Liz Trenow - The Poppy Factory

In the face of this resistance and his complete unwillingness to talk or compromise, Jess’s anger returned in full flood; the red behind the eyes, the heat at the back of the neck. She wanted to hit him but, as if sensing it, he stood and faced her at full height.

There was nothing else she could do.

‘You bastard,’ she shouted, before slamming the door.

Only when she got back to the safety and privacy of the barracks did she allow herself to weep, with burning, desperate rasps that seemed as though they would never stop. She texted Nate with abject apologies, but there was no response. She cursed herself over and over again: she had never loved anyone the way she loved this man, never trusted anyone so much, never fancied anyone in the way she fancied him, never met anyone else that she’d consider spending her life with. And now, for the sake of a few drinks, she had thrown it all away.

Without Nate, life felt bereft of all meaning, all anticipation, all joy.

The next few weeks passed in an alcoholic haze. She averted her eyes from mirrors and hurried past shop windows to avoid seeing the dark rings shadowing the eyes in her haggard face, the hunched shoulders and gaunt frame, a woman looking old before her time. She persuaded a mate, a doctor, to prescribe tranquillisers and even, at Vorny’s insistence, got herself referred for counselling, but bottled it at the last minute.

‘I can’t sit there like an idiot, whining about losing the love of my life,’ she admitted, ‘when I know perfectly well what I need to do.’

No-one except Vorny knew what had happened with Nate. When her mother inquired, she fobbed her off, saying they were both so busy it was hard to find enough time together. She would manage without drinking for a few days and then, buoyed by her own success, would call or text to tell him the good news. But when he failed to respond, yet again, her resolve weakened.

‘What’s the point in punishing myself even further, when he clearly doesn’t want me, whatever I do?’ she’d say to herself, pouring an extra large glass.

Nothing could cheer her. The days were lengthening, the sun gaining in warmth; the bare branches of the trees on the garrison had taken on a green tinge and would soon be in bud. Swathes of acid yellow daffodils cloaked the town’s roundabouts, but the arrival of springtime made her feel even gloomier. She should have been looking forward to her new life. Instead here she was, single again, spending most evenings locked in her barrack room with a bottle, unable to face the world.

She dreaded her discharge from the Army. Without Nate, her life already felt empty and meaningless, and now she would be saying goodbye to the friends who had come to feel like family. She even, half-heartedly, considered asking to cancel the discharge, but was too proud to admit that it might have been a mistake, and the moment drew inexorably closer. Finally, the day of the dreaded leaving party arrived. Jess drank so heavily throughout the afternoon and early evening that she could remember nothing after about nine o’clock and, the following day, discovered scrapes and bruises all over her body including a blackening eye. She couldn’t bear to ask Vorny what had happened. It took a full forty-eight hours to recover from the hangover, and she felt disgusted with herself.

Then, all in one week, three good things happened.

Firstly, she noticed that the tranquillisers had finally kicked in; she felt calmer than she had in months, if a little light-headed and distanced from reality. She tried to cut down her drinking, restricting it to the evenings. The nightmares seemed to have become more sporadic, and less intense. Looking back, she realised that she hadn’t experienced the red rush of anger for nearly a fortnight. Even Vorny noticed she seemed happier: ‘You’d better watch out, I might catch you laughing,’ she’d joked.

On Tuesday, it was confirmed that Vorny and another medic, Hatts, who were both staying in the Army, would be stationed in the town for at least the next six months. This meant that the three of them could move out of the barracks and rent a place together. By seven o’clock the following evening they’d found the perfect place – a small Victorian terraced house within walking distance of the garrison medical centre – and were celebrating in the pub just around the corner, a proper old-school bar with wooden floors and sticky tables, yellowing jars of pickled eggs and some dusty packets of pork scratchings the only food on offer. The décor of the house was old fashioned and rather worn, but the beds were comfortable, the kitchen clean and modern. They moved in the next day.

On Thursday she rang the local ambulance service to see whether they had any vacancies and they invited her to sit a pre-entry exam. She spent the weekend frantically boning up on current NHS techniques, and it seemed to work because they phoned to offer her a job the following day. She would start as an Emergency Care Assistant for the first three months before sitting her paramedic exams again, because they were concerned that her knowledge was three years out of date. It was less money, but in some ways a relief not to be given the full responsibilities on day one.

Her first few shifts went by in a daze of new faces and an encyclopaedia of things to remember, but her NHS colleagues were so friendly and welcoming she wondered why she’d ever felt nervous. They were intrigued to learn about her Afghanistan experiences, especially the technical aspects of managing major trauma, bleeds and limb injuries using only equipment that could be carried in back packs. She basked in the warmth of their interest and admiration and relished sharing her experience with people who genuinely understood and were keen to learn.

One evening she found herself on a shift with Janine, an air force reservist who’d spent three months on the helicopters bringing in casualties to Camp Bastion. In brief moments of respite they shared stories of life in the desert, gaining a perspective they’d never seen before. Jess had thought the MERT crews brave and dedicated, but superior in attitude and she’d felt an almost visceral envy of the fact that they were going back for a cold shower each evening.

From the other point of view, Janine said she’d been in awe of the front line medics and wondered how they survived the extreme conditions in which they lived and worked. Her only real contact had been in the turmoil and urgency of an emergency evacuation, when she’d found them brusque and pushy in their desperation to ensure that their injured mates were safely onto the chopper as fast as possible.

Most shifts were busy from beginning to end, so Jess found no time for drinking except for her bedtime ‘medication’. And there was so much to learn that she fell into bed, exhausted, at the end of each day, usually managing to sleep through without nightmares.

It had been a month since she’d last tried to contact him, but now she felt strong enough to try again.