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LIZ TRENOW
The Poppy Factory
AVON
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
77–85 Fulham Palace Road,
Hammersmith, London W6 8JB
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
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
Copyright
Dedication
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
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,
