The Poppy Factory (35 page)

Perhaps pride was a family trait, inherited down the generations? It had taken her months to accept that she needed help, and even then she’d quit the tranquillisers and walked out of the counselling sessions. Until now she had been too embarrassed to admit her frailties except to closest friends and family and, even now, too proud to admit that, in some senses, she too was disabled. But, in the end, it was The Poppy Factory that put Alfie on the road to recovery, helped him into an entirely new career as a car mechanic. Why was she so resistant to the idea?

She sat up in bed and opened the laptop again.

The website came up quickly, poppy red, cheerful and uncomplicated. She read:
For nearly 90 years The Poppy Factory in Richmond, Surrey has been making poppies, crosses and wreaths for the Royal Family and the Royal British Legion’s annual Remembrance Day appeal. As well as providing work for disabled veterans at its HQ in Richmond, The Poppy Factory uses its unique expertise to help its clients find work with many commercial organisations all over the UK. The Poppy Factory has a vision that “no disabled veteran who wants to work shall be out of work”.

It sounded practical and helpful. Why not give it a try? There was a single-page registration form, which she completed in a matter of minutes. All she now needed to supply was proof of her service record and her medical condition, but a caseworker would help sort that out. She pressed the ‘submit form’ button quickly, before she could change her mind, lay back on the pillow, closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

She’d made the first step.

The next day, she felt depressed all over again. Post-traumatic stress disorder. You heard of other people suffering from it but she’d never thought it would affect her. She texted Vorny: It’s PTSD. Official diagnosis. How grim is that? x

Her phone rang almost immediately. ‘It’s just a name, Jess, not the end of the world,’ Vorny said. ‘It affects lots of people, so don’t get too hung up on it. At least getting a proper diagnosis means you’ll get the right treatment to get you back to work.’

‘They’ve given me pills and I’ve decided to try counselling again – CBT is what they suggest.’

‘Good plan. Look, we haven’t seen you for weeks. Why don’t you come and stay a couple of nights so we can talk properly? Your room’s still free – we might get moved in the New Year and it seems hardly worth letting it again. What about next weekend?’

‘Sounds good to me. My diary is completely empty.’

‘Just let me check I’m off duty.’ There was a pause at the end of the line, and then, ‘Oh hang on. It’s Remembrance Sunday.’

Remembrance Sunday. She’d almost forgotten, even though she hadn’t missed the event for ten years, not since James died. ‘I’ll be there,’ Jess said.

Later that day she had a call from a woman called Kate who described herself as an employability consultant for The Poppy Factory.

‘That was quick,’ Jess said, surprised.

‘We know it can sometimes take a lot of courage to contact us,’ Kate said, ‘so we like to get back promptly, to reassure you that we’ll do all we can to help.’ She sounded efficient but also human and friendly, someone Jess felt she could trust.

‘So,’ Kate was saying. ‘I’m sure we can help, but we just need to take a few more details from you so we can get the necessary documents sorted out, your service record, medical reports and so on. You said that you had a diagnosis of PTSD – is that right?’

‘That’s what the psychiatrist says, but I’m not sure it’s really bad enough to …’ Jess tailed off.

‘There’s really no need to be embarrassed or apologetic,’ Kate said. ‘It’s more common than you’d ever know. And believe me, it’s people like you that we are here for. Once we’ve got the paperwork sorted I’ll arrange to visit you in person, so we can get to know each other better and talk it through from there. Is that okay?’

‘Sounds great,’ Jess said. ‘Thank you.’

‘Just out of curiosity,’ Kate said. ‘Can you tell me where you heard about our employability work?’

‘It was the psychiatrist who told me – she said she’d read an article about it somewhere.’

‘That’s good, we want people to know we are not just about making poppies, these days.’

‘And I learned how the factory got started, and about Major Howson, from my great-grandmother. Her husband, my great-grandfather, was one of the very first workers, at the old collar factory premises off the Old Kent Road, just after the First World War.’

‘You knew your great-grandmother? How wonderful.’

‘Oh no. Sorry, I should have said. She wrote about this in her diaries from the end of the war when her husband came back injured, and how he eventually got a job at the factory. It’s quite a story.’

