The evening of laughter and testosterone-fuelled noise was a great success as far as the partygoers were concerned. No one outside this group would have understood jokes the men passed around in quick-fire bursts, nor the indulgence shown by their wives. No one in the room was yet thirty-five, and the buoyant confidence in the room was powerful. This group of young naval officers was potent on self-belief and felt invincible. They’d recently returned from a successful six-month submarine deployment on America’s Western Seaboard, and thirty-six hours later they were gathered with their wives in the home of the sonar officer, Mike, enjoying a post-patrol party.
When working as a crew they’d relied on each man’s judgement to keep them safe for weeks and knew each other’s strengths and weaknesses. Now, with the weight of responsibility temporarily lifted, they were unwinding, and jubilant. Most of them lived on the same naval estate, a few miles distance from the Clyde Submarine Base where their submarine was docked. Initially the Scottish West Coast had been foreign territory to many, and their wives had become each other’s life-support. When the submarines left for their patrols, the wives knew they would hear little, and then only sporadically, from their men, but the women were in constant contact with each other, sharing moments of drama that most civilian wives would never understand.
Now the husbands were home, and men, starved of female company for months, were hungry for sexual gratification. They knew that few wives rejected pleasure after so long alone and the frisson of anticipated passion was palpable. This evening was the appetiser for what they all anticipated would come later. Soon they’d settle into a routine with less lust. But not yet and not tonight. The company in the room was young, virile, and the men were relieved and overjoyed to be home. While the men held centre-stage, wives were happy to be witness to the bombast. They looked on while the men drank, laughed and ‘let off steam’ and waited for the end of the evening when they’d have their men to themselves.
The loudest voice belonged to Chris, the navigator, whose pretty wife, Jane, watched quietly while he related yet another anecdote. His final words created an eruption of noisy masculine mirth and as she moved to his side, he caught her to him and pulled her close. Jane smiled at him, ‘I think we should be heading home. The babysitter wanted us back by midnight.’
There were token complaints from the other men as the party broke up, but it was late, and some had children who’d wake them in a few hours. Noisy goodbyes were exchanged, and conversations continued as they milled around on the pavement, before veering off towards their own maisonettes. Transport wasn’t needed: home was within walking distance for most.
Two couples without children were the only ones left and it was suggested they enjoy ‘one for the road’. Both men were already very drunk but couldn’t resist one more glass of whisky while their wives sipped tonic water.
Mike, relaxed in his own home, lazily gestured towards Jago, and his wife, Robyn. ‘Well, whaddya make of Chris?’
Bleary-eyed, Jago sank back onto the couch at the side of Robyn. ‘Great bloke. Practised Lothario, though.’
Mike’s wife, Julia, exchanged horrified looks with Robyn but before she could speak Mike raised his glass, ‘Cheers! Let me give you all – Friday’s toast!’
Julia’s eyes narrowed, ‘You’re plastered Mike. Today’s Sunday.’
Both men, intoxicated and irresponsible with their speech, laughed helplessly at Julia’s words until Mike explained, ‘Friday’s toast is – To sweethearts and wives.’
Jago held his glass up high, in imitation of Mike, and enunciating carefully he explained to both wives, ‘Usually followed by – May the two never meet.’
Both men laughed even harder at their joke, while their wives, with horrified looks, thought of Jane and silently mouthed to each other ‘Oh no!’.
Burnside Writers Group 