Caroline wondered where Rowles had found them, and smiled at the thought of her best friend.
Then she frowned. Where was he?
Engines now, outside. Deep, throaty roars and the rumble of caterpillar tracks coming closer. Tanks, then. She could not imagine who would have the resources to attack this place, the most heavily defended position in the country, base of operations for the entire British Army.
She licked her lips. Her mouth felt musty and she had a sharp, bitter taste at the back of her throat, like bile or grapefruit. Wondering what the time was, she gently rotated her head until she could see the clock on her bedside table. 10:15. Not so late, but it was already dark outside.
She stroked her belly through her nightshirt, feeling the flat planes of her abdomen and the hollow empty ache inside, a reminder that she had not eaten for at least 24 hours. Then she thought: it might be more than that. How long had she been unconscious? It could be days.
She felt no disquiet at the prospect of having lost time in this nice, clean, envelope-smooth bed. What a nice place to lose time, she thought.
A distant whine grew into a piercing shriek that swept across the outside sky like a banshee. Fighter jet. No, two fighter jets. As they screamed overhead there was a whoosh and a hiss then a series of loud explosions as the planes launched missiles into the most entrenched positions, or eliminated British tanks or buildings.
Her nice warm bed didn’t seem a safe place to be, but Caroline did not panic. She was too weak from surgery to lift herself into a sitting position, let alone leave the bed and search for shelter. The knowledge of her helplessness freed her from fear. There is no point, she told herself, being afraid of something you can’t change; you will survive or you won’t and there’s nothing you can do to influence the outcome either way.
A tank ground to a halt beneath her window. She heard a whirr of engines as the turret rotated and the gun was manoeuvred into firing position. Then a moment’s pause before her bed shook as the shell was fired.
Now she could smell gunpowder and the tang of hot, oiled metal, but the smell of the lilies was not entirely swamped. She imagined the flowers fighting back against machinery, and winning.
Since the explosion had woken her, Caroline had heard no noises from inside the building where she lay, tucked up safe on the second floor in her convalescent room. Now she heard the unmistakeable clatter of boots on the stairs at the end of the corridor. It was one person, running. Looking for somewhere to hide, perhaps? Or coming for her?
The footsteps got closer, then she heard many more pairs of boots coming up the stairs in pursuit.
Caroline scrunched her toes against the soft, smooth bed sheets in a tactile farewell just as the door to her room burst open.
“Caroline?” It was Rowles. He was breathing hard, on the verge of panic, which was unlike him.
“What’s happening?” she said. Or at least that’s what she tried to say. Her tongue felt like a lump of meat in her mouth and her lips seemed swollen and heavy. What she actually said was “Wa han,” but sweet, faithful Rowles understood her.
“American army,” he said, by way of explanation as he closed the door behind him, grabbed a metal-framed canvas chair and shoved it under the door handle. Then he ran to her bedside, leaned over and kissed her on the cheek.
“They may not check too carefully,” he whispered.
The door handle rattled immediately. She’d thought he was being optimistic.
The boy she trusted more than anyone else alive crouched down beside her bed with a machine gun aimed at the door. It was cocked and ready to fire. He was defending her with his life, and she felt an overwhelming flood of affection for him. It took a huge effort but she managed to lift her right arm out from under the covers and reach across to stroke his light brown hair. He glanced up at her and she smiled at him. His wide eyes and small freckled nose gave him the face of an angel, but stare deeper into those eyes and there was only pitiless darkness. Hard to believe he was only eleven.
He smiled back and just for a moment his eyes lightened. There was still some feeling in there, after all. She hoped one day she’d hear him laugh. But she didn’t think it likely.
She remembered her father laughing at an old repeat of Morecambe and Wise, his eyes creased to slits as he literally held his sides and rocked back and forth on the sofa like a laughing policeman at a fairground.
If Rowles was going to die here, she was glad she could die with him. She’d heard Matron refer to them once as Bonnie and Clyde, so it was fitting.
The door ceased rattling and the footsteps clattered away.
A moment later she heard boots descending the stairs.
Rowles stood up and walked around the bed, then pulled the curtain aside a fraction and looked out at the battlefield.
“I don’t know why they’re attacking, but I think they’re winning.” There was a huge explosion nearby and he pulled back from the window, shielding his eyes. “It’s not safe to stay here. We have to go.”
Caroline wanted nothing more than to run away with him, but she would need to be carried, manhandled, pushed in a wheelchair. She was twelve years old and would have described herself as solid, even stocky. Rowles was eleven and thin as a rake. There was no chance. She wanted to tell him to go without her, to save himself and leave her be. But her treacherous mouth wouldn’t form the words and, she realised with some surprise, she was too selfish for that. She wanted to be with him, no matter what.
“Wel air,” she grunted.
“Good idea. I’ll go look for one. Back in a mo.”
He pulled the chair away from the handle and cracked open the door. Once he’d assured himself that the corridor was clear he slipped out, pulling the door closed behind him.
Caroline was alone again.
The noises of fighting were moving away now. The building in which she lay was quite near the main gates and she presumed it was their destruction which had signalled the start of the assault and woken her up. Now the fight was moving into the centre of the base. But below her window there was a steady rumble of incoming trucks, tanks and other vehicles as the Americans flooded in to join the fight.
She wondered where Matron was. It was unlike her to leave them alone; she should have been with Rowles, giving orders, taking decisions, making the children feel safe, protected, even loved, with a sly glance or a flash of a smile in the direst of circumstances. Rowles’ presence made Caroline feel safe, Matron’s made her feel she belonged.
She remembered her older sister’s arm around her shoulder at their grandad’s funeral, reaching up and taking her hand, feeling her sister squeeze it for comfort.
Footsteps and voices in the corridor. Rowles was no longer alone.
The door opened and a tall man with thick black hair and heavy features entered. He was wearing jeans and a t-shirt, but had an SLR machine gun slung across his chest. She recognised him — he was the doctor who had been there when she regained consciousness after the operation. Jones? Johns? She couldn’t recall his name.
Rowles came in behind the man, pushing a wheelchair, then closed the door.
The doctor leaned over her.
“Can you hear me, Caroline?” he asked.
“Yuh.”
“Can you move at all?”
She lifted her arm feebly and wiggled her fingers until the effort became too much and the limb flopped back down, useless.
The doctor smiled. It was obviously meant to be reassuring but there was something calculating in his eyes, something which made her withhold trust.
“We’re going to lift you into the wheelchair,” he said. “It may hurt, but I haven’t got any anaesthetic on me, I’m afraid. Then we’re going to take the lift down to the rear doors where I’ve got a jeep waiting. If we move quickly, I think we’ll be able to get ourselves away from here before they secure the perimeter.” He turned and nodded to Rowles, who wheeled the chair alongside the bed then took Caroline’s hand.