‘That’s fascinating. We’ve got a volunteer here who’s trying to write a book about our history in preparation for our centenary in a few years’ time. He’d be thrilled to hear about this; we hardly have any case studies from those early days. Perhaps you can tell me a bit more when we meet.’

‘I’d be happy to,’ Jess said.

After Kate rang off, Jess felt a surge of optimism. The Poppy Factory had put Alfie back on his feet, and there was no reason to believe they would not be able to do the same for her.

Remembrance Day dawned cool and bright. After an early morning panic of pressing uniforms, polishing badges and buffing boots, Vorny left for her shift and Hatts went to catch the train to London, where she was going to visit Alex in hospital.

Jess ate a leisurely breakfast before heading into the town centre. There was usually a good attendance in this garrison town, and the crowds were already three deep along the pavements of the wide high street. She made her way to the war memorial in a small close at the end of the street, and climbed onto a wall. From there she could glimpse Vorny, standing to attention, with the rest of the regiment. It felt odd being here among the spectators, wearing just jeans and a scruffy jacket when this time last year she’d been standing to attention beside them, scrubbed and polished.

In the distance she could hear the band leading a brisk march to a tune she recognised –
The Purple Pageant? –
and before long the street was filled with bandsmen and women, followed by standard bearers and veterans, some of them in motorised buggies and wheelchairs. There was even a small group of ‘Town Guards’ in civil war costume, wearing shiny helmets and carrying pikes. Finally came the great and good, the Mayor and councillors in their civic robes and silly hats. Everyone just about managed to squeeze into position before the music stopped. The standards lowered, a single gunshot was fired, and a solitary bugler began to sound the poignant notes of
The Last Post
, reverberating off the walls of nearby buildings.

Two minutes feels like a very long time in a crowd. Of course it wasn’t entirely silent: people coughed, babies cried, small children asked questions and were shushed by their parents, and a blackbird – or was it a robin – sang loudly in the park behind them, astonished to hear its own voice with the usual traffic stilled.

Jess closed her eyes, thinking of James, Jock, Baz and Millsie, and all those others who she didn’t know, those many thousands of dead and maimed in wars through the years, the causes of which, for the most part, people struggled to understand. At hundreds of similar ceremonies all across Britain, not to mention in Basra and Bastion, Canada, New Zealand, and other countries all over the world: millions of people coming together for this single purpose, thinking about the ones they had loved. The thought was almost overwhelmingly moving.

She opened her eyes again. It might be a sombre scene but it was beautiful, too, in its way. The bird was still singing, its long liquid notes more poignant than any words. A low wintry sun beamed between the buildings, glinting off the brass instruments of the band and illuminating the pale, grave faces of the soldiers standing to attention on the far side of the close.

A second gunshot sounded the end of the silence, people cleared their throats, the band’s conductor raised white-gloved hands and the musicians lifted their instruments to play the
Reveille
, followed by the slow, heart-wrenching chords of Elgar’s
Nimrod
.

This was the moment Jess had been dreading, as the first of the dignitaries stepped forward to lay their wreaths. She took a deep breath. Last year it had prompted painful memories of being under fire in the poppy field and the moment when that single red flower was vaporised by a bullet, leaving just the green stem trembling in front of her eyes. This time, although the memories were still clear as ever, they did not make her head swim and her stomach stayed calm.

I survived, that’s the most important thing, she thought. Then the realisation hit her: escaping from that moment in the poppy field had felt like being given a second chance at life, but recently she had spent so much time fretting about the past that she’d almost forgotten how to enjoy the present and, even more important, to make the most of her future.

The band started to play another march, turning to lead the parade back up the high street to take the salute, and the crowds dispersed. She climbed down from her wall and walked over to the war memorial to look at the wreaths, remembering how Rose and her mother had queued to place their little bunch of flowers at the foot of the new Cenotaph, all those years ago.

Vorny and Jess spent most of the afternoon drinking coffee and talking: about Jess’s visit to the psychiatrist, her determination to make the counselling work this time, and how friendly and helpful the woman from The Poppy Factory had been. They gossiped about what was happening in the regiment, who had been promoted, or demoted, and who was currently dating whom. Vorny was facing the decision whether to quit the Army or sign up for a second tour in Afghanistan.

