Читать книгу The Poppy Factory - Liz Trenow - Страница 7

An uneasy silence fell as the plane lurched bumpily around a spiral holding pattern above Heathrow. England was somewhere below, shrouded in slate grey clouds. Even the lads had finally stopped talking.

On reaching safe airspace half an hour out of Camp Bastion, six long months of constant fear and tension had been released like a spring-loaded jack-in-the-box into an eruption of shouting, singing and laughter. They’d bellowed loud boasts across the aisles detailing exactly what and how much they would drink on their first night of leave in six long dry months and bragged raucously about the sexual conquests they would make, forgetting that the two activities were usually incompatible. They’d embroidered ever more unlikely details about how they would spend their Long Overseas Allowance, the main bonus of the tour. And just a few of them, in quieter voices, had talked of family: parents and siblings, wives, girlfriends and children, the comfort of their own beds, and real, home-cooked food.

She’d come to tolerate and sometimes even enjoy the lads’ banter, their insults and juvenile pranks, their lavatory humour. She knew now that it was just the way they got through; underneath they were thoughtful human beings with the same fears as anyone else. For all their piss-taking and petty squabbling, when everything kicked off, they’d gladly give their lives for each other. Some had even done so. She ran the names through her head: Jock, Baz and Millsie.

The girls, seated together in their small group, had spent the eight hour flight reading, plugged into headphones or, like Jess, wondering what this longed-for homecoming would really be like.

She listened to the changing notes of the engine and watched the wing flaps rise and fall as the pilot adjusted his position to the instructions of unseen masters. How unearthly it felt, suspended in this grey soup of cloud with heaven knows how many other aircraft above and below, giant metal birds flying terrifyingly close to each other at hundreds of miles an hour.

In Afghanistan, she had discovered that her fear of dying seemed to be inversely proportional to the level of danger they were in: thanks to the blessed pulse of adrenaline, the more life-threatening the situation, the less frightened she felt. It was only afterwards, once they were safely back in their compound, that she found herself trembling and nauseous, realising how close to death she had come.

Now that they were so nearly home and safe, just not quite, she found her stomach churning. But it wasn’t the fear of a mid-air collision, or a crash landing. What she dreaded most, right now, was that in a few days’ time this rowdy bunch of rough-carved individuals would be split up, probably never to live and work together as a group again. Over the past six months they had become more important to each other than anyone else in the world. They’d shared such highs and such lows, seen all life and all death, supported each other through moments more extreme and more intimate than she’d ever imagined. They had become closer than any family, but now they would be going their separate ways. It felt like a small bereavement.

Cut it, Jess. No time for soppy thoughts. She rubbed the skin behind her ear, just above the joint of her jaw. There used to be a little gingery curl there which, ever since she was a little girl, she would fiddle with, unconsciously trying to straighten. The curl had fallen victim to the military barbers but it would grow again soon enough. Joining the Army was only ever intended to be a short-term thing, something to get out of her system, to clear herself of guilt about James, she told herself. Now she could get back to real life, to her job as a paramedic, to her family, to Nate.

Nathaniel, Nathan, Naz, Nate: he had a different name for each part of his life. Nathaniel to his immigrant parents, proud to vaunt their Christian heritage in the freedom of their newly-adopted country; Nathan to school friends who couldn’t have cared less about his origins or the colour of his skin so long as he was on their side in any sports team, which was usually a guarantee of winning; Naz to his workmates and drinking pals – she loved the fact that he enjoyed being one of the boys.

Nate to Jess, the name she whispered when they were in bed together, as she marvelled at the length of his limbs, or stroked his skin, soft as a child’s and deep chestnut brown except where it glowed almost blue-black from exposure to the sun. Nate, as she buried her fingers in the tough, twisted tendrils of his hair when he kissed her breasts. Nate, as they made love, and in that tumbling ecstasy of relief that sometimes left her crying with joy.

