The Poppy Factory
LIZ TRENOW
The Poppy Factory
AVON
An imprint of HarperCollins
Publishers Ltd
77–85 Fulham Palace Road,
Hammersmith, London W6 8JB
First Published in Great Britain by HarperCollins
Publishers
2014
Copyright © Liz Trenow 2014
Liz Trenow asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780007510481
Ebook Edition © 2014 ISBN: 9780007510498
Version: 2014-06-25
This book is dedicated to all those who have died in, or been disabled by, so many – too many – wars.
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
John McCrea, 1915
Table of Contents
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.