, don’t worry. It doesn’t sound serious.’ She was embarrassed and obviously couldn’t wait to get off the phone.

      Honestly, don’t worry? Straight away I got on the line to HMS Nelson, the naval base he was attached to, but no one there seemed to know anything. They all just promised they’d get back to me. I paced the house waiting for the phone to ring. Zoe was playing with a jigsaw on the floor and when Liam got in from school they started fighting with each other. Kids always seem to sense when you are anxious, which makes them seek even more attention, which just adds to your stress. I suppose I could have phoned and asked a friend to come round and keep me company but I didn’t want the line to be engaged when Family Services called me back, nor did I feel like talking to anyone. I just had to keep myself busy until I found out what was going on.

      I was making the kids’ tea when I finally got a phone call, but it wasn’t exactly the information I’d been waiting for.

      ‘You’ll have to call the British Embassy tomorrow morning and they’ll arrange for a call to be put through to your husband’s hospital ward.’ They gave me the number.

      ‘How is he?’ I asked. ‘Is there any more news?’

      ‘No more news. Just that he’s had a bump on the head. Try to keep yourself busy and don’t worry about it too much.’

      I thought, Yeah, right, you do that when it’s your husband. I just needed to speak to him and hear in his voice that he was OK. I’d trained as a nurse and knew that head injuries could cause a wide range of symptoms from a simple raised lump through to inflammation of the brain and all sorts of complications. I couldn’t understand why he hadn’t tried to call me himself since the accident. Yes, it was difficult to get access to a phone, but surely the circumstances were exceptional?

      When I finally got through to the hospital in Dubai, a nurse with a heavy accent said she would get Allen on the line. I waited and waited, trying not to think about how much a phone call to the Middle East must cost per minute. It sounded as though nothing was happening and I was about to hang up when I suddenly heard breathing down the line from thousands of miles away.

      ‘Allen, is that you?’

      There was a pause. ‘Yes, it’s me. Who are you?’

      ‘It’s

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