The first time she took him to Suffolk she’d glimpsed the two of them in a brief snapshot reflected in the window, as they waited on the doorstep of her parents’ house. Perhaps it was just heightened awareness, a level of anxiety about this ‘meet-the-folks’ moment, but she realised for the first time what a dramatic contrast they made. Though at the peak of fitness and a good five foot six, she appeared positively petite beside him, almost ghostly pale and insubstantial, with her freckly skin and ginger elfin-cut. At six three he cut a powerful, imposing figure, lithe and athletic in his smartest skinny jeans, shoulder-length dreadlocks neatly restrained into a ponytail.

As they’d negotiated the sluggish traffic wending its way to the seaside that day, he had asked tentatively how she thought her parents might react, ‘to … you know’, he’d said, leaving the word unspoken. She hadn’t told them in advance, she said, it seemed superfluous – the difference had barely entered her consciousness after the first few days of their relationship. So they’d probably be a bit surprised, she warned him, for the sole reason that there were very few non-Caucasians among their friends, if any.

As her mother, Susan, appeared at the other side of the glass ready to open the door, the smile seemed to freeze on her face for a fraction of a second. But within moments both parents had recovered; Jess was enfolded in her mother’s arms, breathing in the reassuringly familiar smells of talcum powder and fabric conditioner, and her father was shaking Nate’s hand – ‘great to meet you. Call me Mike’ – and steering him by the elbow through into the living room.

Of course Nate was the perfect gentleman and said all the right things: asking how long they’d lived here on the coast, enthusing about the pretty village, complimenting the house with its stunning views across the wide sweep of salt marsh and the silvery snake of the estuary in the distance. He greeted, without flinching, the flurry of furry delight which was Milly the mongrel, strolled into the garden with her father and submitted to a tour of the carefully tended garden and vegetable patch, his face intent with what looked like genuine interest.

She felt proud of him, even a slight stir of desire, as she watched them through the window, while fielding her mother’s questions – yes, they’d been seeing each other for six months or so; yes, he was a sports teacher; no, she didn’t think he’d ever been to Suffolk before; he was born and brought up in South London.

This had been her childhood home; she’d always thought the sixties-built mock Georgian house soulless, hated the isolation and having to be driven everywhere until she finally got her licence. As a teenager she could barely wait to get away. But now she began to see the place through Nate’s eyes: she could see how the house had matured, blending into the architectural mix of the old village, the wild beauty of the marshland and the beach just ten minutes’ walk away, the peace and the lack of traffic, not even a single streetlight.

Over coffee, she broke the news. Get all the difficult stuff over with at once, she’d decided. She’d graduated, with top marks, as a Combat Medical Technician, and would be going to Afghanistan in about three months’ time. Of course she’d warned them it was a possibility but the confirmation was obviously a shock: they both blanched but then managed to stumble out their congratulations. Her mother had muttered a vague ‘how lovely dear’ before collecting the cups and scuttling out to the kitchen – probably to hide her tears.

At his end of the sofa, Nate stroked Milly and kept his head down, saying nothing. He hadn’t been at all happy either, when she’d told him a few days before.

‘How long?’ He was cooking risotto in the kitchen of his tiny flat. She’d judged the moment carefully, knowing that he couldn’t stop in the middle of the critical stirring process to have a proper row with her.

‘Six months.’

‘Bloody hell. Six months. That’s an eternity.’ He turned from the cooker to face her. ‘Why the hell are you doing this, Jess?’

‘You know why. It’s for James. I told you.’ She pulled at the curl behind her ear.

‘But James is dead. He won’t know you’re doing it for him. Anyway, he wouldn’t have wanted you to put yourself in the same danger.’

He turned back to the saucepan. ‘Is there anything I can say to stop you?’

‘I don’t think so. I’ve committed myself to it now.’

In the silence that followed, she conjured up the image of beautiful, funny, sporty James, her brother Jonathan’s best friend, who had spent many school holidays staying with the Merton family because his parents were usually posted abroad somewhere improbably exotic. She’d treated him like another big brother until, with adolescence, everything changed and she began to feel an almost irresistible affinity – he too had curly ginger hair and freckles – and to fantasise about him as a boyfriend. In her diary she secretly scribbled soppy love poems and drew pictures of the three red-haired children they would have (two girls and a boy). Yet, despite her desperate hints, he remained oblivious to her growing attachment, and nothing happened.

