The Poppy Factory (28 page)

So now my proud Alfie has gone to drown his sorrows at the pub as usual, spending what little money is left over after the rent and food. I know he’s miserable, and the only thing that will cheer him up is to get a job – any job – that would give his dignity back. But he seems to have given up.

We can’t go on living the rest of our lives like this. Before long, Johnnie will need to have his own bedroom but there’s no chance, just now, of us being able to afford a two-bedroom flat. The little lad’s growing out of all his clothes and I would dearly love to be able to buy him something new, for once, instead of the second-hand jumble-sale stuff he wears at the moment. And I’m desperate for a pair of new nylons.

My husband is so surly and miserable these days, and he doesn’t even seem to be interested in bedroom business any more. Not that I fancy it much, either, when he comes home smelling of beer and fags most nights. I can’t remember when we last had any fun together, we never go dancing or to the flicks. This is the time of year when we might be thinking of going to Brighton – even though it’s cold and rainy right now, hardly seaside weather – but that’s about as likely as flying to the moon, right now. If it wasn’t for my job we’d be on the streets.

I suppose I should be grateful. Six years ago, to the day, my big brother Johnnie died on the first day of the Somme. His namesake, Johnnie Barker, will be one year old in just over a month’s time.

Chapter Six

They hadn’t seen each other for more than a month and Jess’s stomach churned with nerves as she waited for Nate at Paddington Station.

She’d overslept and almost missed the train after staying up late again, reading the diaries that she’d neglected since returning from Suffolk. Rose’s plaintive words: ‘I want the old Alfie back’, played over and over in her head, chiming with something similar she remembered Nate saying, once: ‘Where’s the Jess I used to know?’ This weekend would prove whether she had done enough to rediscover her old confident self, the woman he’d fallen in love with.

Supported by her friends’ constant vigilance and by great effort of willpower she’d managed to stay sober for a week. She dug heavily into her savings for two new outfits, some gloriously impractical shoes, a new hairstyle and colouring to enhance her natural auburn, a facial and manicure.

The smile on his face was worth every penny.

‘Seems like we haven’t seen each other forever,’ he said, giving her a long hug and then stepping back. ‘You’re looking great, Jess. Love the new hair.’ He picked up her case. ‘Come on, let’s get coffee, then we can have a proper catch-up.’ As they walked down the platform together her head fizzled with optimism. It was going to be a brilliant weekend.

She could barely take her eyes off him – how had she forgotten that he was so very, very fit? His skin glowed and the previously shorn haircut had grown into a halo of tight black ringlets that she longed to pull through her fingers. When he reached up to put their luggage on the rack, and help an old lady with hers, she noticed the new black jeans that hugged his bum and felt a ripple of desire as the shirt pulled away to expose his tummy button and the small sworl of soft hair which, she knew, led like a pathway downwards.

When the train began to pull out of the station, he leaned back in his seat. ‘It’s wonderful to see you looking so well. How
are
you? How’s it going on the NHS front line?’

‘Oh fine, fine,’ she blurted. She’d been so mesmerised that she’d entirely forgotten she had some serious owning-up to do.

He gave her a quizzical look. ‘Just fine?’

Jess took a sip of her coffee. It tasted soapy and sour – what it really needed was a double shot of whisky. She glanced around the carriage. Fortunately it was relatively empty, because her next words would, she knew, lead to a long, uncomfortable conversation. She took a deep breath, bracing herself. If she could only handle it properly, avoiding any more lies but avoiding the worst of the truth, then perhaps he would not think too badly of her, and they could move on. But she had a feeling it might not be quite so simple.

‘Well, perhaps not entirely fine,’ she started, noting the look of concern that instantly replaced his smile. ‘I’ve been having a few problems …’

By the time the guard announced over the tannoy that they would shortly be arriving in Swindon she had said her prepared piece, told him about the accident, the flashbacks and her relief at having made the decision to quit the NHS.

Nate had expressed surprise, just as she had anticipated, asked the difficult questions she had expected, and she had managed to avoid telling too many lies. He seemed to accept why she had wanted to wait before telling him about ‘the incident’, till she could speak to him face-to-face, which was why she’d glossed over the truth on the phone. She omitted the bit about the drinking and, when he asked how the training course had gone, she told him she’d pulled out because she’d got sick. Better that he didn’t know the gruesome truth. She told him about the counselling and the long conversations she’d had with Vorny and Hatts, and how she’d decided that, for the moment, taking a break from being a paramedic was the best thing to do.

