British English spelling and grammar.
Published years ago and reworked. Excuse typos.
You'll hear authors say cute things like 'the story wrote itself'. I knew exactly what this story was until the last couple of paragraphs. Then it surprised me!
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The promise
In the UK there are two big differences between the air force and the other military services.
First, the army and navy are stationed in big towns, or deep ports, so by definition they have access to nightlife. But the air force are stationed in flat, remote locations like East Anglia, where there's not much to do.
Second, when personnel are posted, they go en masse. By the regiment, battalion, fleet, or whatever; they make friends for life. But air force postings are on an individual basis.
I'm Len Yeats, and I married Pam soon after I joined up. We quickly got into wife swapping; today it's called swinging. Living in the middle of nowhere? Not much to do? Buddies who you only get to know for a year or two? You get the picture. We had a lot of fun, and took a break when Trudi was born, but only for a few months.
Pam loved the lifestyle. She kind of believed anal sex didn't really count. She loved it, but thought it was the least romantic. And unromantic was the key to swapping. We loved each other, and sex is not the same as love.
She enjoyed the travelling too, and we had our best times in Cyprus and Singapore; sun, sea, sex, and spicy food. But for my final three years', I ended up back in Lincolnshire. Trudi started at a good secondary school, and it was getting more difficult to keep our activities from her. So we made a promise. No more sex outside marriage. And, though no special words were spoken, this promise was more binding than our original marriage vows. We'd sown our wild oats, and were ready to settle down.
Strangely, our sex life got a boost. I also love anal, but one time I snagged Pam's anus with a broken fingernail. Now she prefers to apply her own lubricant. I slather my penis with lube while she fingers herself. Her favourite position is doggy style, but I prefer it with her on her back.
RAF corporals get paid the same all over the country. So, earning more than most locals in Lincolnshire, we bought a house. Not ideal for me; I'm used to woods and rolling hills - happier tightening my backpack, and setting off somewhere new. But women are nest-builders and I'm an easy going sort of guy. We became home owners. Pam was delighted; she was born in this part of the world.
It was a new build of terraced houses in a small crescent, with a row of allocated garages on the other side of the road; two beds, one bath. We're the middle one of seven. The back garden gets bigger farther away from the house. It ends at a canal, separated by a fence. The only footpath is on the far side, so the property is secure at the rear.
"It's a bit small." said Pam,
"It's all we can afford for now. Let's see how it goes."
I said easy going, and it's true. I tend to be a bit OCD, but don't impose that on others. My job requires a high degree of tidiness. But if things get left lying around at home, I put them away. No point in arguing; people are different. I've never understood couples who go to war over toilet seat up, toilet seat down.
Example:
Pam usually gets up first and showers. There's a small opening section at the top of the bathroom window. It's all frosted glass anyway, but she closes it and lowers the blind. When she's done, she leaves the shower curtain open and dumps her towel over the laundry basket.
I'm the opposite; window open and blind up. Even if someone could get into our garden (and they'd need a boat), they still can't see in. I hang my towel and hers of course, over the rail. Then close the shower curtain to keep it stretched, preventing mildew. But the biggest difference is she doesn't notice any of this. I do.
Pam got a job. She's an accountant, and began farm recording. It involves travelling round local farms, keeping their accounts up to date. Something farmers aren't very good at. We had two cars; hers was a near new estate car. I made do with an old Ford Escort which didn't always start. She hadn't started off with an estate car, just a normal saloon. But she soon started using it as a mobile office, so we got a loan and bought her the bigger one. The farmers were happy to have 'them financials' taken off their hands. So happy, we enjoy a steady supply of free turkeys, chickens, and legs of pork. And a lot of free veg.
"We need a bigger house babe." she announced.
"What? We've only been here a year."
"I know. But I'm earning now, and Trudi's getting bigger. We need more space."
"Let's wait a bit."
"But we could get a bigger mortgage."
