3069

Through the second half of 1995 and into 1996, I had started wring and ended up visiting a lady in Leeds.

There were a couple of weekly papers available to us in BFG, and among the ads for second hand cars and schranks there was a small section for pen pals, so I replied to two one week; one was to someone called Avril and the other Estelle in Leeds.

Estelle was very keen from the start, but with me emotionally battered after my impending divorce was a good thing.

We wrote, and I was invited over. Now, it was possible to catch a bus from the station gates, which went via Calais to England, then up the A1 to Sheffield, Leeds and onto Newcastle. It made a long weekend, all for 24 hours in the city of your choice. So, one weekend I thought, why not, made a selection of compilation tapes to listen to on the way, booked a ticket and got set for a weekend of, well, who know what.

Laarbruch was the last stop before heading to the port, so getting a seat was always a problem, but I quickly learned to sleep slumped with my head on the headrest of the seat in front, get three hours before we got to the port, awake for the crossing, then back to sleep for the trip north to Yorkshire. I can, even now, remember sitting listening to my 10,000 Maniacs tapes, looking out over the rolling Yorkshire countryside as we neared Sheffield for another drop off. It was all so exciting.

Estelle was waiting, and we went for a walk then back to her house, whereupon we dashed upstairs for some naughtiness. It wasn't planned, just happened.

She lived in a council house in Hunslet in the shadow of Tetley's brewery. It was a fairly modern place, but it was a shothole inside, which was OK for a day/night visit, but early in the new year I went for a week, the first day was spent cleaning the bathroom before I felt I could have a wash. Same with the kitchen.

We are all damaged in some way, product of our cumulative experiences. Some people learn how to deal with that, other don't. And some people learn how to hide the baggage they're carrying. Estelle had been married before, to Gary, a car cleaner and part time wife-beater, they had one child, a boy called Matthew, who was a handful. However, things seemed OK, to me it seemed all Matthew needed was a little bit of paternal guidance and barriers in his life, which over the next couple of years, seemed to work.

In normal times, I think that last visit would have been it with us. I was more than happy with my single life, my room in my barrack block at Laarbruch. But as I said before, one April evening there was a loud knock at my door. Now, I have written about that before, but here is a recap:

Since Andrea and I got married, by relationship with my parents broke down, to the point we hardly spoke. But in Germany, Andrea wasn't happy with the single TV channel we had, she wanted Sky, and to have that meant having a UK address at which to have the smart card sent to, and a UK phone number. Having Sky in Germany was illegal, but many had it all the same, back when the signal came from the Astra satellite and was easy to get into, hacking was even possible. So, in order to get the card we decided to make contact with my parent, but in respect to my parents, it couldn't just be for that, it meant having a relationship; phone calls and visits, we could not just sue people, though Andrea had no such qualms.

Dad had been slowing down, looking back Mum could see it, but at the time, she just thought he was getting old. He took a week to decorate the living room in early 1996, and needed long rests, but he got it done. He had never learned to drive, so had to cycle back and from work each and every day. It seems he was really struggling with his breathing in his final few months, needing to walk his bike up the slope to the swing bridge in Oulton Broad. On his last day, he got off his bike, and his heart ran out of energy, suffered a major heart attack and was dead before he hit the road, according to the ambulanceman who had been called. Meanwhile, Mum stood waiting with his dinner being kept warm in the oven. He never came home.

Mum contacted the MOD and signals were sent from Whitehall to Laarbruch and the Orderly Officer and Duty NCO were dispatched to my room to inform me. It was they who were knocking at my door.

When I opened it, I knew it was bad news, I mean I had been long enough in the military to know an office and NCO knocking on your door meant bad news, probably a death in the family, and as Granddad had been ill with heart problems for years, and was in hospital again with another suspected heart attack, it was him? No, worse than that, the Orderly Officer told me, your Father has died. Your Mother would like you to call. Downstairs, a friend had a phone line and I asked him to let me call home. He was listening to Pearl Jam's Jeremy, which he had done when he learned a friend of his had died. So, Jeremy brought another death.

The Orderly Officer told me there was a VIP flight out of Bruggen the next morning, and an MT driver would call for me in time to get me there.

Mum was upset, obviously, but better when I said I would be home the next day. I went for a bike ride, passed my old quarter where Andrea was still occupying it, despite being divorced from me for four months I rode on to Weeze, trying to get my head around things. My friends back at the block thought I was going to kill myself, so were relieved when I came back. I had a drink. And another. And maybe some more, drifting off to sleep until in the pre-dawn darkness I got up and went to the car waiting outside.

I have no recollection of the drive to Bruggen, though it must have happened. On the tarmac was a small passenger plane, I had a seat at the front, all the other passengers were very high ranking RAF and Army officers.

Once we landed at RAF Henlow just outside London, a member of ground staff came on board and asked for me by rank and name. I got off first, at the same time standing on the Wing Commander's foot who was sitting next to me. Another car was waiting for me at the foot of the steps, no passport control, just off the base and north to the motorway, and hence up the A12 through Essex and into Suffolk.

The RAF isn't good at many things, but at times like these it was really wonderful. I had a hotline number to the head admin office, and they would do what they could if i needed help.

