LIZ TRENOW
The Poppy Factory

Copyright

AVON

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

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Hammersmith, London W6 8JB

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First Published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 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

Dedication

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

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Book Club Q&A

Acknowledgements

About the Author

About the Publisher

Chapter One

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.

Chapter Two

‘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.

And then, out of the blue, she was hit by a wave of anger about James and the others, for the fact that she would never see them again, that they would never experience the joy of lying in the snow on a starry night with the person they loved. The anger quickly cooled into sorrow, and she began to weep silently, only this time the tears were from profound, irretrievable loss.

Where did these crazy, over-the-top emotions come from? She’d always prided herself on being level-headed, not prone to over-dramatics. These days her reactions seemed to be all over the place. It must just be the ‘adjustment’ they all talked about, she said to herself, it would pass, just as soon as she got back to work. She wiped away her tears, leaned over Nate and kissed him. ‘I love you,’ she whispered. ‘More than you will ever know.’

The following day, for no reason she could fathom other than she had a hangover and their lovely holiday was over, she found herself becoming irritated by tiny, silly things: the way he insisted on tying a red ribbon on the handle of his suitcase so that he could recognise it on the luggage carousel, the way he opened every drawer and cupboard in their room to make sure nothing was left behind, the way he checked the hotel bill carefully, item by item.

Why should such small and perfectly reasonable acts annoy her so much? She simply couldn’t understand it but, each time, she felt the anger prickling the back of her head, the nauseous churning of her stomach. She cursed herself for being so impatient – he was only taking care of her, after all.

‘You okay? You’re a bit quiet this morning,’ he said, on the bus to the airport.

‘Oh I don’t know. I feel a bit rough, but it’s probably more the thought of having to go back to work,’ she said.

‘I know what you mean. Year Nine first thing on Monday,’ he said. ‘At least you’ve only got three months to go, haven’t you? Light duties and all?’

She grimaced. The prospect of ‘light duties’ made her feel even more irritable. She would be stuck in barracks, away from Nate all week staffing a daily clinic for malingering squaddies with sore throats and ingrowing toenails, being on the rota for out-of-hours emergency call-outs, serving time until her early release came up. Now they knew she was on the way out, there’d be no more advanced training courses, no going out on exercise, no requirement to keep fit.

She’d just have to grin and bear it. A job with the London ambulance service was waiting for her after Easter, she would move in with Nate and they could start to plan their future together. It’s all good, she told herself, firmly. Stop being such a misery.

But grinning and bearing it did not come easy.

The clinic sessions at the barracks were as dull and dispiriting as she’d feared. Time dragged more slowly than ever as she examined a succession of soldiers’ smelly feet with their blisters, veruccas, and minor sprains or, for light relief perhaps, a touch of man flu, earache or tonsillitis. The highlight of her first week was being called out late one night to the Military Police cells for a soldier covered in blood and so drunk he could barely speak. He had a six centimetre gash from one ear to the back of his neck, obviously from falling backwards onto something hard.

The last time she’d seen this much blood was after a Taliban RPG had landed in the compound, knocking her out and sending shrapnel flying everywhere. She’d come round to a scene of carnage, lots of head wounds and blood everywhere because the soldiers had been at rest and not wearing helmets or body armour. Ignoring her own dizziness, she’d scrambled to her feet and set to work. When she and Vorny had finished checking everyone over they discovered that, by some miracle, most of the injuries were shallow cuts which needed only simple stitching. Only a couple of lads were more seriously hurt and needed evacuation, and they later heard back that both of them had survived and weren’t likely to suffer any long term after-effects. ‘Saved their bloody lives, those two lassies of yours,’ the surgeon told her CO later.

She checked the drunken squaddie over, swabbed him down, shaved an unnecessarily wide strip of hair on either side of the wound, stitched him up and told them to wake him every half hour to check for concussion, with a bucket of cold water if necessary. That’ll teach him, she thought to herself.

One day she diagnosed a case of ‘housemaid’s knee’. The spotty lad gazed at her in confusion: ‘I ain’t been doin’ no housework.’

‘It’s an inflammation of the tissues in front of the kneecap. You just need to take it easy for a couple of weeks and it’ll sort itself out.’

‘Can’t tell me sergeant I’ve got housemaid’s knee,’ he muttered. ‘Never bloody live it down.’

She would normally have found this funny, but for some reason his pathetic embarrassment irritated the hell out of her. She took a deep breath, wrote ‘Prepatellar Bursitis’ on a note and passed it to him. ‘Will that do?’

He tried to pronounce the Latin and gave up.

‘Thank you, ma’am,’ he said, with a brazen smile. ‘Fancy a drink sometime?’

‘Get lost, you cheeky bastard,’ she said, showing him the door.

‘I just can’t cope with the pettiness of it all,’ she shouted to her mother as they struggled along the shingle beach in the face of a bitter cold wind whistling off the North Sea. She’d been given a few mid-week days off and, to be honest, was pleased to have her parents to herself. ‘Their stupid little complaints. I feel like slapping them, telling them to man up.’

Her mother had suggested the walk after she’d come downstairs at three in the morning to find Jess watching the shopping channel with a large glass of her father’s whisky on the table in front of her.

‘What’s up, love?’ she’d asked, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. Jess noticed for the first time that her mother’s hair, the gingery side of auburn like her own, was turning grey.

‘Can’t sleep. It’s just too quiet here,’ she replied, trying to make light of it. ‘What are you doing up, anyway?’

‘Saw the light on when I went for a pee.’

Jess had been looking forward to a few days by the seaside, where she could take long walks in the sea air and hopefully knock herself out with physical tiredness, but it hadn’t worked like that. For the second night running she had lain awake for hours before giving up and going downstairs to raid her father’s drinks cabinet.

‘You shouldn’t drink so much of that stuff,’ Susan had said, looking pointedly at the glass.

‘Don’t worry,’ Jess said. ‘I’ll buy Dad another bottle. Go back to bed. I’ll be fine.’

Later that morning, out on the beach, she found herself almost enjoying the distraction of physical discomfort as the wind slashed at their faces.

‘Tell me about this drinking,’ her mother had started.

‘Oh, it’s nothing,’ Jess said. Admitting the nightmares to her mother would only make her more anxious – better to gloss over it. ‘Just fed up with work. It’s so boring. I can’t wait to get out.’

‘You haven’t got long to go now, have you?’

‘Four weeks, that’s all. I can deal with it. Thanks for being so understanding, Mum.’

But that evening she lost it again. Her father had insisted on doing a barbecue in spite of the fact that it was still only February, and bitterly cold. The wind had dropped, he said, and besides the barbecue was under cover of the patio awning. He would be perfectly dry, and once everything was cooked they could eat inside. Except that it began to bucket with rain, and while Jess tried to persuade him to abandon the idea, Susan had been placatory.

‘He does it all the time, don’t worry,’ she said. ‘He enjoys it, and the food tastes so much better on the barbecue. You’ll never dissuade him, so you might as well give up trying.’

‘But it’s pouring, Mum. He’ll get soaked, and so will the food.’ She felt her chest tightening, the tell-tale heat tingling at the back of her neck, and tried to take deep breaths, but it came out anyway. ‘He could perfectly well come inside to cook, and we could have a lovely meal but he’s just determined to spoil our evening with his pig-headed insistence. It’s so fucking stupid,’ she shouted.

‘Watch your language, young woman,’ Mike called through the patio door.

She exploded then, shouting, ‘I can’t bear to watch. I’m going out.’

She’d stomped off to the only pub in the village, hoping there would be no-one who recognised her or engaged her in conversation. Fortunately the place was deserted, so she sat by the fire and read a dog-eared red-top newspaper, sickened by the photos of semi-naked women on what seemed like every other page, while downing three double whiskies in quick succession. She paid the pub premium for a bottle to replace her father’s Johnnie Walker and hid it inside her coat as she headed home.

Her parents were watching a nature documentary on television.

‘We left you a plateful – it’s on the side,’ her mother said mildly, without a hint of reproach. How could they be so forgiving? It almost made her angry all over again.

‘Not hungry,’ she muttered. ‘Going to bed.’

‘Sleep well, sweetheart,’ they chorused, to her departing back.

