The Hand That Feeds
In which MacMillan learns a lesson. Bonus one-shot to accompany The SAS And The Glam That Goes With It. This will make sense if you have read up to Chapter 4 of that story.
"Don't say 'fuck' and please don't mention the wedding to John yet." Gaz pleaded, as they sped along the narrow country roads into Credenhill.
Vivianne rolled her eyes and saluted, with a sarcastic "Yes, sir!" by means of reply. He laughed and gave her shoulder a playful shove.
She looked out the window at the lush countryside. Until yesterday it had rained solid for three days, but now the clouds had vanished, leaving an empty bowl of blue sky above the endless farmlands. The world seemed full of possibilities, and she felt glad. She had wound the window of the Celica all the way down, leaning out as far as the seatbeat would let her and felt the wind on her face. She had missed this, in London, trapped in her leaking attic studio. She couldn't go home, but Herefordshire was a good substitute for the rolling grounds of the estate that she'd roamed in her childhood. It stilled the ache in her heart.
The Golden Jubilee party was being held in the grounds of the base and it was to be the first time they had appeared as a couple at any kind of event, never mind a summer fête organised by the conservative, church-going contingent of the regimental club. She did not know why Gaz, who had probably once gone into a church to see if there was anything of value to steal, had merited an invite, but seeing as his stomach was a bottomless pit for anything edible, she imagined that they had him sold at the first mention of cake. She suspected it would be tedious maximus, but for Gaz, she was prepared to put up with it, and she liked him in his dress uniform too.
By the time they arrived, it had already started. The Union Jack bunting fluttered in the breeze, cardboard corgis were staked into the grass and in the middle of the buffet table a portrait of the Queen was taking pride of place. This twee display of royalist nationalism made Vivianne want to laugh out loud, but she suspected this would be an unwelcome opinion. Instead, she'd given her best simpering smile and handed her box of cakes to a disapproving, chintz-clad buffet-organiser whilst humming an anarchist punk number under breath.
She was disappointed to discover that the woman's judgement was shared by a few others. Some of the wives and girlfriends looked askance at her when she was introduced, and she knew that her history proceeded her. Fortunately, she was glad to discover, the rest were rather jolly, and apparently more open-minded: she learnt that she was not the only one with an emergency hip flash of gin to get through the duller parts of the afternoon.
'Call Me Jim' MacMillan appeared half an hour later, with, a tipsy ally had told her, wife number three on his arm: the new, improved, younger model. She knew that Gaz liked and admired the man, reeling off a list of commendations, and personal recollections of his bravery. He didn't need to. The left breast of MacMillan's jacket was magpie heaven. Thin and rangy, with fading ginger hair and matching moustache, she would have grudgingly rated him a seven, even with the slight limp.
Initially, he'd seemed friendly enough and he'd shaken her hand enthusiastically when Gaz introduced her, but after he'd let go and Gaz had turned away, he'd given her a salacious side-long glance. Vivianne suddenly understood what it felt like to be the gazelle, separated from the herd, as the big cats closed in. She watched, impassively, as he ran his tongue over the edge of his teeth to make his intentions clear and then he'd wandered off, a wry smile on his face when she'd scowled in return. Yuk! She thought, and shuddered. She fought the urge to lob a scone at his departing head.
Later, as they'd converged on the dining table, she groaned inwardly when she saw his name next to hers, but she was surprised to find that he appeared to be chivalrous enough, making quiet, inoffensive small talk until the Padre stood up to say grace, and then he made his move.
At first she thought it was an accident: his leg brushing hers beneath the table, but then she felt his hand steal over to her thigh and slide gently down her leg, coming to rest on her knee. She sighed, and gritted her teeth.
There's always one, thought Vivianne, who insists on learning the hard way.
Carefully and smoothly, as if she was adjusting a stray lock of hair that had worked free in the breeze, she reached up to her head and slid out the pin that was holding her hat in place. MacMillan was looking at the Padre, pretending to be held in rapture by the word of God, as he stroked his hand back up the inside of Vivianne's thigh beneath her dress. As a result, he was taken entirely by surprise when she stabbed him sharply in the thigh.
His shocked roar was louder than she expected: the whole table rising as he jumped back, cakes and sandwiches flying. He twisted out of his chair and leapt away, swearing furiously.
"Jesus!" He shouted, clutching his leg.
Vivianne feigned innocence, ducking her head beneath the tablecloth as if she was looking for the source of the problem. She counted to five under her breath before she screamed "Wasp!" and flapping her arms wildly.
The men around him laughed, and MacMillan scowled under the barrage of teasing cat-calls, suggesting various strategies from grenades to machine guns to deal with his attacker. "Bloody hell!" MacMillan said, rubbing his thigh, his face flushed with embarrassment."Must've been a big bastard."
There was a cough from the end of the table and the laughing stopped. The Padre looked at them over his glasses "Gentlemen?" he said, disapprovingly.
"Sorry, padre." said MacMillan, sheepishly limping back to the table. Vivianne heard him swear under his breath. Across the table, Gaz grinned at her and winked. She rolled her eyes.
"As I was saying..."
Vivianned waited until the Padre was in full sway before she hid her face behind her hand, and turned to MacMillan, a demure, innocent expression. He looked at her warily, his eyes narrowed and suspicious. She let him see the pin lying concealed against her hand, and watched his eyes go wide with surprise.
"Bitch!" he said, under his breath.
She smiled. "Next time," she whispered, sweetly, "I'll cut your fucking balls off."