James followed his father and older brother into the Army. When he came to say goodbye, even more heart-stoppingly handsome in his smartly pressed officer’s uniform, Jess never imagined it would be for good. So when he went and died in a bomb explosion in Iraq, it broke her heart. ‘Shrapnel injuries’ was the phrase whispered in hushed corners but, later, Jonathan told her he’d learned that James had bled to death while waiting to be rescued. The image haunted her still. Why hadn’t someone stopped the bleeding and saved him?

Throughout her volunteering days with St John Ambulance and her rookie period as an NHS paramedic, the idea had wormed its way into her head. As she learned the various techniques for stopping a bleed she’d found herself wondering whether she could have saved James, had she been there? She even dreamed about it: everyone else panicking at the sight of his blood leaching into the ground – weirdly, they were in a wood of pine trees rather than the sand of the desert – but her taking calm charge of the situation, applying a tourniquet, setting up a saline drip, watching the bleeding stop and the colour return to his face. She woke just as he stretched up to kiss her.

The dream transmuted itself into an idea which, over time, became an almost obsessive conviction: she couldn’t bring James back but perhaps by saving the life of another soldier she could somehow give meaning to that terrible loss of such a vibrant life.

Three years ago, just qualified and about to accept a full time job with the ambulance service, she’d passed an Army Recruiting office and paused to read the posters in the window. A young soldier with a number one haircut and a sweet, shy smile had poked his head around the door and asked if he could help. Would she like more information? Almost blindly, as if in a dream, she’d followed him in and replied obediently to his questions, watching passively as he filled in a form. After signing it, she wandered out into the street in a daze and never mentioned it to anyone until the invitation to basic training arrived on her doormat.

‘I can’t explain it. Just has to be done, Nate. I’ve been through hell and high water for this, all that shit on the Brecon Beacons and the parade grounds. I can’t give up now. I’ll only be gone a few months.’

‘So long as you really do come back,’ he’d muttered.

They had talked about moving in together, in the way couples do, sounding out each other’s aspirations. They even talked about what their children would look like: brown skinned, ginger and freckly or some curious mixture? At thirty-three – seven years older than Jess – he’d had his fill of racketing around the world, trying to make it as a musician. Now he was enjoying being a sports teacher in an inner city secondary school, genuinely believing that he could make a difference to the lives of very challenging kids. He earned a respectable salary and was ready to settle down.

‘I want you to be part of my life,’ he’d told Jess, even though they’d only known each other for six months, ‘for good. Give up the Army. Please. For me?’

It felt like being torn between two lovers. She knew Nate loved her and she loved him, but wasn’t entirely sure, not at that stage, that he would wait. But she couldn’t give up on James and the thought of being able to make sense of his sacrifice, not now she was so close to being deployed.

The plane levelled out, the engine slowed and for a stomach-lurching moment seemed to stall in mid-air before starting to descend. Out of the window the clouds thinned, revealing fields and woods below in a dozen shades of green. She found herself smiling: the colour was so mild, so gentle on the eyes, such a relief after the blinding light of the desert.

Within minutes they were on the ground.

It was six o’clock and already dark by the time they got back to Eastminster. The arc lights on the parade ground shone through a twinkling veil of drizzle as the coaches pulled in. On the far side was a rainbow of umbrellas under which waiting families huddled against the autumn chill. They didn’t feel the cold, of course, so buoyed were they with anticipation of this moment.

She’d spoken on the phone to her parents and they’d agreed not to come, sensitive to the need for Jess and Nate to have their first evening together. He would travel up from London by train after work and had booked a hotel so they didn’t have to stay in her barrack room. He’d even been given compassionate leave from school the following day. She was touched by the generous gesture, but almost dreaded the romantic expectations it implied. What she really wanted was a hot, deep bath and a very, very long sleep.

In one corner, Army press officers were attempting to marshal a small gaggle of newspaper reporters and television camera teams. They’d been warned about this, instructed that they must tolerate the intrusion, for the sake of Army PR. What the media wanted, they’d been told, was the ‘aah’ factor: beaming fathers sweeping up small children into strong arms, couples reunited in romantic embrace, proud parents wiping away tears of happiness.