In the morning nothing was mentioned until she was alone in the car with her mother on the way to the train station.

‘Forgive me, darling, but do you think you might need some help?’ her mother said, pulling out onto the main road.

‘What do you mean, help?’

‘Adjusting to life back home. I know it’s hard.’

‘Leave it, Mum. I’m fine.’

‘Except you’re barely sleeping, drinking way more than you ever used to and losing your temper at the drop of a hat. We’re worried about you, love.’

They arrived at the station just in time and she kissed her mother on the cheek. ‘See you soon,’ she said, ‘and don’t you go worrying about me. I’m a big girl; I can take care of myself.’

The following Sunday evening was the Pinot incident.

As she drank her way purposefully through the bottle, Nate said barely a word and she was too angry to engage him in conversation. Next thing she knew, she was shocked awake by her phone. She peeled open her eyes and squinted at the numbers: 06.00. He must have set the alarm for her, knowing that she had to catch the train in time to get back for a nine o’clock clinic.

She slumped back onto the pillow with her head swimming and throbbing, realising that a) she was still fully clothed and b) she was still drunk. For a few minutes she contemplated calling in sick, but ingrained Army discipline got the better of her. She forced herself out of bed and took a cold shower to shock herself into consciousness. Nate was curled up asleep on the sofa and she crept out of the flat without waking him.

By the time she got back to the barracks she was feeling truly awful. ‘Nothing for it,’ she said to herself, opening the drawer where she stashed the whisky bottle. ‘Hair of the dog.’

The clinic was full of the usual Monday morning complaints: sprained ankles and bruised knees from football games, black eyes and cut lips from knuckle fights. For once, she was grateful to have nothing too testing to deal with, feeling proud of herself for holding it together and making some reasonable diagnoses. Her boss didn’t seem to notice a thing, even though she’d felt so nauseous that at times she’d had to rush to the toilet.

It was almost certainly the lad with the ear infection who gave her away, the little bastard. He must have smelled it when she’d leaned close to look down the otoscope. Not long after, the medic in charge had popped his head around the door.

‘A word, Lance Corporal. My office. Now.’ She stood to attention as he bent to bring his face within inches of her own and sniffed loudly, several times. She breathed as lightly as she could without passing out.

‘You stink of booze. Are you drunk, Corporal Merton?’

‘I don’t believe so, sir. Not at eleven o’clock in the morning. Sir.’

‘You certainly smell of alcohol, and I can’t have you on duty if there’s any chance of it. You are dismissed for the day. Report to me here, eighteen hundred hours.’

‘Yes, sir.’

She spent the day sleeping it off, and arrived at her boss’s office fully sober but with her head pulsing with pain that even heavy doses of Co-codamol hadn’t managed to shift.

‘I can’t have my medics drunk on duty, you understand?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I’ve had it reported to me that you are overdoing the booze in general, is that a fair observation?’

The anger started to swell as she wondered who could have grassed on her. ‘I wouldn’t say so, sir,’ she muttered, through gritted teeth.

‘How are things with you generally? Adjusting to life back home? Preparing for civvy street? Things okay with the boyfriend?’

How dare he bloody snoop into her private life? She could feel her cheeks flushing now, her breath stopping in her chest as she tried to control the fury.

‘Well, Lance Corporal?’

Her jaw ached from clenching her teeth.

‘It can be tricky, I know,’ his voice droned on. ‘If you need to talk to someone, of course we can lay it on.’

The nausea was rising again and she could feel her stomach turning over just as it had on Remembrance Sunday all those weeks back.

‘Excuse me, sir,’ was all she managed to say, before rushing into the corridor and puking all over the shiny linoleum.

‘I’m sorry I was such a bitch last night,’ she said to Nate on the phone later that evening.

He didn’t reply, not at first. Then he said, ‘Look, I can’t deal with this right now. I’ve had a rough day at work and I just want to chill out and not have a row with you.’

‘I haven’t rung you to have a row,’ she said, trying not to sound defensive. ‘I’ve rung to apologise and tell you that I’m going to cut out the booze completely, for a while, just to get back on an even keel.’

‘Sounds like a plan, Jess.’

‘Look, can I come and stay with you this week? I could catch a train tonight.’

There was a surprised pause at the other end. Then, ‘It’s Monday night. What about work?’

‘They’ve given me the rest of the week off – they’re calling it sick leave, but I think they just want to keep me out of their hair. I’ve only got five weeks to go now and they don’t want me causing any more trouble.’

‘What trouble?’

She told him about the ticking off, but not about being sick in the corridor.

‘The timing’s not great, to be honest,’ he said in a flat voice. ‘I’ve got a heavy week. There are rumours that Ofsted might come calling, I’ve got two parents’ evenings and a football trip on Thursday. Won’t be back till pretty late most nights.’

‘I’ll shop and clean and cook you delicious meals,’ she pleaded.

He went silent at the end of the phone and for a fleeting, frightening moment it occurred to her that he might be about to tell her it was over. Oh God, please no, she prayed. I love him, can’t do it without him.

Then, at last: ‘Okay. See you later. But Jess …’

‘Yes?’

‘What you said about quitting the booze? You’re serious?’

‘I promise.’

Each evening as she waited for Nate to return from work, she could feel her body shouting at her that it wanted alcohol, any alcohol, that nothing else would satisfy it. Several times, passing the off licence on the corner of his street, she sensed her feet pulling towards the door. Just one little drink. The feeling was almost irresistible but she marshalled her willpower and managed to hold it at bay, knowing that one would surely lead to another, and then several more. She drank cans of cola instead which made her burp unattractively and failed to satisfy the craving.

Without the sedative of alcohol she found it hard to sleep, sensing Nate’s every movement, hearing each little snore, and blasted to open-eyed wakefulness by any police or ambulance siren within half a mile. When she finally slept, the nightmares returned, but subtly altered. These were not of the breath-stopping panic, of torn flesh and limbs, nor the visceral howls of boys in pain, but of the aftermaths of those terrifying moments, of feeling so exhausted that her limbs would not move, of the heat which seemed to suffocate the air out of her lungs, and the dust storms that whipped her face as the rescue helicopter rose into the air taking the injured men to safety. And, always, the gut-wrenching anxiety that perhaps she could have done more to save a limb, or even a life.

One night she woke with her bladder aching and made it to the toilet just in time. She had been dreaming that she was back in the compound where the squats cabin was located twenty yards away. The men just pissed against the outside wall, the girls had to risk a scary dash in the dark across open ground. That, or pee discreetly into a yellow sharps container and hope the sound didn’t wake anyone. Either way it was enough to make you go easy on your intake of liquids after sunset.

She also dreamt of the poppy, just the once: not of the flower with its silky red petals gently fluttering in the breeze, but of the headless green stem, trembling and twitching like a dying man.

After dinner on the second evening, Nate said, ‘Tell me what’s going on, Jess?’

‘Going on?’

‘Those nightmares of yours.’

‘They come and go,’ she said. ‘It’s getting better.’

‘Doesn’t feel like that to me. Last night you started shouting and then you sat up in bed and seemed to be fighting someone off. You nearly clocked me one.’

She laughed. ‘I’m so sorry. I’ll try and keep my arms to myself tonight.’

‘Are you sure you don’t need to get some help?’

‘Quite sure. It’ll be fine once I’m out of the Army. Only a week now.’

She rose exhausted each morning but found that she could not sit still for more than a few minutes. Trying to use up her restless energy, she went for long walks or jogged round the local park, observing the yummy mummies so distracted by their gossip that the babies crawled into flowerbeds to eat soil. Their pampered pedigree dogs ran out of control and, she hoped, were having unprotected sex with all the wrong species. Planning her life ahead with Nate, she visited a couple of letting agents and viewed four flats in the area; more spacious, two-bedroomed places that cost a fortune in rent.

On Friday evening he returned in high spirits, having been to the pub with his mates to celebrate the end of a tough week, and ate two helpings of her carefully-prepared lamb tagine with appreciative enthusiasm. Sitting beside him on the sofa, watching television with a mug of tea in her hand, she imagined that this was what their lives might be like forever. She felt more at peace than she’d known for months.

