4824

I'm not sure if I have written about these days before, if I have, well, sorry. But I am on a bit of a flow at the moment, so let the words flow!

Estelle lived in Hunslet, Leeds, and along with a friend, had written to the Forces Echo requesting a pen pal. I was single, so I thought I would like a pen pal, and so I wrote.

And, let's say Estelle was keen from the off. Which should have warned me, and let me say now that relationships on the rebound was never going to work, but hey, everything is easy in hindsight.

This was the autumn before Dad died, just when I was posted to Bruggen and leading to my divorce, the final Christmas at home with Dad.

In the New Year, I travelled several times on anovernight bus from Germany to Leeds, our base was the last so there was only ever one free seat free, so I would perch on the seat as we drove down to Calais and learned to sleep sitting up, or leaning forward, head on the seat in front.

It was an adventure at first, leaving Germany at five on a Friday and heading to Calais, boarding a midnight ferry, then driving up through Kent, Essex and into Nottinghamshire to Yorkshire. I would arrive in Leeds about mid-morning, and that first time, Estelle met me off the bus, took me back home and we ended up in bed.

Zut alors.

Estelle was divorced from the wifebeater father of her only child, Matthew. They lived in a nice modern two bedroom house, but inside it was a shit tip.

Frankly.

A month or so later I stayed a week and spent the first morning cleaning the bathroom as I felt dirtier leaving than I was on entering.

Estelle was nearly a decade older than me, and had baggage, though hid it well at first. We had fun, travelled round Leeds in a hire car, and all was fine. Though, I realised after a week that it wasn't going to last.

And then Dad died. The RAF flew me back, and I realised I needed someone beside me. Had Andrea had not been such a selfish bitch, I might have even got back with her, but I asked Estelle if she could come down for a few days until the funeral.

She said yes, so on Saturday Mum and I drive from Lowestoft to Leeds and back to pick her up. It was during that trip that Granddad died, alone, in hospital, his mind having gone the past few weeks.

So, we had two funerals to arrange, deaths to register and all that.

And Estelle and I got on well, she was a rock, and somehow we decided that we would buy a house together.

Just like that.

Which is what happened, we bought a little terrace house in Oulton Broad, looked onto the railway to Norwich and between the papershop and Spar. Perfect. I was also surrounded by both branches of my parent's families.

But I didn't realise.

Matthew came down, went to the local school, and all seemed fine.

And all went well until the bank took the first mortgage payment out five weeks later. Eeek.

By then I had returned to Germany to collect my possessions, say goodbye to my friends and the week after went to my new base: RAF Lyneham.

Lyneham is in lovely Wiltshire, set on a hill overlooking a vale along which the Great Western Railway ran, near to Avebury, and Stonehenge half an hour away. I loved it.

I arrived and was given my barrack room, which overlooked the village church, and on Wednesdays the bell ringing pactice used to drown out my music.

It was a fine life there, I worked in small arms, and part of the job was to travel round Dorset and Wltshire, visiting various Air Training Squadrons, maintaining the rifles they had, and putting in an appearance.

On these I travelled with Rog the Dodge, a Sergeant who knew every road, lane and pub in both counties. We would travel down at about four in the afternoon, we would drive to Bournemouth or Wareham or wherever, do our job, then drive back half an hour to a fine village pub where I would have three or four pints of 6X or Flowers, as Rog always drove. Nealry killed us on several occasions, one time, so close to death we laughed like idiots for 5 minutes at our luch in avoiding an accident.

We also looked after a secret station in the Roman flint mines between Chippenham and Box, venture down into the tunnels, through the deserted base built into the mine to the sub-armoury. Trains passing through Box Tunnel would cause a rush or air, showing there was a way to the tracks. The base dated from the war and in places had art deco murals painted in the 30s and 40s. I wish I took photos, but never did. Sadly.

I returned back to the UK at the end of Britpop, the music on the rsdio was wonderful after three years of BFBS radio, though they did well, but it was safe. I would commute backwards and forwards between Wiiltshire and Lowestoft on Friday and Sunday nights, and in the summer it was wonderful, with Euro 96 on as well, so listening to the matches as I drove or sat in traffic jams on the M25, later switching to the radio for dance music or whatever. Then two days at Hall Road with Estelle and Matthew before driving back to Wiltshire, getting back after midnight, ready for work the next morning.