Some of the younger lads were keen for their few seconds of fame, but Jess had already planned her avoidance strategy: she would keep Nate at arm’s length until she could drag him into the shadows beside the old Cavalry Barrack buildings, away from the limelight. Only then would she allow him to kiss her. Through the coach window she scanned the waiting crowds – he was usually quite easy to spot – and felt her heart pummelling inside her chest when she couldn’t immediately see him. At last, as she stood at the top of the steps ready to leave the coach, she saw him emerge into the light.

At dinner, barely caring that she had to report for duty at seven-thirty the following morning, she drank way too much wine. She could hear herself chattering brightly about nothing important, all the while acutely conscious of Nate’s gaze. Was he scrutinising the ‘desert lines’ she’d acquired from squinting into the harsh sun, the roughened skin on her cheeks from the scouring of sand and dust? She’d lost weight, living on rations, and it gave her features a new sharpness, even severity. She was not the same Jess he’d waved goodbye to six months ago.

He, on the other hand, appeared to have barely changed at all. He was relaxed and affectionate, his face breaking into that easy smile at her touch, laughing appreciatively with his deep-chested chuckle at her stories of the lads’ crazier antics. Already in her head she had categorised the experiences of the past six months: there were those too trivial to talk about, those she could happily share with him, with which he would be able to empathise. And there were those that she would never, ever, be able to put into words, to reveal, not with him, not with anyone.

Later, back in their room, she regretted that second bottle of wine. She crashed onto the bed and watched him take his clothes off, which was usually enough to send her crazy with desire. But after so many dry months the alcohol made her head spin and her stomach churn and, as he came to the bed and slowly undressed her, kissing each newly-exposed stretch of skin, she found her mind wandering. It was almost as if she were standing to one side, observing them both. But she went through the motions and it seemed to convince Nate. Next time, she promised herself, I won’t drink so much and I will lose myself in our lovemaking, the way it always used to be.

Afterwards, when he headed off to the bathroom, dipping his head to avoid hitting the doorway, she observed his muscular back and shoulders, that balletic lope of his long limbs, the proud crown of dreadlocks, and knew that she still loved him. She just had to get her head sorted out and everything would soon be back to normal.

There followed a week in barracks, preparing for the service medals ceremony, and then she had seven weeks’ POTL, the extended Post Operational Tour Leave. When Nate’s school term finished in a month’s time, they planned to go skiing. Neither had ever tried it before, and they agreed it would be a laugh learning together.

‘I don’t mind where we go so long as it’s cold,’ she’d stipulated on the phone from Camp Bastion, ignoring the eerie whispers and whines over the airwaves. She looked out of the cabin window: it was forty degrees in the shade and heatwaves rising from the sand made everything look swimmy and surreal.

‘All I want is cold weather, no dust, hot baths, good food and lots to drink,’ she’d added.

‘All that,’ he’d promised. ‘You can roll in the snow every day.’

‘Perfect.’

It was strange, going back to normal work. Living at the barracks, being among a larger group, having to be clean and orderly with your kit in pristine condition, sitting in classrooms for hours, taking orders, learning how to march in formation, being just a number again, rather than the individuals they had become on the front line. Off duty, they were strangely wary of each other. The more confident ones would brag about the things they’d seen and done in Afghanistan, but those who’d had the really tough experiences, like Jess, tended to keep themselves to themselves.

She went through the days in a haze, as if seeing everything through a gauze curtain. She steeled herself to make an appointment with her officer in command and told him she was applying for early release. She had promised Nate. They would live a civilian life – what he called a ‘normal life’ – together.

Her boss set up a further meeting with his boss, the commanding officer, and she filled in a dozen different forms to set everything in motion. The CO tried to persuade her to stay, of course, but could see that she was quite determined and simply ended the conversation with the usual pat phrases about how sorely she would be missed. Chances were, she’d only have to serve three further months after the POTL before starting her seven months ‘resettlement leave’. She could be in her new job at the Ambulance Trust as early as April next year.