‘I’ve invited a few friends from school round tomorrow evening to meet you,’ he said, out of the blue. ‘Hope that’s okay?’

‘So they can approve me?’ she said, feeling wary.

‘No, you idiot, just to meet you. To celebrate.’

‘Celebrate what?’

‘Your safe return, the end of your contract? I dunno. Do we need a reason?’

‘Can I invite a couple of my friends as well, to even the balance?’

She rang Vorny, who accepted eagerly, and her brother Jonny, who at first said he was busy and then, when she pressed him, admitted that he’d promised to spend the evening with his new girlfriend.

‘Bring her too. What’s her name?’

‘Sarah,’ he said. ‘Oh, okay then. She’s dying to meet the Afghanistan heroine, so I s’pose tomorrow’s as good a time as any. Be gentle, won’t you?’

‘You know me.’

‘Only too well.’

On Saturday morning she brought Nate toast, coffee and the newspaper in bed and headed off to the supermarket for party provisions. When she reached the checkout she discovered that, along with the crisps, nibbles and soft drinks, the boxes of wine and beer cans, she’d slipped a bottle of whisky into the trolley. She could barely remember doing it, but was too embarrassed to give it back to the cashier. At the flat, she hid it in the back of a drawer and tried to forget it was there.

I will not drink tonight, she promised herself.

But, getting ready that evening and finding herself unaccountably nervous at the prospect of meeting Nate’s work colleagues, her resolve crumbled and, with trembling hands, she took a couple of slugs to steady her stomach. It worked a treat. Vorny arrived early – they’d planned it that way – and they had a couple more discreet glasses together.

Nate’s friends were two couples, Matt and Louisa, Benjamin and Aleesha, and his head of PE, Mary, a tall, rangy woman of about forty. Jess submitted herself to their scrutiny: ‘Good to meet Nate’s mystery woman, after all this time’, and, ‘so you’re the tough girl who went to the front line in Afghanistan?’ She enlisted Vorny to help with the inevitable interrogation, which ranged from the benign: ‘Did you actually volunteer to go out there? You must be so brave, I’d be terrified,’ to the incredulous: ‘Did you really have to carry guns? Even as medics?’

They were nice enough people, but conversations with civilians always made her feel like a stranger from another planet. It was impossible to explain, or for them to gain any understanding beyond the most superficial level, what being on tour in a country like Afghanistan is really like.

The arrival of Jonny and Sarah was the excuse she needed, and she left Vorny fielding questions while she opened more bottles of wine and took the opportunity to slosh a whisky top up into her innocent glass of coke.

Sarah was a tall, slim girl with a dark-eyed seriousness about her – quite a contrast to her sturdy blond brother, whose open face was always ready with a joker’s smile. Jess could tell immediately that she was different from her brother’s previous girlfriends – less glamorous and self-absorbed, more poised and alert to the world around her. From their secret smiles and his soft looks it was clear that this relationship was the real thing, and she was glad for him.

In the past, to the anxious bewilderment of their parents, he’d dropped out of two university courses in consecutive years, and seemed to be settling for a life of minimum-wage drudgery. Then, with the help of a string-pulling uncle, he’d landed an IT post in a law company. The boss had recognised his potential, sent him on several training courses and promoted him twice. It had been the making of him, as their mother liked to say.

She’d never thought of her brother as much of a looker, but his new sense of self-esteem had magically given his features clearer definition, helped by the fact that he seemed to have lost weight and revamped his wardrobe. He’s quite a catch, Jess found herself thinking.

It turned out that Sarah was a teacher too, so it became a party of two halves: the school gang having a heated conversation about education, while Jess joined Jonny and Vorny sneaking a clandestine smoke in the tiny patio garden. Away from Nate’s sharp eyes she drank steadily and happily, sharing old jokes, enjoying the way her brother and her best friend sparred with each other. Everything was going perfectly.

The rest of the evening passed in a flash, until everyone had made their excuses and left, except for Vorny, who was staying the night, and Matt, a short and slightly balding man with an incipient beer-belly whose girlfriend had fallen asleep in the bedroom. Jess and Vorny sat in a happily intoxicated blur on the sofa, half listening to the boys having a rambling, slightly drunken discussion about politics.

Without warning, Matt turned his unsteady gaze towards them. ‘What do you Army girls think we should do about Syria then? Are we just going to let them go on killing each other till there’s no-one left except crazy radicalised religious zealots?’

You Army girls. How could Nate be friends with such a plonker? Neither seemed willing to reply until Vorny piped up in a quiet, reasonable voice: ‘There’s no right answer of course. It’s a tragic situation but it’s really complex, and I don’t think there’s much we can do to resolve it without creating even more trouble for the future.’

That should shut him up, Jess thought gratefully.

It didn’t. ‘What, shouldn’t we be riding in on white chargers this time, ready to implant the blessed gift of peaceful democracy? Like we’ve done in Iraq and Afghanistan?’

It was a deliberate challenge; Jess felt sure he’d been waiting all evening for the opportunity. She dug her fingernails painfully into her palm and tried to take a deep breath but her chest felt as though a large pair of hands was crushing her lungs. The anger flowed like a dangerous fire through her body, making her head ache, blurring her eyesight, cramping her stomach.

‘Let’s not go there, Matt,’ she could hear Nate cautioning, but it was too late.

A voice in her head warned her to stop, but it was easily ignored. Her tongue loosened itself and the words spilled out, without consent from her brain. ‘I suppose you’ve travelled widely in these countries, talked to many experts?’

‘Jess, don’t you think …?’ she could hear Nate trying to intervene, but she talked over him. ‘So, have you? Have you? And if not, then I’m just wondering what gives you the moral authority to prognosticate about the impact of military intervention in these countries?’

His piggy eyes stared back, widening with alarm. ‘I was just asking your opinion. From two people who have been there.’

Nate was now sitting upright, on high alert. ‘Enough, Jess. Lay off the dogs. This has been a nice evening. Don’t ruin it.’

‘I don’t think for one minute you were asking for our opinion,’ she heard her own voice, low and dangerous. ‘You were giving yours. And you think you have the right to have an opinion, in your safe little job a million miles away from any conflict, having probably never even had a single conversation with an Afghan or an Iraqi, and certainly without an iota of understanding about what we have been trying to achieve for them out there. Or of the fact that good people, much better people than you will ever be, have given their lives to help free the people of those countries from oppression. And you have the nerve to take the piss.’

Matt rose unsteadily to his feet.

‘I’m sorry to have offended. It’s time we were going home.’

Jess stood too. Discovering that she was, in her heels, slightly taller than him made her feel invincible. She could have floored him with a single blow.

‘Is that it? You run away, the moment anyone challenges you?’ she snarled. ‘What a great example you must be for your students. A pathetic, clever-dick, know-it-all little …’

‘ENOUGH, Jess,’ Nate bellowed, grabbing her by the arm and pulling her away, down the corridor into the bedroom, and throwing her roughly onto the bed. Shocked by his strength, she offered no resistance and she fell like a rag doll, arms and legs akimbo. The bed was still warm from Matt’s girlfriend, who had disappeared. There were groaning noises coming from the bathroom. Nate slammed the door behind him but a moment later it reopened and Vorny was by her side.

‘Christ, Jess, whatever happened there? You certainly know how to blow it, don’t you?’

‘He deserved it. The idiot.’ Her anger was cooling now.

‘You’re not wrong, but you shouldn’t call your boyfriend’s boss a “pathetic, clever-dick know-it-all”, however much he deserves it.’

‘His boss? That was the other woman, the tall one, Mary.’

‘No, Matt’s his boss. Mary’s the maths teacher.’

Icy fear replaced the vestiges of her fury. ‘That little fat man’s the head of sports? You’re quite sure?’

‘’Fraid so.’ Vorny shook her head. ‘I was talking to him earlier. About how he rates Nate, what a great asset he is. How well the football team’s been doing under his training.’

‘Bloody hell. I’ve blown it, haven’t I?’

‘You’ve got some serious apologising to do, that’s for sure.’

It would take a lot more than that, Jess knew.

She tried to apologise but Nate refused to discuss anything that evening, and when she offered to clear up he told her sharply that he didn’t need any help, thank you, and she should go to bed before she caused any more damage. He’d sleep on the sofa. End of story.

