9. Sarah
9. Sarah
‘We’re getting married in December! We’re finally going to do it!’
Jenni was screaming so loudly down the phone that I had to hold it away from my ear.
‘I don’t want to wait until next summer and, in any case, I think December is more romantic, don’t you? We can fill the church with flickering candles and fairy lights. It’ll be all roaring fires and hot toddies. Also, crucially, there won’t be any humidity, so my hair won’t frizz … Sarah? Sarah, are you crying? You are , you’re crying! Cherub, Sarah’s crying!’ Then a pause. ‘Oh God, I’m so sorry, I’m such an idiot. Has something happened with Danny again?’
‘I am not crying,’ I lie. ‘Well, maybe a little bit, but only because I’m so happy for you. You deserve it.’
‘I do, don’t I?’ she laughs. Then, without pausing for breath, starts giddily rattling off more details in that gorgeous Geordie accent of hers. ‘So, we’ve booked this amazing hotel that we got a great deal on because Cherub went to school with the manager, can you believe that? And Sarah, it was so romantic, he went down on one knee and …’
I settle the phone on my shoulder and lean back against my hospital locker, listening as Jenni merrily talks non-stop about bouquets and dresses and morning suits and wedding lists.
Fleetingly, I find myself thinking of Caroline – of how all she wanted was a simple white slip dress and flowers in her hair – and it makes me smile to think of my two vastly different but equally wonderful friends. Friendships forged in the blazing chaos of our six months in Afghanistan.
Caroline worked in the kennels, looking after the dogs used on patrols for sniffing out drugs and explosives, while Jenni and I spent practically every waking minute together in the hospital. We were working so closely together that by the time I left, our relationship was almost telepathic.
Listening to her now, I can tell just by the tone of her voice how happy she is. And knowing she has got the happy ending she deserves makes me feel happy too.
And she really does deserve it. Not only is she the most loyal, toughest, funniest and most generous person I know, she is also the best nurse I have ever had the privilege of working with. I don’t just mean her medical skills, but her sheer will to keep patients alive.
The first time we met, she told me that she had always wanted to be a nurse, that, as a little girl, she had turned her bedroom into a ward for dolls. I used to watch her with injured and frightened soldiers, back when we were working in the camp hospital together – comforting them, making them laugh when there was nothing to laugh about – and I’d catch a glimpse of the little girl who had spent her whole life preparing for this.
She took care of the nurses too. Even when we were pushed to breaking point, mentally and physically exhausted, Jenni would keep us all going. I never once heard her complain. Everyone adored her – even the lads in camp. She’d play Xbox and pool with them – she was wickedly good at both. I remember staring wide-eyed the first time she picked up a cue.
‘Four older brothers,’ she said by way of explanation as she held her hand out for her winnings – a family-size bar of Dairy Milk chocolate – which she immediately shared with everyone else.
I’m so glad that my wonderful friend is happy, that they both are. That somehow they’ve managed to escape the curse that has so mercilessly assailed the rest of us. They’ve been talking about getting married ever since coming home from Afghanistan. But then she got pregnant with the twins, and life just got in the way.
They live in an old farm cottage on the outskirts of Newcastle, with Noah and Toby, who are two now, and an overweight Boxer dog called Mr Brown.
I never knew it was possible for a house to be so full of noise and chaos, discarded toy cars and action figures. It’s scruffy, but in a way that makes you feel comfortable and warm, so warm, with an ancient wood-burning stove in the kitchen and clothes permanently drying in front of it. Cherub teases Jenni and tells her off for lighting it even in the summer.
In front of the fireplace are two scruffy armchairs that used to belong to Cherub’s grandparents. I picture Jenni bustling around the kitchen as she talks to me now – the woman never, ever sits still – and wish that I was there with her, sitting in one of those old armchairs.
‘… and afterwards it’s going to be the best party. My nephew Maddock is DJ’ing and –’ She suddenly interrupts herself. ‘That’s enough of me rattling on. I haven’t even asked how things are with you. How are you, pet? How is Danny? Are the tablets helping?’
I think about the battles I’ve had with Danny, trying to get him to take the antidepressants he’s been prescribed for his PTSD. About him snatching the foil packet out of my hand as I tried to persuade him to take them last weekend, and him ramming its jagged edge into my forehead.
‘I think so,’ I say. ‘I’m fine.’
I can’t bear to puncture the happy mood with the truth. Plus, sometimes talking about it is just too hard. It’s much easier to pretend everything is all right.
‘We’re both fine,’ I repeat.
‘That’s great,’ Jenni says.
There is a knock on the door. ‘Sarah, are you in there? Are you okay?’ It’s Vihann, one of the ICU nurses.
‘I’m fine,’ I call out. ‘Just changing my scrubs.’ I end the conversation with Jenni. ‘I’ve got to go, I’m still at work,’ I tell her. ‘I love you and I’m so happy for you.’
‘I love you too,’ she says.
I change out of my scrubs, pull on jeans and a jumper, and head back to the ward. At the nurse’s station Vihann holds out a chocolate chip muffin from the canteen. My favourite.
‘Oh my God,’ I say, immediately taking an enormous bite. ‘You’re too good to me,’ I add, my mouth full of cake.
‘I know,’ he says, picking up the clipboard in front of him and glancing through the notes.
I watch as he reads, mentally preparing himself for the night shift ahead.
I’ve worked with Vihann for years. When I told him I was going to Afghanistan, he burst into tears. He was so scared something awful would happen to me. He burst into tears again when I made it home in one piece and came back to my old job.
I was so glad to slip back into my old routine, grateful that at least here nothing had changed, when everything else in my life had. There was comfort, too, in how insignificant I felt, swallowed up by the vast corridors of the Cardiff hospital and its eight-thousand-strong workforce.
And now, each shift I am grateful to disappear into my work, to bury my own feelings beneath the needs of my patients and whatever it is they and their families are going through.
Here, I still feel like I’m helping people. And I don’t have to be afraid of Danny’s moods.
Vihann finally looks up from his notes. ‘You look tired,’ he says kindly.
He knows better than to suggest I go home, even though my shift ended fifteen minutes ago. He is one of the few people who know the truth about how bad Danny is, because he was on duty the night I had to have stitches in A he is one of Cherub’s closest friends.
At the thought of seeing him again a shiver runs down my spine. Unexpectedly, I’m back in Camp Bastion, the night his patrol was hit, looking down at him in the hospital tent.
Until then, I had enjoyed his company as a friend. He was attractive and funny, but there was no more to it than that. But that Christmas Eve, seeing him unconscious, realizing he might not make it, I couldn’t bear it.
When he came to, he was angry. He thought he should have died instead of Fridge. ‘It should have been me,’ he kept repeating. ‘It should have been me.’
He insisted that no one would have missed him if he’d been the one who was killed. But I would have missed him.