In the early evening, Hatts arrived back, her face glowing. ‘He’s so much better,’ she said. ‘He was out of bed in a wheelchair and doing daily sessions in the gym. They’re already talking about fitting him for new legs.’

‘That’s incredible. So soon.’

‘His sense of humour’s back too, it was almost like old times. Guess what?’

‘You had wild sex in his wheelchair?’

Hatts blushed. ‘Not quite. He told me I shouldn’t wait for him because why would I want a man with no legs, and I told him to stop being so stupid and kissed him, right there in front of everyone, and they cheered.’

‘Ahhhh,’ Jess and Vorny chorused.

‘Then, before I left, he told me he loved me.’

‘Aaaaahhhh.’ Louder and longer this time, with a group hug. Hatts produced a bottle of sparkling wine from her backpack. ‘I bought this at the station, to celebrate. It’ll be a bit warm but shall we open it anyway?’

‘Just a tiny one, please,’ Jess said. ‘I’ve been dry for nearly a month.’

‘Here’s to a sober Jess,’ Vorny said, raising her glass. Their second toast was to Alex’s speedy recovery and a third to all their lost or injured friends.

Hatts broke the sombre silence that followed: ‘I nearly forgot to tell you, Jess. Guess who I saw on the station?’

‘Who?’

‘Your Nate.’

Jess took a too-large swig from her glass. ‘Not
my
Nate any more, remember? Was he with anyone? Someone tall and beautiful, name of Nerissa, I suppose?’

‘Nope, all on his own. He said he’d been at some sports fixture with the school and managed to avoid coming back on the coach with the little devils, so he could go straight home.’

‘You
talked
to him?’

‘It was mad. I was hanging around, people-watching while waiting for my platform to be announced and I’d just been ogling this tall and really fit guy across the concourse when I realised he was walking over and smiling, straight at me. It took me a second or two to realise who it was. Honestly, he was lovely, really friendly, asking after you, Jess, how were you getting on, were you back at work, had you been getting any help, that sort of thing.’

Jess sat down with a bump, light headed. ‘Well, he hasn’t bothered to ask me.’

‘Haven’t you heard from him at all?’ Vorny asked.

‘He texted the night after I got back from the wedding. But I didn’t bother texting back.’

‘You
what
?’ they said, in unison. ‘You bored us silly talking about him being the love of your life,’ Vorny nearly shouted. ‘And you didn’t even
bother
texting him back?’

‘What’s the point? He dumped me, remember? Told me it was over,’ Jess said. ‘Besides, there was that woman, Nerissa. His long lost “friend” who simpered all over him at the wedding. What else was I supposed to do?’

‘You’ll have to do better than that if you really want him,’ Hatts said.

‘But what if he’s going out with Nerissa? What if he tells me to get lost again?’

‘Trust me, today he did not sound like the sort of man who is going to tell you to get lost. He seemed genuinely concerned.’

‘The worst thing that can happen is your pride will get a bit dented if he doesn’t want to go out with you anymore,’ Vorny said. ‘But isn’t he worth fighting for, the love of your life?’

On the train back to Suffolk, Jess found herself resenting the familiar views of small towns, flint churches and wide estuaries. Charming though they were, they signalled her return to a life she should have left behind, with every mile taking her further from the friends she loved and … from Nate.

At one station she saw a black couple with their two small children, laughing together as they waited on the platform. He was tall and long-limbed with short dreads, like Nate used to have, and she felt the recognition like a sharp pain in her chest remembering how they, too, used to laugh together, oblivious of the rest of the world around them.

Why did she feel so reluctant to at least try fighting for him? Was it just the fear of being rejected again? Of finding out, once and for all, that there was no hope for their relationship or, worse, learning that he and Nerissa really were going out together?

He must have known that Hatts would relay the conversation back so if he didn’t care, why would he even have bothered to approach her? It would have been much easier for him simply to walk in the other direction if he had something to hide. And he’d even taken the trouble to ask whether she was getting any help. Surely this meant that she must still mean something to him – however small. Was this not a chink of possibility that she ought not to ignore?