Four days later was Remembrance Sunday, where they were to represent the regiment at the annual service held at the town’s War Memorial. For Jess, it was a welcome opportunity to honour James and now Jock, Baz and Millsie. She’d been every year since she’d turned fifteen, first as St John volunteer and later as a rookie soldier. The crowds of people gathered to remember the dead, the proud, stoical faces of the veterans with their medals weighing down fragile frames, the stirring sounds of military bands, the solemn hymns, the two minute silence and the pathos of the bugle sounding the Last Post never failed to move her.

It was miserable and overcast that day, with a spiteful wind and short vicious showers lashing them as they marched down the wide high street, with its handsome Victorian buildings disguised behind tacky shop fronts. This weather was almost enough to make you long for the heat of Kandahar, Jess thought, standing to attention in her combat uniform, perhaps for the last time. The day after tomorrow, she would make her way to Suffolk to see her parents for a few days by the sea before heading back to London for a long weekend with Nate. She found her mouth watering as she thought about the meal her mother had promised to prepare for dinner – roast lamb with all the trimmings.

On their last night at Camp Bastion she’d been sitting side by side on the ground outside her tent with her friend Siobhán, after a long day of packing and debriefings, having a final cigarette before turning in. ‘Vorny’ was a tough Catholic girl from Belfast so different from Jess in so many ways that they’d never have become friends in civilian life. But the two had worked alongside each other during some really horrific moments, and become so close that she felt like a sister.

Their conversation had turned idly to the meals they’d missed on tour. ‘Gotta be an Ulster Fry,’ Vorny said. ‘With the proper soda bread and black pudding. What about you?’

‘Roast lamb, roast potatoes, two veggies and gravy with red currant jelly.’

‘Not even a proper fry-up is gonna make up for missing you lot, though,’ Vorny said. ‘And the lads.’

‘Me too,’ Jess had replied, keeping her eyes to the ground. If she looked at Siobhán she might start to cry. ‘Tough one, that.’

They’d both gone quiet, then Jess lit up another cigarette. ‘We’ve had some good times though, eh?’

‘What are you most proud of?’ Vorny asked.

‘Finding that bleed under Gav’s armour,’ Jess said. ‘I was so scared he was going to die.’

‘But you saved his life, didn’t you? Bloody good call that was.’

Gavin had been moaning about the minor foot injury he’d sustained, and they’d been busy attending to other more serious casualties when Jess noticed that the kid had stopped complaining and begun to go pale. She knew immediately that something else was wrong, something they’d missed. Checking him out, she discovered that a bullet had entered just beside his armpit, in the crack between the plates of Osprey body armour, and was probably causing all kinds of unseen havoc in his chest.

‘Sucking chest wound, possible internal bleeding,’ she’d yelled at once, applying a chest seal to the hole before checking his back for an exit wound. ‘Cat A, he needs to be out of here urgently.’

Only later, when she heard that Gavin had emerged safely from surgery with no anticipated long-term effects, did she realise that she had saved her soldier and fulfilled her promise to James. It made her feel wobbly all over again, just thinking about it.

‘What about you?’ she asked.

‘The time we nearly died in that field, that was probably my worst moment,’ Vorny said.

‘Christ, me too. That was a bad one.’

They’d been caught in ferocious cross-fire trying to get a couple of casualties to the helicopter and the pilot had pulled away at the last moment, realising that it was too dangerous to land. The lads carrying the stretchers had managed to get down into a ditch, but Vorny and she, lugging the men’s heavy kit, had fallen behind. When the crackle of firing started, all they could do was drop to the ground, face down, below the level of the meagre, patchy crop, and pray they couldn’t be seen.

‘I thought we were going to die.’

The firing seemed to go on for hours, but was probably only about ten minutes. They were completely pinned down with their faces in the dust, unable to make any move or noise for fear of attracting Taliban fire. All those gunmen had to do was tilt their barrels fractionally, raking the field with bullets, and it would have been all over.