Some 18 hours had now passed, so the shock had passed, but mum asked me to go round the neighbours and friends to tell them, which I did, and that is what brought the tears on, and the reality of what happened ht me like a truck

I needed someone with me, it could have been Andrea, but I asked Estelle if she could come down. She said yes, so we were to drive to Leeds on Saturday to pick her up and come back down with us.

Mum and i had to go to the registry office, back in Gorleston as he had been declared dead at the hospital rather than in Oulton Broad in Suffolk. The registrar came over cold and unfeeling when he insisted Dad was called "the deceased" rather than Dad or husband. Still jars all these years later.

So, On Saturday, we took the hire car I had and drive to Leeds to collect Estelle. It was a light hearted trip, we listened to music I seemed to remember, we gave little thought to the rest of the family. So when we came back there was a message from her Mother saying Granddad had passed away at about six that morning, none of the staff noticed, he died alone. So, in the space of four days I lost both male blood relations, meaning there was just Mum, me, her Mother and Dad's Mum left. Dad's Mum, Nannie never cried, saying if she started she would never stop. No parent should have to bury their child, even if they are 96 years old.

We had funerals on consecutive days, the same people from the Co-Op attended, and mostly the same friends and family came too.

In the following days, Estelle and I settled into a life together, not really living in reality, but it seemed good enough that we should think about living together. If all this seems a little rash, you would be right. But we found a house in Oulton Broad, near to where most of the surrounding roads have many distant relatives. Matthew was collected, her council house anded back, and for a few weeks we lived with my Mum until the sale went through.

I didn't really care about finances, so pad little or no attention to bank statements or mortgage plan, so once the sale went through, I carried on spending like I was a millionaire.

Reality came very quickly.

What with the two deaths, and my new life apparently building back in England, I asked the RAF to bring my posting forward from July to the end of May. Which is what happened. I just had to return to Laarbruch to clear and pack all my stuff either into my car or in boxes to be shopped back. I said goodbye to my friends, saw Andrea in passing, and after four days back, left RAF(G) for the last time, drove home for a new life, and on the Monday, drove to Wiltshire for my shiny new posting to RAF Lyneham.

Lyneham lies south west of Swindon, about 15 minutes off the M4, is easy to get to out of rush hour. It sits on a hill overlooking the plane through which the motorway and main line between Bristol and London rns. My room overlooked the church, and I moaned about the bellringing practice on Thursday nights.

Lyneham was a very different base, it was home to the Hercules fleet, so transport. It worked 24 hours, 7 days a week. I was to work in the armoury, in the small arm bay, which sounds nice from this distance, but after being shafted by my boss at Laarbruch, I was an angry man. In which case, Lyneham was perfect.

Also working there was a sergeant who asked me if i would like to accompany him on parenting duties at the two dozen or so ATC units in Dorset and Wiltshire. He was such a bad driver that no one else would get in the car with him, but I didn't know that.

So, I would do four hours in the afternoons, then we would get the car from MT and drive maybe for an hour or so to Bournemouth, or Poole, Swindon, or wherever, to visit the ATC squadrons, service their weapons, drop off their ammunition and be sociable. On the way back, we would find a nice little pub, have a meal and a few pints, all on rates, then Rog would try to get us back without killing us. Roger did nearly kill us on a couple of occasions, and I began to value my life too much to go much more, but for that glorious summer, the summer of Euro 96 and the end of Britpop, we travelled the length and breadth of Dorst and Wilts, sampling real ale and pub food having the time of our lives.

I mellowed.

We also had to go over to Jersey to parent the squadron there too. Roger made sure that the three hours work we had to do there was scheduled to take place over three days. We stayed in a hotel, ate curries in the evening and drank lots of beer. We even took a third person to make sure we could get through the volume of work. Ahem.

So, for four days week, I lived the life of a single airman, then on Friday's I would drive three and a half hours or more back to Oulton Broad, through the weekend rush hour. And over the weekend we did the shopping and went out to eat and all the stuff, all on my SAC's wage. I ran out of money each month, and it got worse.

In November 1996, it came to breaking point that either we spit up and they went back to Leeds, the house sold, or we got married, moved into quarter at Lyneham and rented the house. It was a dreadful position. After deciding to split up, i had a change of heart and thought the misgivings I had were ill founded. So, we got married and were allocated a house just as good as the one she had lived in in Leeds, but it wasn't good enough for Estelle. So, with her in a bad mood I took her on a tour of the local area: Avebury stone circle - Just stones. Stonehenge - More stones.

It wasn't going to work, but here we were , just married.

And to be fair, it worked out OK for a while, I worked eight till four, home at four fifteen, but as the months went by, we drifted apart and got angrier with each other. In far less time than it took Andrea and I.

There was going to be a day of reckoning, but that was some time off, but turned out the RAF were going to make things complicated.

One day a signal arrived on camp informing my CO I needed to attend some courses. No explanation, but Roger knew what it was, looking at the Qualifications (Q) needed, I was going to Croatia to support NATO operations. Now, the problem was that I spoke more than a little of the language, or didn't, as I spoke Serbian, as Andrea was from there, rather than Croatia, and this could make me a target if, say I asked for a pivo rather than a piva.

I raised this with the education office, who had taught me Russian once, don't ask. Anyway, she agreed and my 4 month detachment was cancelled

Yay!

The next day another signal arrived, with another set of Qs required.

Roger looked again. Hmmm, you're going to the Falklands.