Chapter 1

Ginger, you’re barmy!
You’ll never join the Army.
You’ll never be a scout with your shirt hanging out!
Ginger, you’re barmy!

First time I saw her was in the mall. Don’t misunderstand, I don’t usually hang out at the mall. In fact, I don’t like the mall. I blame the place for the decline of the city shopping centre. But sometimes, you just have to go to a shop that no longer trades in the city centre. And there she was. Hair like a flame, burnished copper that drew the eye. Torn jeans, denim jacket over a white shirt that wasn’t tucked in. Doc Martens. Among a bunch of similarly clad kids. I say, similarly clad. Several of the girls had gaps between their tops and bottoms and bare arms; not something I’d want to do in February in northern Britain. She stood out, partly because of that hair, but also there was something that twanged my sensors.

I’m a psychiatric nurse, which I suppose explains my sensitivity to those tiny oddities in behaviour. Name’s Geoff White. Usually, I’m Geoff, but in some circles I am, inevitably, ‘Chalky’.

Anyway, I watched, or half-watched, the dynamics in the group, so I noticed when Ginger stood and left the group, heading for the toilets. She did not reappear before I left and, in fact, the group dispersed in twos and threes.

I did my shopping. Or tried – the outing was not successful in that regard – and headed for the tram stop. I got there ahead of the rush, so was in pole position, so to speak, when the tram arrived and was able to grab a seat. I suppose it’s human nature to choose an empty seat? Whatever, the tram (or bus, or train) tends to get to a point where the only empty seats are next to one already occupied. I have no objection – why would I? – to someone sitting next to me. Subject, that is, to reasonable personal hygiene and not being so overweight as to spill over onto me. Of course, one cannot impose such conditions.

My nose was in an ebook when the seat next to me was taken. A pleasant female voice grabbed my attention. “Excuse me ... do you mind?”

I looked. Of all the people I might have expected, or hoped, to encounter ... it was Ginger.

“Not at all,” I smiled. “Of course not. You’re very welcome.” At close quarters, she was pretty, freckles formed a constellation across her face, green eyes – actually very green. Emerald might be closer. And, yes, a very faint, very pleasant, aroma of young woman.

“Thanks,” she said. “What’re you reading?” Then, after a hesitation, “Forgive me being nosy.”

“Psychology text,” I said. “Transactional analysis.” I held up my smart phone. “This is a lot more convenient than lugging some great tome around, but I must say I miss hard-copy books.”

“What’s ... trans ... action ... al whatever?”

I flicked the cover over my phone and stuck it in my pocket. “It’s about how people relate to one another,” I said.

She frowned.

“Basically, it’s about balance,” I explained. “Say you have a regular routine, during which you meet people you don’t actually know. After a while, you might begin to nod, or smile at them. If they don’t respond, you’ll probably give up. But if they do, you have a new level of relationship. They, or you, might up the ante and say ‘good morning’, and supposing there’s a response, that’s another level. On the other hand, you might fall out with a friend, in which case you probably won’t speak to each other unless you have to. Until you, or they, try to mend the relationship, or you part company completely.”

“That actually makes sense,” she said.

“It’s not science,” I smiled, “despite the ‘ology’. But it does generally explain behaviour. Helps us understand each other, I suppose.”

“I don’t understand people,” she commented.

I chuckled. “Neither do I.”

“But you...”

“I’m a psychiatric nurse,” I explained. “I deal with all sorts of people who don’t – for whatever reason – function like the average man or woman in the street. If there is such a thing. But ... I read psychology and history, anything, really to try to understand why people are the way they are.”

“I don’t know why I’m the way I am.”

“Oh?”

“I try, but I just don’t fit in, with the crowd, you know.”

“Indeed?” The tram was approaching my stop. “There’s a quote from Shakespeare that fits,” I told her. “‘To thine own self be true.’ You can only be yourself and trying to be someone else will only bring misery. Be yourself. The best ‘you’ you can be.” I stood. “This is my stop. I’ve enjoyed talking to you.”

“Oh! Yeah ... it’s been good. Goodbye!”

“‘Bye.”

I got off and walked away, but gave in to temptation and turned to watch the tram – bearing a flame-headed young woman – leave. I realised as I did so I’d never found out her name.