Once summer turned to autumn, and days began to draw in, those long drives took it out of me, and my money could not support family life in Lowestoft and single life on base. I tried to make it work, but I couldn't.

We were to put the house up for sale, and they were to move back to Leeds, though would have to apply for a new house.

It was horrible, and I realised we had nothing in common. I mean, nothing.

And yet, it all got so sad, that somehow I suggested we could get married, they could come down to Wiltshire, we rent the house out, and the finances should be fine.

That was the theory.

But Estelle liked to spend, eat out, and I know know used to make herslef sick afterwards, so we were literally throwing money down the toilet. And if I refused to take us out to eat, she would refuse to eat, and being diabetic, that wasn't clever.

As time went on, I began to see a sad and lonely woman who wanted to me miserable, nothing could ever make her happy, and she could not say what coupld possibly make her happy. She hated the married quarter, hated Swindon, hated Avebury and Stonehenge which were just rocks and more rocks. Salisbury left her cold.

But she did like the huge ASDA/Walmart in Bristol, and liked Cardiff, oddly. So we used to go there or more nearby Trowbridge each Saturday for shopping, or looking round shops. I put up with it as I wanted to make her happy and I liked driving.

We grew to hate each other. I mean much, much worse than with Andrea, and Matthew had behavioural problems too.

And then she had an affair.

Probably.

She was doing a computer course, and met a guy there, name is unimportant, and when she used our PC to practice on, I found a letter from her describing love.

I was sent on detachment to the Falklands in April 1998, came back four months later to find Matthew was out of control, stealing from her purse.

We struggled on for 15 months, and then, out of the blue, I got a promotion course. This meant going back to Cosford, for 11 months to learn the trade in deeper, more technical depth. And at the end there would be a posting.

I could have got a quarter there, but Estelle refused to go, so I went on my own, living in the block with the other single guys and people in my position.

Christmas 1999, and after her refusing to let me come home at the weekend, we had two weeks together for the festive period. Things came to a head on Christmas Day when I said I was going up to the spare room to watch David Copperfield on TV.

Two hours passed and she came up spoling for a fight.

I refused to be baited and I gave her an ultimatum; stop it or else.

Or esle what?

Or else I will leave.

I am not stopping.

I am leaving.

And I packed and drove back to Cosford that night, returning to an empty base to my single room, I listened to Amanda Marshall's first album, and A Few Small repairs on the way, my mood was dark by the time I reached the base.

Back in my room, I fired up the laptop and looked in the days before the internet, I searched for something to read, and found the files she wrote and the one declaring love for this guy on the computer course.

I developed into a cold dark rage, I called the Samaritans, not because I was going to kill myself, but for someone to talk to. It helped, greatly.

Next morning I called Mum and I drove to Suffolk to spend the rest of the holiday and millennium eve with her.

I thought long and hard what to do, I had time.

I transferred our savings, what little there was, into a different account, and went to see a solicitor to begin divorce proceedings.

When I went back to camp, I had to change my mariatal status, and the shit hit the fan. I was called into various officer's offices and had to explain myself, but I stood up for myself, and I saw a way out of the mess, what with graduating from the course, a 50% pay rise and possibly a posting to Norfolk.

Those were hard days, 8 days of the course, homework, bull nights, parades, dealing with solicitors letters and pissing officers off.

I last saw Matthew in May 2000, when I went down to take him his birthday present and take him out for a meal. It was made clear that I was to have no further part in Matthew's life, he said Estelle had told hom he could no longer tell me he loved me or could call me Dad.

Harsh.

I never retaliated, having one wanker for a Dad was bad enough without becoming a second. I took what wa sleft of my possessions: my hi-fi and record collection. Mainly.

And I never went back, or thought much about them.

I allowed some of the benefits I had to help them out, to get free removal to their council flat in Wootton Bassett.

As spring turned to summer, the weight lifted as it became clear that I was going to pass the course, be divorced and posted to RAF Coltishall just north of Norwich.

The morning we were told of our postings, I called the football club and bought a season ticket.

Life was going to be great from now on. I was going to travel. I was going to follow Norwich. I would go to gigs, buy records. I would be happy.

Life was good once again.

The last weekend of the course, I drove to Crewe to see Norwich play out a 0-0 draw, we were yet to score that season. It seemed grim, but next weekend I would be back in Norfolk.