"Not yet, ok?"
"We could do with a bigger place, Len."
"What? We've only been here two years."
"But my car's a mess; I need a home office, and Trudi should have her own bathroom."
"OK. But let's wait till I leave the RAF. We might have to move then, anyway."
Another year passed, and I was demobbed. Trudi was doing well at school, and had won a place on the girls' football team. They had matches midweek. And talk! She could hold her own on any adult topic, and we spent hours debating everything under the sun. Sometimes I felt sorry for Pam. Trudi was a real daddy's girl.
The school situation, and Pam's increasing income, came together as I returned to civvie street. It made sense to stay put. I didn't fancy living permanently in such a boring area but, as I said, I'm easy going. I looked for local employment and, luckily, landed an office job at Fenside Vegetables. Bit of a drop in pay, but not too far to travel for the old Escort.
No sooner had I started working, than Pam brought up the bigger house discussion again. I did have sympathy with the idea. She was now making more money than me, but I still thought it was too soon to move up the housing ladder.
"You're the accountant; tell me how we afford this."
"We re-apply for a joint mortgage, based on combined income." she replied.
"I don't think it's that easy. Go to the building society, and enquire. But I think you'll find they're reluctant to recognise all of your income. I know you're doing better than me, but you're self-employed. As far as they're concerned, that's not a regular salary. They'll take it into consideration, but won't offer us a loan based on the whole amount."
Fenside Vegetables was basically a massive warehouse. Lorries arrived straight from the fields, and unloaded tons of nature's bounty. We sorted it; very labour intensive in those days, then smaller vehicles delivered the vegetables to local shops and supermarket distribution centres. My office was on a mezzanine floor overlooking the sorting lines.
I spotted their problem on my third day. Trucks were getting bigger and there was not enough space for them to turn at the rear of the building. Most had to turn in the road, and slowly reverse through to the rear bays. This was time consuming and often created queues. I thought I could see a way to alleviate the problem. So I went to Jack Welby, my supervisor, who referred me to the general manager. In turn, he sent me to the company's owner, who said their recent downturn in business was in hand thanks. Turned out their fight against the competition consisted of changing their name to Fenside Logistics! I gave up.
The sorting process was a real eye-opener. For instance, potatoes: they come rolling along the conveyor belt and pass four teams. The best spuds are pulled off first, and are allocated to the top two supermarkets. So when you see 'Made from Selected Potatoes' you know who selected them! Second best go to the other big stores, local veg shops, and open markets. Third grade, but acceptable, go to the big crisp companies. The dregs, from undeveloped to mouldy, go to the pig farms? No. They're sent to those nice people who manufacture jars of baby food!
All the sorting staff is female. Some are local part-timers, including a smattering of air force wives, but the bulk is Eastern Europeans. It's difficult to tell their ages, as they all wear shapeless jackets and trousers; and gloves and headscarves. They're housed in Portacabins, stacked two-high with a walkway, and located in Dutch barn. Rooms are lockable, and house two women each. There are toilets, shower blocks, and laundry facilities. They get an early finish before their one day off per week, and spend most of their free time in the barn, where they've set up volleyball nets. And there's a free bus into town and back. I heard that some do not always come back on the bus, but arrive in taxis next morning. Live and let live I say; it's not as if any of them are rich.
We management staff got invited to the autumn party thrown by Fenside's owners; Keith and Penelope Rallison. It took place at their large house, after the harvest was in. Pam and I did the usual circulating for an hour. Then she started.
"Have a few beers babe; I need you in a good mood."
"Why is that?"
"I spoke to our building society about a bigger mortgage. They'll take two thirds of my earnings into consideration. And I asked at the estate agent's for a ballpark figure on our little place. It's worth a fair bit more than when we bought."
I ushered her to one side.
"OK; just tell me one thing. I'm not saying we can't move upmarket, but why is this so important to you?"
She was drunker than I thought, and began welling up.