In the morning she reached across the bed for him before remembering, with a wave of self-disgust, what had happened. She found him already at work on the dining table, marking school books.

‘Nate, I am so, so sorry about last night.’ She moved behind him and stroked the back of his neck – his weak spot.

He swatted her hand away and swivelled round, his face fiercer than she’d ever seen before. No wonder he makes a good teacher, she found herself thinking, he must be utterly terrifying to the kids.

‘I think you’d better sit down,’ he said.

‘I’m going to make a coffee.’ Her mouth was dry, her stomach turning somersaults. ‘Do you want one?’

He shook his head and turned back to his marking. She boiled the kettle and made a mug of strong black instant, then went to sit at the table, facing him.

‘Okay. Let me say my piece first, please?’

He looked up and nodded, his face impassive, his eyes coal black.

‘What I said last night was completely out of order,’ she started. ‘I don’t know what got into me. It felt as though he was attacking everything I stand for, the reason why James and all those others have died. I just lost it, and the words came out without thinking. I am really, really sorry.’ She looked back at his stony expression and felt tears burning the back of her eyes. ‘Please forgive me, Nate. I can work through this and get better. I love you.’

He sighed wearily. ‘I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. All night, as it happens. This is the conclusion I’ve come to: I can’t deal with it any more, Jess. The drinking, the anger, all that. You’ve turned into someone I don’t recognise.’

‘I know. I’m sorry.’

‘You keep saying you’re sorry, but what have you done about it?’

‘I didn’t drink all last week.’

‘And when you did, look what happened. What I’m sorry about, Jess, is that I’ve stopped believing that you want to change. When you’ve sorted yourself out, rediscovered the old Jess, then get in touch.’

She managed an aghast, ‘Are you telling me it’s over?’

He nodded, but could not meet her eyes. ‘Till you get yourself sorted, yes.’

She just had time to say, ‘You don’t mean it? Just like that?’ and hear his retort, ‘I do, Jess. I really mean it, just like that,’ before the nausea hit her. When she finally emerged from the bathroom, Nate didn’t even raise his head. ‘When you feel better, please pack and leave,’ he said. ‘I’ve got work to do today.’

‘But …’

He held up a hand, like a policeman stopping traffic. ‘Please, I don’t want to talk about it. I’ve told you what I think and I’m not going to have another row. Don’t make it more painful than it is already. Just go.’

Once she’d packed she tried again: pleading and trying to reason. But he was immovable. ‘I’ve made up my mind,’ was all he would say.

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.

Chapter Three

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.

‘Hello Nate,’ she emailed. ‘How are you? I’m fine, except that I miss you loads. Civvy street seems to suit me. I’m happier than I’ve been for weeks and really enjoying the work. I’ve stopped drinking, except socially, and am sleeping well which has made a massive difference. I have lots more patience and can’t remember the last time I blew a fuse. I still love you, Nate. Can we meet? Jess x.’

They met, that first time, on neutral ground: a pub close to Liverpool Street Station.

As she waited, sipping her cola, she watched the loud braying City types and felt a certain sympathy. They were tanked up on the adrenaline of trading millions and having a couple of hours’ ‘decompression time’ before catching the commuter trains back to their quiet suburban lives. It was how she sometimes felt at the end of a busy shift.

She hardly recognised Nate, at first. The dreadlocks were gone, replaced with a short mat of tight black curls. Was this a statement, symbolic of his new start without her? He spotted her and smiled, with that soft beam which lit up his face and made you feel as though someone had turned the lights on.

‘Yup, all gone,’ he said, rubbing his head. ‘Got the job, too.’

‘What job?’

‘Head of Sports. Matt’s leaving.’

Her heart lifted even further. ‘Congratulations, Nate.’ She touched his hand, and he didn’t take it away.

The couple of hours they’d agreed on went by too fast. It felt curiously formal, air-kissing like strangers as they parted. But it was a start, Jess told herself, easy does it. They planned a meal together the following week, when she had a couple of days off. She began allowing herself to hope.

Although each ambulance call-out still got the adrenaline pumping and her heart racing, most of their busy shifts were filled with non-emergencies. Seven out of ten ‘shouts’ were for old people, many of them regulars. She loved the way their faces would light up when the crew arrived, the sheer relief showing in the colour of their cheeks, and admired their stoical bravery and humility. She couldn’t count the times she heard the phrase, ‘Sorry to be such a nuisance, dearie’.

She happily brewed cups of strong sugary tea, exchanged a few words of comfort or simple conversation, listened to their stories and gained satisfaction from having made a difference. Many did not need hospital treatment – it was just a matter of making sure the district nurse would call by or the carer could attend more often. They got to know some of the old folk so well that when something more serious happened and they had to be admitted to hospital, she found herself dwelling on them, wondering about their progress. If she learned that one of them hadn’t made it, she experienced genuine sorrow.

At the end of most days she felt more like a social worker than a medical responder. It’s bloody ridiculous, she said to herself, that no-one cares enough to put the system right and it’s left to an expensive emergency service to pick up the pieces. Her colleagues never seemed to gripe about it – perhaps they’d accepted that nothing was likely to change – but it made her angry: why couldn’t the state provide elderly and frail people with enough support to live with dignity in their own homes; why had society apparently washed its hands of them? They sometimes learned of a son or daughter who lived within easy driving distance yet hadn’t visited for weeks. What were they thinking? Were they unaware that their elderly relative was desperately lonely but too proud to ask for help, or did they simply not care?

The time-wasters were far more difficult to cope with. She’d heard the stories, of course, the call-outs for broken nails or wasp stings, and the people who’d learned how to circumvent the categories of urgency and would describe every situation as ‘life-threatening’, even if it wasn’t remotely so.

When faced with a fat, gobby middle-aged man demanding emergency treatment for a sprained ankle, or a woman who couldn’t remember whether she’d taken her birth control pill, she felt the old anger rising again, the nausea starting to ferment in her stomach.

‘How do you get through the day without giving them a slap?’ she asked her crew mate Dave – an older man, steady and compassionate – after they left a call-out for a minor oven burn. The woman had fussed interminably about being scarred and demanded to see a cosmetic surgeon. Dave had been admirably firm.

‘We all feel like that sometimes,’ he said. ‘Just give yourself a bit of distance. Say you need to take a couple of minutes, go outside and take a few deep breaths. I find it works a treat.’

The worst shifts were Friday and Saturday evenings, when gangs of otherwise sensible, intelligent young people who probably lived decent, law abiding lives the rest of the time seemed to abandon their collective sanity by taking party drugs, drinking themselves senseless and getting into fights in every town centre.

At first, Jess managed to summon reserves of compassion by trying to see herself in each of them. This was more or less me, just a few months ago, she’d say to herself when, for example, attending to a drunken young woman who’d been in a cat fight and had minor abrasions to her face. She’d eventually been persuaded to call it a night and get into a taxi. When a young man took a swipe at her as she tried to examine the hand he’d just punched through a window, she recalled the blinding effects of her own alcohol-fuelled anger and how she felt like lashing out at anything or anyone around her.

But mostly she failed to find any sympathy. Did they have any idea how much time and taxpayers’ money they were wasting? What if they were made to pay for the medical treatment they received – would that make any difference? The only people benefiting from these nightly binges were the alcohol companies and bar owners, she thought bitterly. Perhaps they should be made to pay up too?

It was August, and a stifling heatwave had brought crowds out of the bars onto the streets when, one Saturday night, she lost it. They’d been asked by the police to help a semi-naked young woman found unconscious in the gutter, and the others were briefly called away to help a more serious casualty, leaving Jess to look after the girl. As she knelt down to examine her, a large, burly man with a beer belly protruding beneath his shirt began to stagger unsteadily across the street towards them, shouting obscenities.

‘Leave her be, you stupid bitch,’ he shouted, lurching closer.

‘Just stand back, sir, please,’ Jess said, pleased with herself for refusing to rise to the insult.

‘Fuck you,’ the man said, taking a few steps nearer. For a moment he seemed to stop in his tracks and went quiet, so Jess turned her attention back to the casualty. Then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw that he was fiddling with his flies and, before she knew what was happening, both she and the young woman were drenched in foul-smelling urine.