I suppose it depends on the manager, but in my experience nursing shifts are erratic. When I started, it was six earlies, two off, six lates. Every so often the weekend caught up and you had two three-day weekends, which was nice. Nights were a separate shift. But at some point someone got the idea that it was good if everyone worked every shift. Okay, it meant we all worked together, but working one night or two? Earlies and lates muddled up with nights lumped in? Sorry – that’s one of my rants. Anyway. It was some time before I was free enough to walk into town on a day off. Over two weeks, in fact. Being a Saturday, the University cafeteria wasn’t open, so I was forced to resort to commercial coffee. There are a plethora of coffee emporia in town these days. Not only cafes but also franchises inside other shops. As it happens, I like books, and Waterstones has a Costa Coffee inside, so that’s where I ended up.

The barista was new, but sort of familiar. Her cap concealed most of her hair, but what I could see was ... flame red. Our eyes met. “Americano,” I said, “medium, black. Raspberry and almond slice.” I handed over my card.

“Five twenty-five,” she said, slotting it into the reader,

I don’t like ‘contactless’. I entered my pin and she handed me my card and receipt. She turned away to perform the ritual before the shrine of the goddess of caffeine. Busied herself with a tray, plate, and in due course, cup and saucer.

“Medium black Americano, raspberry and almond slice,” she announced, placing the tray on the counter. “Enjoy.”

“Thanks.”

My phone couldn’t hold my attention. A second barista appeared from somewhere and Ginger muttered something to her. She nodded, and Ginger left her post and crossed the room to me.

“May I interrupt?”

“Certainly.”

“We met, I think, on the tram from Meadowhall.”

“I think you’re right.”

“We talked. Could I talk with you some more sometime?”

“F’sure,” I scribbled my mobile number on a scrap of paper – actually the till receipt I’d just been given. “Give me a call.”

“Thanks.” Pause. “My name’s...” sigh, “Eugenie. Most people call me Ginger.”

“I understand that, Eugenie. That’s a pretty name.”

“Thanks. I’d better get back to work.”

She did. Call, that is. That very evening. She came round to my little bed-sit and we shared stories – mine being a little (not much) longer.

“I just can’t seem to fit in with the crowd,” she said at one point.

“So why bother?”

“Don’t know, really. Lonely, maybe? Bored?”

“Are you less lonely, less bored, trying to fit in?”

She sighed. “No, not really. Actually, I’d rather be at home listening to music. Reading. Even t/v, sometimes. They think I’m weird, y’know. I don’t get drunk. Won’t take drugs. One puff of a bong and ... no. Never again.”

“So what else is going on in your life?”

“Uni. Computer science. Geek, you see.”

“No problem with that.”

“What about you?”

“Psychiatric nurse. Erratic shifts. Difficult to build a relationship when you can’t predict whether you’ll be available on a particular day. Then when I have a few days off I do a stint with the Army – TAVR.”

“TAVR?”

“Territorial Army Volunteer Reserve*. I’m a medic. The hospital have to accommodate my commitments to the Army or I couldn’t do it.”

*The TA is now, apparently, the Army Reserve.

“Sounds interesting.”

“It is. I like it.” I glanced at her, still in artistically ripped jeans, shirt not tucked in. I smiled, thinking of a book by David Lodge, read years ago, about National Service in the fifties, and quoted, “Ginger, you’re barmy. You’ll never join the Army! You’ll never be a scout with your shirt hanging out; Ginger, you’re barmy!”

She was suppressing a smile. “Should I be offended?”

“Hardly. It’s just that if you’re looking to change your lifestyle, that’d be a major change. Symbolised by tidying up your appearance.”

When we wound down I thought she’d leave, but... “Can I stay a bit longer? Listen to some music?”

“Sure! Want a cup of something? Earl Grey? Herbal? Coffee, leaded or unleaded?”

“Dealer’s choice.”

Chamomile tea. Faure, Finzi, Debussy.

It was getting on for eleven o’clock, and I was wondering whether I was bothered about staying up, when she stood.

“Geoff, thanks. I’d better be off. It’s been great.”

I stood, too. “I’ve enjoyed your company. Like to do it again?”

“Yes, please.” She closed the gap between us and kissed me softly. “You’ve got my number. It’s probably best if you call me when you’re free, don’t you think?”