At that moment, Jess felt quite sure she would never get out of that field alive and in her head began apologising to Nate, her mum and dad, and Jonathan for being so wilful as to insist on this insane venture. She remembered the letter she’d written, the one they would receive if she died: ‘Forgive me. It’s something I just have to do …’ Her chest felt as though she was being sat on by an elephant. Then she realised she was hyperventilating, and knew that she had to concentrate on something to stop herself panicking and passing out.

And then … oh God, then … she’d lifted her eyes and seen the poppy.

Most of the crop was dried out and dull brown, but right in front of her nose was a late bloom, a green stem topped by a single red flower, and she fixed her eyes on it, like a totem. She noticed how the papery crimson petals were stained dark, like dried blood, where they joined the stem, how at its centre the delicate white stamens fluttered on their stalks. The seed head itself, the part of the plant that held the white liquid harvest which had so much to answer for, the drug that drove this war, was beguilingly beautiful, with an intricately symmetrical star pattern on the top and elegant vertical lines down its bowl-shaped sides.

The crackle of fire started again, interspersed with terrifying booms of exploding grenades. A volley whistled a few inches above them and she’d dropped her head to the ground, closing her eyes and praying fervently to a God she had never really believed in. When the firing stopped, she reopened her eyes and looked for the poppy.

It had gone.

For a moment she thought that she must have moved, but then her eyes caught the green stem, still in front of her, trembling from the assault. It was then she realised that the flower – just beside where her own head had been a few seconds before – had been blown off by a bullet and shattered into a thousand fragments.

She could hear a faint keening sound, and thought at first that Vorny must have been hit. It was only when the other girl reached across the dirt, shoving a hand into her face to shut her up, that Jess realised it was her own voice. Her mind had gone almost completely blank with fear and she seemed to be losing control of her body. She could feel her heart skittering under her ribs, her legs and arms trembling, her bowels churning dangerously. Christ, the last thing she needed was to shit herself out here.

Slowly, with desperate caution, to avoid disturbing any plant stems or rustling any dead leaves, she reached out her arm. They found each other’s hands and squeezed tight, like clinging to a life raft, and this was enough to help her hold it together until the firing and explosions stopped, almost as suddenly as they had begun. The Taliban fighters could slip away like smoke, only to regroup and reappear again where they were least expected. These surprise tactics, along with their paradise-blinded perseverance and a constant resupply of willing martyrs, were surprisingly effective against even the heavy arms of the allied forces.

The rescue helicopter – the MERT – returned and landed this time, the casualties were airlifted away for treatment, and the rest of the troop dragged themselves back to the compound. At first everyone was silent in their own thoughts, taking drinks, lighting on cigarettes; and then the backchat began, as they tried to make sense of what had just happened and reassure each other about Scotty and the other casualties: ‘The lengths some will go for a jammy ticket home, the bastards.’ But beyond the banter, everyone knew it had been a very close call.

That evening Jess tried to eat and drink but had no appetite, she felt sick and shivery as if going down with the flu. Sleep was impossible – the video loop of those moments in the field replaying over and over in her head until the compound lightened into grey dawn. She told no-one about the poppy, not even Siobhán. She’d locked the memory away ever since.

And now … she glanced down at the bright red plastic flower on her lapel, glittering with raindrops. Remembering the terror of that day, all over again, made her feel dangerously sick and lightheaded. Forcing herself to take deep breaths – just as she had in that field – she fixed her eyes ahead, towards the ranks of veterans, councillors, scout leaders, army reps, all waiting reverently in the rain, some holding wreaths ready to lay at the memorial. Those wreaths made of hundreds of red poppies with their black centres, just like the poppy in that field. The one that got the bullet instead of her.

Almost without warning, her stomach turned inside out and she was suddenly, violently sick onto the ground in front of her boots. No-one in the ranks around her turned a head or put out a comforting hand, all standing to attention with their eyes forward. These sorts of things – vomiting, passing out – happened on parade more often than anyone would admit: all in a normal day’s work for the Army. They’d all been drilled how not to react, how to resist the normal human impulse to help someone in need.

Jess straightened her back, wiped her mouth with her hand and swallowed the disgusting taste of bile as best she could. She stood to attention, her face burning with humiliation, eyes swimming with tears, as the bugler flawlessly sounded the long, mournful notes of The Last Post.