‘What the hell?’ she shouted, powerless to resist the heat of her fury. A dense red mist descended in front of her eyes and all common sense deserted her. Instead of leaving the scene and calling for help as she had been trained to do, her only thought was to stop him pissing onto the poor woman. She leapt at him, trying to spin him round by pushing his shoulder. For all his inebriation he managed to stand his ground, the urine now running down his trousers and splashing her feet.

‘Try that again, bitch,’ he said, laughing in her face with a blast of beery breath.

‘You bastard.’ She was about to push him again when she heard Dave’s shout.

‘Back off, Jess.’

‘He’s pissing all over us.’

‘Just. Back. Off. Now. Go to the van and get yourself cleaned up. Stay there till I get back.’

She slunk away and, as the anger dissipated, she was left feeling sick and ashamed, waiting in the ambulance and stinking of urine.

‘I’m sorry, Dave,’ she said when he returned. ‘It was so disgusting. I just lost it. How’s the girl?’

‘Come round now, and we got her into a taxi. The police have arrested him for abuse and assault.’ He laughed. ‘Can’t wait to read the police report: “detail of assault weapon: stream of stinking piss”. It’s gotta be a first.’

‘Thanks for the sympathy,’ she said, managing a smile.

Dave started up the engine and pulled off. ‘We’d better get you back to the station for a change – you don’t half smell.’ And then, after driving for a few moments, ‘In theory I ought to write this up, you know?’

She held herself still, heart in mouth.

He gave a deep sigh. ‘But it’s been a bloody awful night and you were under severe provocation, so I’ll keep it under my hat this time.’

She spent her days off cramming for the exams which were now just a couple of weeks away: anatomy, physiology, cardiology, pharmacology. Study had always come easy in the past but these days she found herself struggling to remember facts, vital information like drug dosages per weight for children; the exact position to insert the needle to reinflate a lung with needle chest compressions; the APGAR score calculation for newborns.

One morning as she went to take her tranquilliser pill, it dawned on her. Perhaps the drug was affecting her ability to retain facts? She felt fine now; surely she didn’t need them any more? She put the packet back into her bedside drawer. I’ll see how it feels for a few days, she thought to herself.

It seemed to work: she passed the exams with flying colours. Nate took her out to dinner to celebrate, and they ended up back at his flat for the first time since the party. They were tentative at first, circling each other warily as he made coffee and she wandered around, checking to see what had changed, looking for clues about the life he had spent without her, these past months.

But it was still the same old bachelor pad, with the broken blinds, the brimming waste bins, DVDs and Xbox paraphernalia scattered around the giant television. In the bathroom cabinet were shaving cream, deodorant, his familiar brand of cologne and a packet of paracetamol but, to her relief, no sign of any female occupation.

The wariness lasted only as long as it took them to finish their coffee and have their first proper kiss, and after that the weekend passed in making up for lost time. They left the bedroom only to eat and watch a bit of tv, and Nate dragged on a tracksuit once in a while to go out for takeaways and bottles of wine. He poured her drinks without a single enquiring glance, and she made sure that two glasses were her top limit – this weekend was too precious to spoil.

She knew she had to wait for him to say it, but she longed for him to reassure her, to talk about their future together once more. It wasn’t until Sunday evening was drawing on and she was preparing to leave, that he finally said, ‘I think we’re okay again, J. Don’t you?’

‘God, I love it when you get all romantic,’ she laughed, hugging him. ‘But “okay” will do me, for now.’

It started as a normal shift: 6am to 6pm, on the van with Dave and a new Emergency Care Assistant, a sweet kid called Emma. It was a blustery day with towering cumulus clouds like fantasy castles in the sky. Emma remarked how lucky they were, driving around the countryside amid the beauty of the autumn colours, and the two others agreed.

By coffee time they’d dealt with four shouts including one of their regulars, an old boy called Bert who kept a garrulous and foul-mouthed parrot. He’d fallen on the way to the toilet, so they just checked him out, cleaned him up and waited for the district nurse to arrive while the parrot hurled abuse from its cage: ‘ge’ me out of here, you ’uckers,’ it squawked, interspersed with a repetitive refrain of ‘stupid old git, stupid old git’. Emma giggled and blushed but Jess and Dave took it in their stride. They’d heard the parrot say much worse things in their time.

‘Let’s hope we get a decent break,’ Dave said, more in hope than expectation, as they pulled into the ambulance station. As usual, they’d just sat down when the next call came in: ‘Emergency RTC High Street. Two life-threatening, two walking wounded. Police on scene.’

Jess felt the welcome surge of adrenaline, more powerful than any caffeine rush, as they clambered back on board and the siren started its familiar wail. The incident was only ten minutes away but a sudden heavy downpour made the traffic even more of a nightmare than usual, with dopey drivers taking an age to move aside and let them past. When they reached the lights at the top of the High Street, it was jammed and at a standstill. Dave whooped the siren a couple of times but it made little difference – nothing was moving. In the distance, they could see the flashing blue lights of a police car.

‘Take the packs and run for it,’ Dave shouted. ‘I’ll get there soon as.’

It was still raining heavily as they panted down the slick pavement. I must be losing fitness, Jess thought to herself; she’d run much further with a heavy Army Bergen on her back with no problem at all in the past. They pushed their way through a crowd of gawpers with umbrellas to a scene of carnage: a car had obviously driven onto the narrow pavement at some speed and hit two people, both of them now on the ground. The driver was still in his seat, a very old man, his face ashen, and a baby buggy lay on its side near the front wheels. She looked around frantically to see where the child could be before spying it in the arms of a policewoman, apparently unhurt.

Over to her right, a policeman was doing CPR on a girl whose face already had that grey, hollowed-out look of a dying person. As she approached he shook his head grimly and gestured with a nod in the other direction, towards a shattered shop window behind the car. ‘There’s a guy over there who needs your help.’

‘I’ll get that one if you take over here,’ she told Emma.

Lying amid the shards of glass was a young man, moaning slightly, his legs in a pool of shocking red that was being washed across the pavement by the rain. Her stomach turned over as she approached, smelling that terrifying metallic stench of blood and fear. At first she thought the man’s leg was twisted beneath him but her stomach lurched again, even more violently, when she saw that the lower leg was completely missing.

Stop thinking. Get on with it, no time to waste. The checklist ran over and over in her head, like a mantra: C.A.B.C, C.A.B.C. Catastrophic haemorrhage, airway, breathing, circulation.

Barely noticing the blood and glass, she kneeled down, tore open her medipack and grabbed a tourniquet. ‘My name’s Jess and I’m a paramedic,’ she said. ‘This is going to hurt a bit. Just hang in there, we’re going to get you to hospital as soon as we can.’ She secured the band swiftly and efficiently just above the knee and observed with satisfaction as the pumping gush of brilliant red arterial blood slowed to a dribble.

Lifting her head for a moment, desperate for Dave to arrive, she caught sight of the ankle and foot a couple of metres away near a litter bin. It looked just like part of a discarded shop dummy, still wearing a sock and trainer, the canvas type in show-off scarlet, just like Nate sometimes wore. She thrust a dressing towards a middle-aged woman standing nearby. ‘This is really important,’ she said, urgently. ‘Get that limb, wrap it up and get it somewhere cold. Find a shop with a drinks cooler or ice cream freezer, soon as you can.’

The injured man’s eyes were a maelstrom of panic and fear. Even through the pallor she could see his well-made features: a handsome young man, perhaps in his twenties, with all his life before him. Like James. Like Scott. Come to think of it, he had a look of Scotty, with that mouse-blond hair and freckles all over his nose. He was breathing, fast and shallow: his airway was clear. She quickly took his pulse. It was faint, but at least it was there.

Airway okay, breathing okay-ish, circulation okay-ish. Where the hell is Dave?

It was only when she went to cover the end of the severed leg that she faltered. The shattered ends of the tibia and fibula bones glowed shocking pearly pink-white against a bloody mess of skin and flesh, like a leg of meat hacked by a crazed butcher.

