Liz Trenow - The Poppy Factory

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.

‘It’s good, this Pinot. Another bottle?’

They were the last customers left in their favourite Sicilian restaurant, just round the corner from Nate’s flat. The chef had joined the waiters for a game of cards at a distant table in the corner. This was supposed to have been a romantic evening to celebrate Valentine’s Day, although the date itself earlier in the week had already been marked with declarations of love on the phone, a card for Nate, a large bunch of roses for Jess.

‘Not for me thanks, work tomorrow. Time we were getting back,’ he said.

‘You’re such a wuss.’ She checked her phone. ‘It’s not yet eleven. I’ve got work tomorrow too. All I want is one more drink, is that okay?’

He held her gaze, trying to make her back down.

‘And don’t say “don’t you think you’ve had enough?”, like you always do,’ she taunted, waving the empty bottle in the direction of the waiters. Nate shook his head with disapproval and she pounced, feeling the familiar hot surge of anger rising up the back of her head.

‘Can we just drop the morality police act? Let me be myself, for once. I’ve spent the past two years leaping to attention the moment anyone says jump, and I’m enjoying being irresponsible and silly. I’m only twenty-six, for God’s sake.’

The waiter brought the bottle and she took it from him, defiantly pouring herself a glass and sloshing some on the tablecloth.

‘Cheers,’ she said, holding it up in front of Nate’s stony face. He sat back in the chair and closed his eyes, clenching and unclenching his fists helplessly beneath the tablecloth. Whatever he said now would prompt a stand up row, and he hated conflict.

The ‘self medication’, as she liked to call it, had started around Christmas when the nightmares began to get out of control, so bad that she’d become afraid of sleeping. Curiously, the poppy field barely figured in her dreams. They were almost always a variation on the same scenario: being confronted with the raw flesh of a dismembered limb. Sometimes the limb was unattached and she found herself carrying it, trying to run on leaden legs as she searched desperately for its owner. Other times it was attached to a body and she might wake to find that she was holding her hands over her ears to block out the terrifying, visceral howls of a man in extreme agony. The worst times were when she knew the victim: it could be her brother, or Nate, or another male friend. Curiously, she never dreamed about James, or the real-life victims she had treated: Gav, Scotty, Dave … there had been so many.

Tourniquets usually featured, stretching and breaking like cooked spaghetti when tightened, the clips or Velcro refusing to stay fixed; also dressings, which might take flight and hover beyond her reach or, absurdly, turn out to be white bread instead.

But each variation had a constant theme: panic, the sort of extreme panic which freezes your brain and threatens to stop your heart. She would wake fighting for breath in a tangle of sheets damp with sweat, and sometimes weeping because she had failed to save the injured man.

She tried over-the-counter sleeping pills but, although they helped her get to sleep, they had little effect in preventing the nightmares. The only thing which seemed to work was booze – whisky or vodka seemed to work best, but almost any alcohol would do. She took to taking a couple of shots before cleaning her teeth each bedtime.

The anger thing started on the last day of their holiday.

They’d had such a joyful, exhilarating week. Both were absolute beginners but had, in their different ways, quickly mastered the art of skiing. Although never elegant, Nate’s muscle-power helped him stay upright even on the toughest terrains. She, with her lower centre of gravity and fine-honed fitness, quickly mastered the art of carving a stylish turn. Her graceful stance regularly earned their otherwise dour instructor’s weather-beaten smile, and his call of ‘Ottimo, Jessica! Bellissimo!’ had become a catch-phrase between them, even away from the slopes.

Elated by their success, the physical exertion, the breathtakingly beautiful mountains and the cold, bright air, they found themselves drinking a bottle of wine at lunchtime, meeting up with fellow chalet guests for several glasses of glühwein at teatime, imbibing more wine with dinner and at least one or two brandies as a nightcap. Jess slept better than she had in months – a whole week without a single nightmare.

Taking a midnight walk on the final evening, arm in arm, the snow crunching beneath their feet and clouds of warm breath mingling in the freezing air, Nate had stopped in his tracks and grabbed both of her hands.

‘When you get out of the Army, shall we move in together?’

‘Oh my God, Nate. Do you really mean it?’

‘Of course I bloody mean it. Hurry up and say yes before we freeze to death.’

‘Then of course I will, you idiot.’ She jumped into his arms and knocked them both to the ground, finding herself flooded so powerfully with joy that she almost forgot to breathe. How lucky she was to be alive, so happy, with the man she loved and all their lives in front of her.

But even as they lay there, flat on their backs in the soft snow at the side of the track, looking up at the stars, the memories intruded into her consciousness. She was reminded of the times she and Vorny would lie in the dust of the compound looking up at those same ribbons of brilliance in the blackness of the desert night sky, and how the lads used to tease them for it. Where were they all tonight, those boys, how were they adjusting to life at home? She hoped they were happy, too.