Chapter 7: Catterick Camp

The train travelling north was jammed full of Jocks going back home for Hogmanay. There were no seats in the second class coaches, but plenty were available in first class if you'd had the foresight to take out a second mortgage to afford the exorbitant price, plus the late booking fee. Bizarrely, if you upgraded to first class at the station before boarding the train you didn't have to pay a booking fee.
I stood in the vestibule by the bogs, with a crowd of drunken Scotsmen, all the way to Darlington, where passengers for Catterick Camp changed onto the train that clattered along the branch line to Richmond and Catterick.
Once onboard 'The Catterick Flyer' I had a seat, with room to stretch out comfortably, and the peacefulness to compose my thoughts.

I was still bitter that Miriam had gone off to Spain rather than staying to talk over our marriage problems. Well sod her! I had really wanted to get back into a loving relationship with her, but if she didn't want the same then so be it. Her reaction to my overture had, I firmly believed, given me carte blanche to find other sexual partners. This led me to think of Julia, the latest of those sexual partners for which I hadn't been given carte blanche. It was a crying shame that Julia was a Millwall fan, as I was sure I could have built a relationship with her similar to that which I had enjoyed with Phillipa Goddard. In one way it was better I had discovered Julia's footballing allegiance when I did, before our affair became too intense. However, as I mused on what might have been with Julia, it occurred to me that although I bore all the marks of having a passionate and lustful liaison with her I still couldn't recall much of what we had actually got up to, or how enjoyable it had been, thanks to that date rape drug blanking my memory.
That could be a discussion point for those tossers who sit around discussing such things as–'if a tree falls in a forest and nobody hears or sees... '?
If you shag – but can't recall a bloody thing that happened – did it actually happen?
From there my thoughts moved on Mel. We both knew that if Harry Ledbetter had been off the scene she and I would have become an item. As it was she was still in love-lust with him, and I wouldn't make a move on her while she was my best friend's squeeze.
This in turn brought me to Harry, and how he had misled me. Fair enough: Mel had asked him not to tell me about their affair, but he had lied in his teeth to me in Kenya.

Mel had flown out to Nairobi on the twenty second of December, and stayed the night at Bo Shepard's shag-pad with Harry, then he and Mel had flown to Malindi early the next morning, the day he and I were due to fly out of Kenya.
Obviously Harry had made all the arrangements to bring Mel out to Kenya, and knew damn well that he wouldn't be accompanying me back to the UK. His fear that She Who Must Be Obeyed was trying to get him into bed, his monitoring of the situation in Mogadishu, and his discussion with other parties on the situation in Somalia, were nothing but bull-shit, fabricated to give reasons why he wasn't going to be spending time at the Government Lodge. He had never lied to me before, as far as I knew, and now I wondered if I could trust him as implicitly as I once had.
On the other hand it was probably due to Harry's influence that I had been promoted to Lance Corporal. He must have persuaded MoD to give me the stripe in recognition that my actions at Fort Uhuru had helped to secure the steel contract.

There is never a best time of year to visit Catterick Camp. Not that I've got anything against the place – which is a ruggedly beautiful area of the UK, or the people of the area – who are just rugged. It's just that the wind, that whistles off the Pennines throughout the year, cuts like a whetted knife – I pinched that from John Masefield - sorry John – and it would freeze the bollocks off a brass monkey. For someone just back from the heat and blinding sun of East Africa it was like the Arctic Circle, especially in the depths of a Northern winter.
I wasn't able return to 1RGJ, nor go back to 3RGJ, in my lower rank in case my former subordinates wreaked revenge on me for any, perceived, wrongs I may have done them.

As far as 2 RGJ was concerned I was like an uninvited, slightly scandalous, reprobate relation at a wedding, and I was assigned to the mortar platoon, which was a bit of a dumping ground for misfits. The battalion also did what most units do when they have an embarrassment on strength; they dispatched me on as many courses as they could.

The first course I had to attend, barely having time to unpack my kit, was a parachute continuation training course, carrying out the 8 jumps a year I needed to qualify for parachute pay. The course was now held at Tidworth, which like Warminster is on Salisbury Plain, but whereas Warminster had been a joy Tidworth barracks is a bastard. The only good thing about it that it was in the south, and so few degrees warmer than Catterick.

The day before I travelled south to attend the course I received a letter from Miriam. She was very apologetic about not being at home at Christmas, explaining that she had made all the arrangements for the holiday, and if she had not attended the Brummies would have got themselves in a right pickle, not being able to cope with the travel or the language, and being like children if she hadn't been there to hold their hands – not the sharpest knives in the drawer are her relatives from Birmingham.
She was adamant that she had replied to my letter, in which she had explained why she wouldn't be in Plaistow over Christmas, and had suggested that the first week of the New Year would be a more convenient time for us to have our discussion. She also managed to get a dig at me by saying that if I had given her a telephone contact number she would have been able to talk to me and explain her reasons for not being available at Christmas. She now asked that I telephone her as soon as I received her letter.
I rang her from a call box outside the NAAFI canteen. We both apologised, although I thought I had far less to apologise for than she did, but I could see that if I had given her a number to contact me much distress would have been avoided. That being said, Miriam could have asked directory inquiries for the number of the High Commission in Nairobi, but I forbore to tell her that. Any way we arranged that I should call in at Plaistow on my way back to Catterick at the end of the parachute continuation training course.