It wasn’t as though she’d never seen this kind of injury before – in fact she’d seen it too many times in the heat and sand of the desert. She grabbed a pack of dressings, but when she went to lift the stump the man whimpered again and then uttered another long, loud, terrifying howl. Her head began to spin. That sound, that gut-wrenching primeval animal sound of a man in agony, the sound that Scotty was making as she worked so desperately to save him that day.

Get a grip, Jess. Don’t think. Get the leg wrapped and get up a morphine drip. Put the guy out of his agony.

But however much she tried to push it away, Scott’s face swam in front of her eyes. The young man’s groans were Scotty’s groans.

It was her first ever foot patrol in the desert, her heart pummelling inside her chest with terror and the effort of carrying the medical back-pack, at twenty-five kilos the weight of an average eight year old, as well as her own heavy body armour. Her head felt as though it was boiling inside her helmet as the group cautiously circled the edge of the village in the ferocious heat. No-one spoke a word as the searcher moved ahead, sweeping the dust with his long-handled detector to check for improvised explosive devices while the man behind him marked the borders of the cleared area with spray paint. Everyone else scanned the landscape for markers, piles of stones, wire or a piece of broken glass which might have been left as a secret signal to mark the position of a bomb or anything designed to divert their path towards a mined area.

They could tell the Taliban were close by, watching and waiting, because the place was deserted. The villagers were hiding in their homes and even the dogs had taken cover. The enemy would never show themselves, and knew quite well that the allied troops couldn’t fire a single shot unless they were fired at first. The tension was almost unbearable.

And then: an ear-splitting crack. Jess twisted round to see a geyser of earth erupting to the side of the patrol, just where they had passed. Someone must have stepped unwarily just a few centimetres outside the cleared zone – that was all it took. The screams of pain started instantly and, as she turned back, trying to run but encumbered by her heavy pack and body armour, the screech of yelled orders in her earpiece was almost deafening. ‘Medic! Medic! Men down, three men down.’ It was just like those training exercises, except this was for real. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion.

She heard Vorny puffing beside her and, as the clouds of soil and dust settled, the scene ahead appeared in almost surreal clarity. Captain Jones was lying beside the blast crater cursing loudly, clutching his right hand and covered in dirt. At least if he’s swearing he’s alive, she thought. Another man was seated, holding his face in his hands. Vorny paused to see if he was okay, and Jess lumbered on towards the Captain.

‘I’m fine, just get over there,’ he shouted, gesturing impatiently into the crater. ‘It’s Scott.’

The figure was almost completely obscured by the dust and rocks that had settled on it after the blast, but just then the soldier lifted his head and emitted a long and terrifying howl which seemed to echo off the mud walls of the compound behind her, reverberating through her very being.

She fell, rather than ran, down the sloping side of the crater and, when she picked herself up, the true horror of the boy’s injuries became apparent. The blood-curdling screams and streams of profanity meant he was certainly still alive, but both his lower legs were missing, vaporised by the blast. The village dogs would come scavenging later, she knew.

The earth around his lower body was already stained red with the blood gushing from the mess of mangled flesh and bone where his legs used to be. There were only moments to save his life. She ripped two tourniquets from her own upper arm, stored there for instant access and, with hands trembling so much she could scarcely grip the webbing, managed to secure one on each leg, above the knees. She glanced towards his face, pale as the sand dusting it. Even through his goggles she could see the panic in his eyes, darting from side to side, trying to focus. ‘Hang in there, Scotty,’ she said. ‘We’ll get you sorted.’

‘Jess. Thank Christ, it’s you,’ he whimpered, through gritted teeth. ‘Just save me feckin’ life, will ya? Get me home for Chrissake. Please.’

‘Don’t you worry, you’re going to make it,’ she said, trying to convince herself as much as him.

Vorny slithered down the slope to join her and they worked together, wrapping the shattered stumps with white dressings, all the while talking to the lad, trying to calm him.

‘Nearly there. MERT’s on its way. We’re going to get you out of here. Hang in there. You’re going to make it.’

Vorny set up a drip into one arm and held the bag high, squeezing it to push the life-saving liquid into Scott’s system, while Jess pulled out a morphine autojet and punched a hefty dose directly into the muscle of the upper arm on the other side. ‘That’s it, Scotty. When you wake up you’ll be in Bastion,’ she said, as the howls tailed off into moans.

By now Captain Jones was on his feet but very pale and holding his hand gingerly, with the other lad, McVeigh, who was shocked and deafened, but otherwise unharmed. They’d identified a landing site just beyond the brown poppy field at the edge of the village. The helicopter was circling, just about to land, and she was heading across the field behind the stretcher team, carrying Scotty’s pack, when the shooting started. There was no cover, and it seemed to be coming from both sides.

She dropped to the ground, cursing the fact that any delay could cost Scotty’s life after all the work they’d done to save him. But as the helicopter turned away without landing, and the firing continued without any apparent response from their own side, she realised it was not only Scott’s life in danger. Bullets could slice through the brittle brown stems of the crop at any moment. The adrenaline rush that had kept her going throughout the time they’d been working on Scotty was dissipating, and she began to panic. It was then that she saw the red poppy.

‘Christ, Jess, what the fuck are you playing at?’

Dave’s shout, close to her ear, brought her instantly back to the High Street in the pouring rain, a scene painted in grey and red, the smell of blood, the young man’s groans, his shattered limb in her arms. She had absolutely no idea how long she’d been kneeling there.

‘Let me take over,’ Dave barked, taking hold of the leg and shoving her aside brusquely. ‘Just give the poor sod some morphine. Get a drip going and pump in some fluids, for Christ’s sake.’

Dragging herself back to the present, she stood and picked up her pack. Through the shattered glass of the shop window she could see an array of meat, liver, sausages, lamb chops, trussed chickens, all glistening with broken glass. The centrepiece was a large whole leg of lamb, the severed end pointing towards her, a neatly trimmed version of this young man’s leg. Like Scotty’s legs after that blast.

She forced her eyes away, searching the pack for a morphine syringe.

‘I’m just going to give you something for the pain,’ she said, squatting down by his head. But when she looked into his face she could see that he had gone, his eyes rolled back, his skin a deadly grey.

She shook his shoulder. ‘Stay with us,’ she shouted, shaking him harder. She pressed her finger to his neck.

‘No pulse, Dave. Christ, he’s got no pulse.’ She ripped open his jacket and shirt, and pressed the pads onto his chest. ‘Flatline.’

‘I’ll secure his airway,’ Dave shouted. ‘Start CPR, now.’

No, no, no, no, she muttered to herself, in rhythm with the pumps on his chest, like a mantra. Not again, not again. It can’t be, can’t be. Now, the rest of the world disappeared and the only thing that mattered was counting out loud the chest compression pumps: one – two – three – four – five – six – seven – eight – nine. Eighty to a hundred pumps a minute for two minutes, a quick check of the pulse and then start again. Dave was squeezing air into his lungs from the bag now, twelve breaths a minute. If we keep doing this he will come back, she said to herself, I’ve seen it happen, just so long as we can keep it up.

Just as the muscles in her arms felt as though they would crumple with exhaustion Emma returned and took over for a while, and they alternated for what seemed like hours, all through loading him onto the ambulance and the crazy race back to the hospital; even as they were wheeling him into A&E.

The doctors declared both casualties dead on arrival. They were the young parents of the baby. The old man who’d lost control of his car and driven onto the pavement at forty miles an hour was completely unharmed.

When they got back to the ambulance station Dave said, ‘Want a coffee?’

She nodded numbly and followed him into the kitchen, barely aware of her surroundings, finding it strange that she could even breathe or put one foot in front of another when she felt so completely shell-shocked. He placed a mug of hot sweet tea onto the table in front of her but when she went to pick it up her hands shook so badly that she slopped it all over her uniform.

He put a gentle hand on her shoulder. ‘It happens to all of us, you know,’ he said, kindly.

She shook her head vehemently. ‘No, it doesn’t happen to all of us, not like that. You saw me, Dave. I lost it again. Some kind of flashback thing. God knows how long it was before you arrived and took over.’

‘Only a few moments, I’m sure. Besides, you’d already controlled his bleeding.’

‘But the delay could have meant the difference …’ The thought was simply too enormous and too terrible to contemplate. She felt overwhelmed and exhausted; barely able to think straight.

