Apologies for the radio silence.
It’s been a tumultuous time. For the world, yes, but also for me and my family.
When I last wrote to you from the Shed, I mentioned my excitement and anticipation for an unexpected move to America.
I had, it turns out wrongly, thought the Ministry of Defence would support us through the international move they ordered us to make. (I feel uncomfortable using the word ‘ordered’ here – it sounds like I’m putting an ill-humoured spin on things, but in military terms a new job is officially an order, so I use it for accuracy.)
I won’t go into detail here. I’ll just say that we were left to arrange and plan the entire move. This was no simple task since my husband was still working at his busy test and evaluation job in Lincolnshire, and I was living in Gloucestershire with the children and lecturing full time at University, with a four-hour daily round-trip commute between school, work, and home. Our house was packed up (some items shipped, most stored) and Jon moved to America to start his new job in early July. Since our visas had still not been issued, the children and I were left homeless, and I was by then jobless, as I’d handed in my notice at the University in anticipation of a summer move. The MoD could not house us as my husband was now officially British Embassy Defence Staff and only eligible for accommodation in America.
My parents - who were in the process of moving to a smaller house but hadn’t yet – were gracious enough to let us stay. The three children were in sleeping bags in my old bedroom, and I was on the sofa. When we realised the process would take months rather than weeks, I made the void beneath the dining room table my temporary bedroom with an air mattress. Our clothes, and anything else we needed that wasn’t either in storage or on a container ship in the Atlantic, were piled on the table above me. This arrangement didn’t feel like an auspicious way to start a new life overseas. And the dog had no idea what was going on.
The children had, by now, left the school they loved, and were on summer break. Despite the uncertainty and anxiety about what was happening, we tried to have memorable mini-adventures each day, even if they were just in Granny and Grandad’s back garden digging potatoes, or making frog homes under the bushes. We’d cancelled and lost the deposit on a holiday (planned before we were asked to move) and those dates came and went, and all summer long I continued to fill in paperwork, take the train to the American Embassy in London for interviews, get documents notarized, get medical examinations and inoculations, complete further forms, some online, some by hand, everything fourfold (for me and the children). We spent just under ten thousand dollars on acquiring the correct paperwork. This is all still on credit cards because we have no other means of paying – we hadn’t saved for it because it was unexpected, we were down to one salary, and we’d had to sell the cars (our only other way of freeing up cash). We are still waiting to see whether we can claim any of it back from the MoD, given that it was a necessary expense incurred by the move, but until then we’ll continue chipping off the minimum payment each month and eating beans on toast for supper.
I said I wouldn’t go into too much detail (and be assured this is the condensed version) but I thought it was important to share a few personal stories. For two reasons, really. First, to provide a little more context for the book and my need to write it. For years, both military personnel and civilians have told me that service life is a good life. I’m told they look after their own. What’s really hit home these last months is that my husband’s employers and colleagues have no idea where I’ve been or how I’ve been coping. I’ve not heard from anyone associated with the military, or know who I’m supposed to contact for welfare support. It’s a confusing and overwhelming lifestyle, bound up in myths about camaraderie and jolly banter. The last time my husband was in Afghanistan I was contacted only once in five months through official channels: Air Command HQ kindly sent me an RAF notebook and pencil (presumably so I could write to him?). During that same deployment, I tried to enroll the children in community activities on base; I was told they were for Army families only, and despite us living there because my husband worked there, RAF families were not eligible.
But I digress. The other reason I wanted to share my recent tribulations is to attempt an apology for the delay in getting this book to you.
We are now living in America. A few days after we arrived my Grandmother, whose health deteriorated over the summer, and whom my parents were looking after in addition to me and the children, passed away. We couldn’t afford to return for the funeral. And a couple of days after that, my daughter fell off her scooter and broke her arm. It felt, to me, like the family was literally falling apart.
Those of you who know me well may have received my ‘brave face’ emails, or seen my occasionally anguished tweets. I’m still processing the enormity of this transition, and its impact on me, my children and my marriage. And let’s not forget the dog – perhaps the most traumatized of us all. It’s been disjointed, confusing, and stressful. Despite our best efforts to find a suitable school, we know our children’s education will suffer through moving here. We didn’t arrive until the autumn so they missed the first half of term. They’ve found instruction, expectations, and discipline overwhelmingly different. We are slowly adjusting to these differences, to our new way of life in Maryland, and we are learning to live as a family again after nearly four years of work-necessitated separation.
I can’t ignore world events at this juncture. I find it curious that my personal upheavals have coincided with both the EU Referendum in the UK, and the US election and subsequent inauguration of the new President. My transition has been framed by two of the ugliest words of the twenty first century: Brexit and Trump. These words have almost succeeded in silencing me. My anxieties these past months have been heightened by political events in the countries I’ve moved between. I’m appalled by and ashamed of the people leading these nations. I’m scared for my family, friends, wider communities, and especially for those vulnerable to the consequences of rhetoric encouraging hate, and policies enforcing discrimination. I’ve felt powerless for months now, but I am finding my voice again.
So, again, I apologise for my absence. I am so grateful for your support, your friendship, your messages of encouragement, and your patience. I shall endeavour to be here and update you more often. And I look forward to you reading my book.