The parachute training went well; the meeting with Miriam not quite so well.

It started off OK – we were both on our best behaviour, and we had even exchanged a kiss. My mother and Vivian had gone up West to a show and a meal and wouldn't be back until gone midnight, so Miriam and I had the house to ourselves.

Once again Miriam apologised for not being at home when I returned to the UK, and I, noble bloke that I am, forgave her, and admitted that maybe I should have given her a telephone number to reach me.
So far so good. We both then apologised for what we had said to each other that terrible time after her parents died – and then is when it started to go pear shaped, and I have to say that it was all Miriam's fault.

"You said some horrible things to me, Des. It's taken me a long time to forgive you, but I don't think I will ever forget you saying that you would find a real woman, a woman who would give you children and also satisfy you in bed. That really hurt me."
I admitted that what I said had been cruel and unfeeling, but in defence I pointed out the equally harsh and terrible things she had said to me – especially her accusing me of enjoying butchering the Argie, and that I would have enjoyed watching her parents die. I too said I had forgiven her, but couldn't forget what she had said.
Miriam replied, rather sharply. "But you did kill that Argie, and you never did like my parents."

"What do you mean? I didn't enjoy killing the Argie; it was either him or me, and I've never disliked your parents."

"Well, you never sent a card on the anniversary of their deaths. I sat watching the post for a week after the day – I should have known that you had forgotten – you never had any thought for them when they were alive, so why should you care when they were dead?" She sniffed. "You might have given a thought for me; at least your mum gave a card, and fussed over me that day, but you couldn't be bothered – and you didn't even remember."
It was true. I had forgotten the anniversary of the accident, but I was working flat out in the training program. Her parents had died at the back end of November, and we were training twice as many men on the mortar courses at Camp Kenyatta during that month.
I told her that I had been up to my eyes in work, as an excuse, but she was getting herself into her 'poor little Miriam' mood, and I needed to pull her back to reality.

"Well, I still can't forget that you blamed me for your parents' deaths – that was totally uncalled for. How on earth could I be responsible?"
Miriam glared at me, and I could see her anger mounting. "If you hadn't kept on at to me to come out to Germany they would be alive now – the road accident was all your fault."

"You're talking nonsense, Miriam. You had already decided to join me in Celle; it was only after their deaths that you changed your mind."

"That's it," she spat. "Change the bloody subject and try to foist the blame onto me. It was your fault. My mum and dad were worried sick how I would manage in Germany, knowing what a philanderer you were. They knew you'd be off chasing tarts, leaving me alone at home, in a foreign country with no friends. It was them worrying about me that caused them to crash – and that was all your bloody fault."
By now her face was an angry red, her eyes were blazing with fury, and she was gradually losing control of herself. I suppose I should have stopped it there and just left, but I didn't.

"Don't talk such bollocks. It wasn't my fault, it was an..." before I could finish the sentence Miriam lost it and screamed at me. "You're blaming me? It was your fault–it wasn't my fault – I'm not to blame, I'm not to blame!"
Her eyes were wild and staring, like a crazed person, and spittle sprayed from her mouth. She became quite hysterical and started beating her fists on my chest; I'd never seen Miriam in such a state. I had always thought her flashes of temper were an aberration to her normal, calm placid self – but this was scary. I concluded she was having a fit, so I slapped her face.

The transformation was instant. She stepped back from me, dropping her hands to her side. Her eyes lost their mad look and returned to normal, and her face, which had been contorted with rage, relaxed.

"You hit me." It was not an accusation but a statement, her voice steady, and in the same level tone as if announcing that it was raining.

"Yes, Miriam, and I'm sorry that I had to do it, but I thought you were having a fit or something. I was concerned."
She looked at me calmly; it was amazing that the virago she had been seconds before had disappeared. "I understand why you thought you had to do it – you've never hit me before, and I forgive you."
I was going to say that it was just a slap, but thought it best to keep my mouth shut unless that virago returned.
She continued to speak in that same cool, thoughtful, manner. "I think we should postpone any further discussion on our marriage. My parents' deaths hit me harder than I first realised, and I need some time to come to terms with that before discussing our problems." She sighed. "I do realise we have problems, Des, from the very start of our marriage, and I do want to resolve them; but not until we can put the deaths of my parents, and what we said to each other subsequently, behind us."
I think that was the longest speech I'd ever heard Miriam make, and I could see the sense in what she said.