After a long pause Dave said: ‘I think you need to take a few days off. Why don’t you ask Frank?’

‘Oh God, I couldn’t face Frank, right now.’

‘Do you want me to ask him for you?’

She nodded.

‘Okay. I think you need to talk to someone, but perhaps not today. The best thing for you now is to go straight home, have something to eat and a couple of glasses of wine. Try to think about something else. I’ll text to let you know what Frank says.’

It was this simple act of kindness and understanding which finally broke the dam, opening the door to all the horror, the guilt and the shame. She began to weep, with long, agonising gasps that seemed to wrench all the air out of her lungs. Dave moved his arm around her and she rested her head on his warm, broad shoulder till the sobs abated.

Chapter Four

She was relieved to see her father in the station car park because he wouldn’t ask too many questions; after a heavy date with a whisky bottle, she was feeling particularly fragile.

When she’d got back to the flat the previous day she’d found it deserted and remembered that Vorny and Hatts were away on exercise for two weeks. She slumped down on the sofa and wept, desolate and desperate for someone to talk to. Why weren’t they here, when she’d needed them most? She considered calling Nate but decided she couldn’t dump her problems on him, not just yet. After a while she dried her eyes and stomped around the flat wondering what to do with herself. Then, reluctantly, she dialled her parents’ number.

‘I’ve got a few days unexpected leave, Mum. Can I come and stay?’

‘Of course, dear. Are you all right?’

‘Ish. Talk tomorrow, okay? I’ll be there on the five o’clock train. Can someone pick me up?’

As they drew up to the house her mother was on the doorstep, with Milly the dog, both regarding her with inquiring eyes. Why the unexpected leave? Why wasn’t she spending it with Nathan? Of course her mother was far too wise to ask directly. Jess would share any problems, in her own time. She always did.

‘How’s things?’

‘Fine, thanks. Glad to be here.’

‘You look pale, love. Are you feeling okay?’

‘Just a bit weary. Heavy week.’

The truth was that she didn’t really feel anything much right now, except numb and confused. All her adult life had been spent working towards, training and then becoming a medic. She’d wanted to make a difference, to save lives and she’d loved it, mostly. Until yesterday she had been determined to spend the rest of her life doing it, couldn’t imagine any other form of career.

But somehow all that certainty had now disappeared, washed away like the poor young man’s blood on that dismal pavement. She had broken her promise to James, her vow to prevent anyone dying through any delay in stemming their loss of blood.

The future felt like a quicksand, untrustworthy and perilous. Last night, during her long commune with the bottle, she’d argued with herself, sometimes out loud, as the logical, calm voice of reason struggled to be heard over what her instincts seemed to be shouting:

You’re a good medic, well-trained, highly experienced. You’ve made a difference, even saved lives.

I’ve failed to save lives. I failed that young man. I punched that idiot in the street.

Just a couple of blips, you’ll get over it.

It’s not that. I can’t trust myself any more: the flashbacks, the anger. I failed my promise to James.

Just two events in four months, Jess.

I’m a danger to patients. My confidence is gone. The thought of going back to work makes me feel panicky and sick.

You could get help, counselling perhaps? That’ll sort it.

Do I want to put myself through all that self-examination crap? Anyway, I don’t know if I really want to go on putting myself on the line every day.

Okay, so give up being a medic. But you need to earn a living somehow. What would you do instead?

Oh Christ, that’s it. What else could I do? There is nothing else.

The argument raged in her head until, finally, she’d passed out, fully dressed, on the sofa.

Jess had envisaged walking with her mother on the beach, perhaps sitting on the dunes, a neutral, impersonal place to talk because you naturally sat looking outwards, your eyes drawn to the sea and the horizon, rather than facing your companion. Quite why this made it so much easier to be honest with yourself she never completely understood, but it always seemed to work.

She recalled days and nights of teenage angst when she would rush to the sea, weeping her eyes out over some spotty, undeserving youth, or spending hours with her best friend in the dunes dissecting every nuance of their latest romances, imagined or real. Alone or in company, self-pity never survived for long out on the beach. The soothing, rhythmical shush of the waves, the wide open skies and grey sea stretching to infinity always helped her to find a sense of proportion, reminding her of how small and insignificant we are in this vast universe, how unimportant our problems in the wider scheme of things.

But this time it didn’t turn out like that.

After breakfast, she’d just made another pot of coffee and was sitting at the kitchen table while her mother fussed around, washing up, putting away. Her father had drifted off to his greenhouse.

‘Look what I got for supper,’ Susan said, pulling something out of the fridge. ‘I went to that lovely butcher’s yesterday. I know it’s your favourite.’ She placed the parcel on the table and unwrapped it, revealing a large leg of lamb, its severed flesh oozing dark red blood onto the worktop.

Jess had time to blurt out, ‘Lovely …’ before the nausea hit her, like an unstoppable wave. She made it to the cloakroom just before she vomited, violently and uncontrollably, into the toilet, groaning with pain as her guts turned themselves inside out. She gagged, again and again, her throat burning with the vicious acid residue of last night’s whisky.

She heard her mother at the door and then by her side, and a soothing hand stroking her shuddering back. When it was all over she allowed herself to be led back to the living room, on trembling legs, gratefully accepting the glass of cool, clear water she was offered.

Her mother sat down on the chair opposite. ‘Are you feeling better now?’

Jess nodded.

‘What was it? Something you ate, do you think?’

Jess took a sip of water, trying to delay answering until she’d put her jumbled emotions into some expressible order. She was about to brush it off with a jokey remark about a dodgy take-away but then, as if the phrase had formed itself independently of any conscious thought, the words came out of her mouth: ‘I’m giving it up, Mum.’

‘Giving what up, love?’

‘Being a paramedic. I’m going to quit. I can’t do it any more.’ Just as soon as she heard herself admit it, an almost overwhelming wave of relief sluiced through her body.

Her mother’s eyes widened, but she managed to keep her voice calm. ‘This is sudden, Jess. I thought you loved the job? Has something bad happened?’

The tears began to flow freely as she found herself describing the events of yesterday. The way she’d lost control, found her mind flashing back to the desert, the shocking outcome.

The discussion that followed went much along the same lines as the internal debate she’d had on the sofa with the whisky bottle last night. Her mother made all the reasonable responses: take your time, seek some help, you’re a great medic, it would be a loss to the service, it’s what you’ve been working for all your life. But the more the conversation continued, the more Jess became convinced that what her inner voice had been telling her head was right. She couldn’t carry the responsibility of saving people’s lives, not any longer.

Eventually her mother stopped offering suggestions. ‘It’s your life, my love. Whatever you decide will be for the best.’ She leaned over and stroked Jess’s hand. ‘But shouldn’t you also get yourself checked over by a doctor to find out what caused you to be so violently sick?’

Jess hesitated, unwilling to inflict another disappointment, but she would have to admit it in the end. ‘I’m sorry, Mum, but it was the leg of lamb. It brought everything back. It’s what that terrible stump yesterday reminded me of, and when I stood up afterwards there was a butcher’s just beside us and the meat was just like that poor young man’s flesh.’ She shuddered involuntarily, remembering the red of the meat and the silvery slivers of shattered glass.

They had fish and chips for supper instead and, much later that evening, after her father had gone to bed, they sat on the patio together watching the stars come out. It was September now, the evenings were drawing in and there was a dampness in the air with that autumnal countryside smell. She always found this time of year melancholy: the swallows gathering for their long migrations, the changing sounds of birdsong, dew on the grass in the morning, the yellowing of the leaves. They all felt like endings. Only this year she was facing a very personal ending, a big, terrifyingly full stop to what had been driving her, her reason for living, her passion for the past ten years.

After a while it grew cold and they went inside. ‘Whatever am I going to do with myself now, Mum?’ Jess said, cuddling up on the sofa with Milly, who wasn’t usually allowed to sit there.

‘Have you got any ideas?’

‘Not a clue,’ she admitted.

‘What about something to do with animals?’ Susan said. ‘You’ve always loved them, and when you were a very little girl – before you joined the St John Ambulance – you used to say you wanted to be a vet.’