The train slowed and pulled into the station. The old lady stood up, so Nate went to help with her luggage, and then a large group of over-excited schoolchildren flooded into the carriage, settling into their seats like a flock of garrulous birds.

‘Anyway, that’s enough about me,’ she said. ‘What about you? And what are we in for this weekend?’

The wedding would be a traditional church affair, Nate said, with a reception at the bride’s family home, a Cotswold manor dating back to the seventeenth century.

Nate and the groom – Barnaby, aka Big Barnie – had known each other for most of their lives, having been best friends at their south London comprehensive and then formed their first band together at college. When the band split up, discouraged by lack of progress in getting a recording deal and having exhausted their parents’ funds, they had gone travelling together. On their return Nate turned to teaching as a safer option, but Barnie had persevered with the music, working as a session drummer and then, to everyone’s astonishment and Nate’s extreme envy, getting booked as a last-minute sub with a group touring the UK and Europe as the support for a big name band.

It was on this tour he’d met and fallen in love with the astonishingly beautiful Anna – Vogue model and only daughter of a family of minor aristocrats. When he wasn’t sitting in the House of Lords, her father did something important in the city.

‘Proper old money,’ Barnie had told Nate.

‘He’s punching above his weight with this one,’ Nate had whispered when they were first introduced, while Jess had tried not to gasp at this vision of English rose elegance. Anna stood at least six feet tall, her blonde hair was improbably thick and shiny like a shampoo advertisement, her cut-glass accent terrifying and yet, wonderfully, she turned out to be perfectly normal, down to earth, funny and completely smitten with Barnie.

Nate confessed to being terrified at the prospect of making the best man’s speech, of saying something wrong and embarrassing his old friend.

‘Come on, you’re a teacher. You do this public speaking thing every day,’ she said. ‘You’ll be great.’

They would be sitting at the ‘top table’ he said, giving her a serious look, and they would both have to be on their very best behaviour.

‘Don’t you trust me?’

‘Of course I do,’ he said, with a smile that was obviously intended to reassure. But she knew that even now, three months later, the reverberations of her
faux pas
with Matt still hung in the air between them.

As the train drew into Oxford, she asked about the other guests. It had the potential to be an incendiary mix, Nate said, laughing: crusty landed gentry like something out of Downton Abbey, a gaggle of Anna’s boarding school girlfriends, Barnie’s gang of south London mates and a ragbag of random musicians. There would be a few starry names too: Barnie had mentioned celebrity photographers and fashionistas, as well as the lead singer from the band his group had supported on tour, a man famous not only for his pop career but also for his very vocal opposition to the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan.

‘Let’s hope he doesn’t get on his soap box,’ Jess said. ‘I might have to gun him down in defence of Queen and country.’ She caught Nate’s nervous glance. ‘Only joking, you dope. Haven’t I promised to be on my best behaviour?’

As special guests, Nate and Jess were invited to stay at Anna’s parents’ house. The building that came into view as their cab crunched up the gravel driveway wasn’t quite the sprawling mansion that Jess had imagined, more the size of an overgrown farmhouse; ancient, homely, asymmetrical and infinitely desirable. Its weathered, honey-coloured stone glowed in the late afternoon sunlight, partly covered by an ancient Virginia creeper gently turning autumnal shades of red and gold. The house reeked of history, of generations being born, growing, marrying, ageing and dying. It rested confidently at ease in its landscape, nestled between gently rolling hills behind and a wide stretch of parkland in front, dotted with fine old oak trees.

Anna’s mother met them at the top of the steps; it was clear where her daughter’s good looks had come from. She greeted them with only the slightest lift of an elegantly shaped eyebrow.

‘Nate, isn’t it? Barnaby’s best man? The sports teacher? We’ve heard so much about you. And you must be Jess? Back from Afghanistan safe and sound, thank heavens, we worried so much about you when he told us. Goodness, what a striking couple you make. Come in, come in. I’m afraid tea’s over but you’ve got time for a wash and brush up before cocktails at seven thirty in the drawing room. Dinner’s at eight.’

