The Poppy Factory by Liz Trenow Read Free Book Online Page B

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three months before sitting her paramedic exams again, because they were concerned that her knowledge was three years out of date.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