‘It’s a six year training. Anyway you have to be super-bright. I’d never have got in with my two Bs and a C.’

They chatted for a while and then, out of the blue, her mother said, ‘You know what you told me about the leg of lamb today?’

‘Uh huh.’

‘It reminded me of something I’d read somewhere and it was really annoying me because I couldn’t remember where.’

‘And have you remembered now?’

‘I have. Something rather like that happened to your great-grandfather Alfred, too.’

‘Like what?’

‘He was in the First World War and came back injured – lost a leg. Afterwards he tried working as a butcher, but he couldn’t take it because the raw flesh reminded him of something he’d experienced in the war.’

‘That’s strange. How do you know all this, anyway?’

Her mother disappeared upstairs and returned a few minutes later with a small cardboard box. ‘It’s all in here,’ she said. ‘Your great-grandmother’s diaries.’

As Jess opened the box, a comforting, musty smell of old paper wafted out into the room. Inside were stacked six dog-eared notebooks, the old-fashioned kind once issued by schools, yellowing pages of cheap lined paper stapled between soft buff-coloured covers. On the front of each one was written, in a neat rounded hand in fading blue ink, ‘Rose Barker. PRIVATE’.

‘Oh my goodness, look at this. They were written by your grandmother? My great-grandmother?’

Susan nodded. ‘Everyone knew her as Rose but her full name was Jessica Rose. You are named after her. She died when I was only five so I barely knew her, but she was a tough cookie by all accounts.’

‘This is amazing. Why haven’t I seen these before?’

‘We only discovered them after granny died last year.’ Jess had been given leave to return home for the funeral but had to fly back immediately afterwards. She’d been sad not to be able to stay longer, to help her mother with the gloomy task of sorting out her grandmother’s belongings.

‘Have you read them yet?’ Jess said, starting to rifle through the notebooks.

‘Not completely. I got up to the bit about poor old Alfie but then I got too busy to carry on.’

‘Did you know about them before?’

‘Mum never mentioned them, but then her memory was pretty dodgy and I suspect she just forgot they were there, locked way in the attic all those years.’

‘Shall we look at them together, now?’ Jess asked

Susan looked at her watch and yawned. ‘Not tonight, love, it’s gone midnight,’ she said, stroking Jess’s hair. ‘Are you coming up?’

‘In a while,’ Jess said. ‘I’m not sleepy yet. I’m going to have a bit of a read, if you don’t mind. I’m really curious to find out about Alfie.’

‘Are you feeling better?’

Jess nodded. ‘Thanks for being so understanding, Mum.’

‘No drinking now?’ She gave her daughter a stern look.

‘I’ll do my best,’ Jess said. ‘See you in the morning.’

After her mother had gone, Jess made herself a cup of coffee with a whisky chaser, and placed the cardboard box beside her on the sofa. Milly came to join her, snuggling her furry face onto Jess’s knee.

She lifted out the top notebook and flicked through the pages filled with the same careful handwriting, interspersed with stuck-in cuttings and letters. Then she checked the dates on the other notebooks to make sure they were in the right order, and began to read.

BOOK ONE

Rose Barker – PRIVATE

Monday 11 November 1918.

RED LETTER DAY!

Even now I have to pinch myself!

I have sorely neglected my writing since starting at the munitions factory, having felt so exhausted and dispirited each evening, and my entries so dull. I found these notebooks on a charity stall a few weeks ago and they are begging to be filled. And now there is so much to tell I barely know where to begin.

Today started out as another gloomy winter Monday with us all bent over our benches carefully filling shells with ‘devil’s porridge’ and then, at 11 o’clock this morning, the siren wailed. We jumped out of our skins, of course, we always do. Explosion warning? An air raid? Everyone stood stock still, looking at each other over our respirators like yellow-faced frogs. And then we twigged. We’d heard rumours and read plenty of reports in the newspapers, but no-one really believed them. There’ve been so many false promises. Could it really happen this time?

Then the boss came over the tannoy and told us it was official: fighting had been suspended on the Western Front. A moment later all the church bells of East London started clanging with a deafening din – such a surprising sound that we hadn’t heard for four years – and we were cheering and laughing so loud that we couldn’t hear the rest of what he said. But the word got round soon enough: not that we’d have gone on working, in any case, but they were closing the factory for the day.

We threw off our overalls, grabbed our coats and tumbled out into the street like a pack of puppies, where there was already such a great crush of excited people singing and cheering, running and dancing, hugging and kissing, that we could barely make our way through the streets. Being so short, Freda was virtually carried along, and I had to hold her tight so as we wouldn’t get separated. A group of young lads adopted us: ‘Come on canaries,’ they yelled, ‘we’ll look after you, show you a good time.’

On a normal day we wouldn’t have given them a second glance, but the world had suddenly been painted in bright colours and even spotty boys looked handsome. It may have been grey and a bit drizzly, but it felt as though the sun had come out, beaming down on us lot all lit up with happiness.

We had a notion to get ourselves to the West End and somewhere near Buckingham Palace cos word was that the King and Queen were going to come out and wave to us but there wasn’t a cat’s chance of that. The buses were crammed to the nines with people piled high on the top decks and hanging off the rear doorways, but they weren’t going anywhere due to the crowds. It was almost impossible to push your way through even on foot, so we just let ourselves be carried wherever the crowd took us.

We passed by Smithfield where a surge of greasy, blood-stained lads had poured out of the meat market, and on to the edges of the City where a great black wave of clerks and business types had pushed out onto the street. They were throwing their bowlers in the air, hanging out of windows and balconies and climbing lampposts, without a thought for their smart city clothes. No-one cared a jot.

The pubs were opening by now, and tankards being handed out around the crowd, and buntings being hung from upstairs windows so the city looked like a fairground. At one junction they’d set a wind-up gramophone going in an open window, and we started dancing to it. After a while, as we moved slowly forwards, the bands came out: the Sally Army, musicians from the clubs and just about anyone who had an instrument seemed to gather on every street corner and they played together, all the old favourites: Pack up Your Troubles and It’s a Long Way to Tipperary. If they stopped, someone would hand them each a pint and we’d shout for more till they tuned up again.

Freda and me both got horribly drunk and kissed a dozen unsuitable types, which as a married woman I really shouldn’t have, but we were so happy we just didn’t care.

Then there was a great roar from the crowd and people shouted ‘God Save The King’ again and again, and the musicians struck up with the national anthem. We were still in Cheapside and nowhere near The Mall, but word had spread through the crowd that King George and Queen Mary had come out onto the balcony of Buckingham Palace and waved to all those lucky beggars who managed to get within sight of them.

After He’s a Jolly Good Fellow, the crowd started on other songs and I was joining in happily until they struck up with the hymn All People That on Earth Do Dwell, and a sudden wave of sadness hit me. I don’t suppose the beer we’d drunk on empty stomachs helped, but my legs went wobbly and I felt as though I might fall over if I didn’t find somewhere to sit. I pushed my way through the crowd to the side of the road and found an empty doorstep.

Then the tears came, coursing down my face like a waterfall, as I remembered all those poor boys. Those thousands and thousands of boys, even millions, who were never coming back, who would never be able to celebrate the victory they lost their lives for. Not just Ray and Johnnie, but my uncles Fred and Ken and the three Garner brothers, Billy and Stan, Tony and Ernest, Joe, William and Tom Parsons. And those were just the ones in our neighbourhood we knew well.

After a while, Freda came and sat down beside me and put her arm around my shoulders.

‘What was it all for?’ I wailed. ‘They’ll never come home, never get married, have children or grow old.’

‘But my brother’s alive, Rose,’ she said, putting her arm around me. ‘That’s a blessing, isn’t it? It won’t be long before he’s home.’

We sat there for a while, both of us lost in our thoughts despite the great noise going on around us, until we realised that we were both ravenously hungry. Freda managed to grab the last two baked potatoes from a street vendor, and a cup of tea, which made us feel a little better.

The afternoon was drawing in and it was starting to rain. ‘Let’s get home,’ I said. ‘Our folks will be wanting to see us.’ I couldn’t imagine what Ma might be doing – she’s spent so long in mourning for my brothers I wasn’t sure she’d have the heart to celebrate.

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