The Poppy Factory. Liz Trenow

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