So, quite out of the blue, I had ... what? Girlfriend? Not a fuck-buddy, or friend-with-benefits, certainly. Friend-who-is-female, I suppose. Pretty, definitely. Bright. Wide-ranging interests. Fit – we spent several days walking, pausing to share something in the world – a bird, perhaps, or a tree. Wild garlic among trees by a stream.

Then I got a call. I was needed on deployment. Not, I hasten to add, as a psychiatric nurse, but to work in a field hospital. Interesting, if harrowing. No, the psychiatric part has to be taken care of at home, usually after a medical discharge.

I had time to pack – not that I would take much – and let Ginger know I was leaving.

Yes, Harrowing. Gunshot wounds, well, I suppose they’re manageable. Not something a British nurse has to deal with very often. No, it was the IEDs, dirty, improvised bombs, loaded with all sorts of crap. There were other things, too, which I prefer to forget.

My hospital in England had to manage without me for months.

On return, I called Ginger. She, I heard, was in her final year. I didn’t say, did I? Her degree was to be in communication technologies. I suppose it was under the umbrella of computer science; I never really went into it. A BSc., anyway. We arranged to meet.

The door-bell. Ginger, standing there in an Army Cadet battledress uniform.

“I thought about what you said,” she told me. “I had no direction, but you’ve given me one.”

“Come in,” I managed. And, once settled with mugs of tea, “So...”

“I looked into it. Seemed like a good way to have a good, worthwhile job. Pay off my student loans.”

I didn’t know what to say. So, “Signals, I suppose?”

“Yep. No round pegs in square holes for me.”

“There is that.” I hesitated. “Eugenie...”

She laughed, “Thanks, but call me Ginger. I don’t mind it from friends. It’s when it’s a snide comment.”

“Okay, Ginger. Um. Please, be careful. Just because you’re not a grunt, doesn’t mean you’re not at risk on deployment.”

“Geoff! I didn’t know you cared!”

“Of course I care! I...” I could feel my face heating. “I care.”

I didn’t see so much of Ginger after that. We did meet sometimes, but her course and her commitments to the cadets militated against us spending much time together. I was at her graduation, and got a warm hug.

“Didn’t your parents come?”

Her face, which had been animated, fell. “No.” She sighed. “I wasn’t going to say anything. Don’t you dare to feel responsible about it. They didn’t ... don’t ... approve of my joining the Army. I mean, I knew they were anti-war. Who isn’t? But I didn’t realise how ... militantly ... pacifist they are. And I don’t agree. Countries are like kids in school playgrounds, but with real power. And there are bullies among them. One must stand against bullies. And I decided to do something about protecting my friends, my country.”

“Well, good for you. Sorry about your family, though. Pity when ideology gets in the way of love.”

Well, she joined up, went through basic, we met up when she had leave. She could have had a commission, but refused and started at the bottom of the ladder. Signals, of course. But equally of course she had to do all the training any other recruit would do, just as I had. Also, like me, enjoyed shooting, whether a sidearm or a rifle. Admittedly the standard weapon in the British Army, the SA80, has its issues, but even so...

The general public cannot miss the big deployments, like the controversial involvement in Iraq, and the only slightly less controversial involvement in Afghanistan. They probably even notice the deployment of a field hospital and team to a small country with an Ebola outbreak. But there are others.

A year or so after the last time I saw Ginger, I went as a medic with an SF (Special Forces) team to a place most people knew nothing of, and cared less about, near the coast of a small West African country with a terrorism problem. It was, I suppose, rather a makeshift unit, most of an SF platoon, a couple of reservist medics with a regular doctor, and a couple of signals NCOs. I recognised one of them.

“Hey, Ginger! Oops, sorry, I mean, Corporal. They’ve recognised your sterling attributes.”

She laughed. “Of course, sergeant! How could they not? Join me in the Mess? May as well get some decent beer before we deploy.”

No PDA. Nothing to cause a disciplinary issue. Just two friends chatting together over mugs of beer, then boarding a Hercules to head south. We slept most of the way thanks to moulded earplugs which muffled the row.

What started out as support for the elected government of a somewhat politically unstable state went south rather rapidly. We didn’t have time to set to work as briefed before we regrouped to support an evacuation of British nationals, The evacuation was ordered very shortly after our arrival, and British (and other nationals who lacked any diplomatic representation in the country) were heading in to the British Consulate.