‘Please take them up to the yellow room,’ she said, turning to the man who had taken custody of their luggage.

‘Was he for real? You didn’t tell me they had a butler!’ Jess giggled, after he’d gone.

‘Should I have tipped him?’

‘No, don’t be silly. They don’t tip servants in Downton Abbey.’

‘No, I suppose not.’ Nate looked around the room uncomfortably. ‘It’s certainly yellow.’ The king sized bed, curtains and bedroom chairs were covered in flowery lemon chintz, the deep pile carpet was pale apricot, the walls and ceiling in cream.

‘It’s yellow in here, too,’ she called from the
en suite
. ‘The tub’s enormous – have we got time for a bath?’

Jess kept having to remind herself that she was not playing a role in some classy period drama. The drinks flowed freely but, with Vorny’s words ringing in her ears, she asked for sparkling water.
Don’t blow it, Jess, stay off it completely. Just one drink will weaken your willpower.

They were both relieved when Barnie and his parents arrived, and talk of schooldays in London and their exploits with the band helped them feel more at ease. After dinner, when the groom was banished to a nearby pub to avoid seeing his bride before her arrival at the church, they gratefully took this as an excuse for an early night.

Next day dawned breezy and cool, certainly too chilly for the figure-hugging sleeveless dress she’d chosen. Nate kissed her and said she looked beautiful, but she knew that even with a pashmina around her shoulders she’d spend most of the day trying not to shiver. As he struggled into his penguin suit, moaning about the tight starched collar and waistcoat affair, she told him not to complain: at least he’d be warm.

The church service went like clockwork: Anna was a vision of loveliness, her three tiny bridesmaids and pageboy perfectly behaved. Bride and groom said their vows fluently, Nate didn’t drop the ring, the organist played the most exuberant of voluntaries and the sun shone as the happy couple emerged into a shower of real rose petals.

Because Nate was required to be part of the reception line they were ushered into one of the first cars returning to the house. ‘Can you imagine the torture,’ he grumbled under his breath, ‘having to smile and say hello to a hundred strangers?’ She patted his knee. ‘Just be your usual charming self. They’ll all love you.’

For a while she had the marquee almost all to herself and found herself swarmed by over-eager waiters with trays of freshly-poured drinks. She took a glass of what she thought was orange juice and discovered, too late, that it was Buck’s Fizz. Then, as she wandered around inspecting the table decorations, the flower arrangements in cream, pink and gold, the luxuriant frills and swags, and the stylishly looped lace and ribbons, she realised that she’d managed to drink two more glasses of the stuff, without thinking.

Her stomach was rumbling and she knew that she ought to eat something but, by the look of the queue of guests still waiting to be ‘received’, food would be some time coming. She would have gone for a look around the garden only it was too chilly out there and the heels of her impractical shoes would sink into the grass, making any progress tricky and inelegant.

After a while, other guests joined her, making polite but tedious conversation as they drank champagne and nibbled at tiny canapés. She spent a few moments eavesdropping at the edge of a group clustered around the famous pop star but decided to slip away just as he started on his anti-war rant. After listening to a large man with an overfed stomach sounding off about the credit crunch she found her attention wandering, and glanced towards the entrance of the marquee to see how Nate was getting on.

The queue had dwindled to just a few but, just at that moment, a new figure appeared at the back of the line: a tall, beautiful black woman in a flowing cerise dress, her hair tied back with a flourish of feathers, her long elegant neck bent in greeting to the bride, kissing her on both cheeks.

Jess was not the only one whose attention had been hooked. She could see that Nate, even as he was shaking hands with the guests in front of him, could barely take his eyes off the new arrival. As she watched, the woman moved with feline grace along the line towards him. Their smiles and body language made it plain that they already knew each other, possibly intimately. Instead of the usual formal handshake, Nate took the woman’s hands in his and they stood, wordlessly beaming at each other for a painfully-long moment: these two tall, elegant dark-skinned people, conspicuous in a sea of pale, pasty faces and the pink and cream confection of the marquee decor. Who
was
this woman, how did Nate know her, and what did she mean to him? Why hadn’t he mentioned before that she was coming? Jess found herself winded with jealousy, smashing like a boulder straight into her stomach.