There are plenty of horror stories about atrocities committed during coups d’etat, and I prefer to pass over most of the tale. We medics were busy with the Consulate doctor and a French Doctor with MSF, (Médecins Sans Frontières, Doctors Without Borders) dealing with everything from infected scratches through gunshot and knife wounds to the victims of rape. Truly the stuff of nightmares as far as I was concerned.

The patients were an eclectic mix. Sometimes, all we could do was hand over a couple of aspirin or paracetamol with a suggestion, ‘take it easy’. Those scratches? Inevitable when running away through bushland. Antibiotics, antiseptic and a dry dressing. The doctors dealt with extracting metal in the form of bullets and shrapnel, and I had the task of stitching the wounds and dressing them. The rapes, well ... sometimes some physical care beyond a morning-after pill. Actually, quite often. The insurgents, whatever you’d call them, were pretty brutal. In terms of psychological care, well, that was something we really didn’t have time for other than tranquillisers.

Most of the civs were grateful for what we were doing, and for being fairly safe. A few, there are always a few, were demanding and complaining. One or two were actually hostile and at any opportunity remonstrating with us about the situation which was, as far as they were concerned, entirely our fault.

Happily, most of the insurgents were concentrating on the capital, and by-passed us, encouraged by shots over their heads. A report came in of a group trapped in a convent a few miles away, and a squad was detached to go in a truck to fetch them and any of the nuns who were willing to leave. Ginger went with them with a radio. I didn’t realise at the time, or I would have worried. They were gone most of the day, and arrived back in full dark. Eight civilians and two young novice nuns. The nuns had not wanted to leave but had been ordered to do so by their Mother Superior – she had seen the results of a ‘visit’ from insurgents at another convent some years previously.

Among the civilians was an elderly, but sprightly, retired nurse, SRN, who proved to be a tower of strength to some of the injured, and especially to the victims of rape. Of the others, the usual blend of explorers and tourists. One older couple needed treatment for a physical beating. They had tried to ‘reason’ with a bunch of insurgents. The only reason they were still alive and able to complain was that a couple of the tourists were, in fact, martial arts practitioners, who were able to stop the beating and ‘encourage’ the insurgents to leave ... after they’d been disarmed. But were this couple happy? Guess.

They harangued me for ten minutes or so as I cleaned some minor cuts and stitched a couple of more serious ones, then I stopped.

“Tell me ... do you want me to treat you? You’re free to leave, you know. If you’re so keen on the ‘freedom fighters’ out there, you can join them; we won’t stop you. If you don’t like the medical attention I’m providing, you don’t have to put up with it. Unfortunately, the doctors are all committed to some pretty serious critical care, but it’s up to you.”

“How dare you!...”

“Sir, ma’am, I am a registered nurse, and a combat medic, doing my job. My job is not to argue politics or history with you or anyone else. As it happens, I agree with you on much of the historical abuse which lies behind our situation, but people are people all over, and I suspect there would be tribal, cultural, racial or religious conflicts anyway. We have to deal with the existing situation. My job is to help get as many of you civilians out of danger as possible. That job would be easier without listening to political diatribes, and would be easier still with fewer people to worry about.”

“That’s...”

“The door’s over there...”

“Mother! Father!”

I turned to see Ginger, tight-lipped, combat dressed, sidearm in a holster at her side. “I’ve been listening, and Geoff has been far too patient with you. Either shut up and let him treat you, or get up and leave. Now.”

With that ultimatum and Ginger’s hand on the flap of her sidearm, they shut up and I was able to finish. I sent them on their way, with the information that there was food available in the consulate reception room.

Ginger didn’t follow, but came over and laid a hand on my arm. “Sorry about that.”

“No problem, Ginger. Really. Admittedly, I was on the edge of losing my temper and sending them away, so thanks for the intervention. I suppose they were equally unimpressed by your contribution to their safety?”

She snorted. “You could say that. Isn’t it time you took a break? I’ll bring something in for you if you like.”

“Thanks. Yes, please. Anything. Water. If there’s some decent coffee, I’ll bless you.”

Ginger left and was replaced by a sunburned, overweight man with a deep gash on his thigh – someone had cut off the leg of his trousers and covered the gash with a strip of something white and ... yes, a sanitary pad. I peeled it all off carefully, and found that the bleeding had about stopped. I stitched, gave him a jab of Augmentin and covered the wound with a dry dressing.