“What are you doing here, DeHavilland?” Reed asked, bending down beside Mary. “I thought you’d gone to Streatham.”
She was right, they were supposed to have gone to Streatham. Why hadn’t they? She couldn’t remember.
“You’re supposed to go to the incident after the flying bomb hits, Douglas, not before,” Camberley said cheerfully, squatting down next to Mary.
“We did,” she said. “There was a V-1, and then—”
“I was joking, dear,” Camberley said. “Here, let me have a look at your temple.”
“Don’t bother about me. Paige’s arm—” she said, trying to see past her to where Parrish and the St. John’s girl were working on Fairchild, lifting the wood off her, lifting her onto the stretcher, covering her with a blanket.
“Is she all right?” Mary asked. “Her arm—”
“You let us worry about her,” Camberley said, holding Mary’s chin and turning her head to the side. “I need iodine,” she said to Reed, “and bandages.”
“They’re in the ambulance,” Mary said, and Camberley and Reed exchanged glances.
“What is it?” Mary asked. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Let me see that head.”
Parrish and the St. John’s girl lifted Fairchild’s stretcher and started across the rubble with it.
Mary attempted to go with her, but Reed wouldn’t let her. “You’re bleeding.”
“It’s not blood,” she said, but Reed ignored her and began to bandage her head.
“It’s not blood,” she repeated. “It’s printer’s ink.” And remembered the man whose leg she’d tied the tourniquet on. “You need to go fetch him,” she said.
“Hold still,” Reed ordered.
“Hold still,” Reed ordered.
“He’s bleeding,” Mary said, attempting to get to her feet.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Camberley said, pushing her back down to sitting. “We need a stretcher over here!” she called.
“No, he’s over there,” Mary said, pointing across the dark rubble.
“We’ll see to him,” Camberley said. “Where the bloody hell is that stretcher?”
“Can you walk, do you think, Douglas?” Reed asked.
“Of course I can walk,” Mary said. “He was bleeding badly. I tied a tourniquet on one leg, but—”
“Put your arm round my neck,” Reed said, “there’s a good girl. Here we go,” and began to walk her slowly across the rubble, and it was a good thing she was holding on to her. The ground was very rough. It was difficult to keep one’s balance.
“He was over by the fire,” Mary said, but the fire was in the wrong place. It was near the ambulances, in the road.
That’s not the right fire, she thought, stopping to look around at the rubble, trying to see where he was, but Camberley wouldn’t let her, she kept urging her along.
“His foot had been severed,” Mary said. “You need—”
“Stop worrying about everyone else and concentrate on this last bit. You can do it. Only a bit farther.”
“He was over there,” Mary said, pointing, and saw two FANYs carrying a laden stretcher from that direction.
Oh, good, they got him out, she thought, and let Camberley walk her the rest of the way to the ambulance. Two ambulances were already driving away. One of them was from Brixton. She could read its lettering in the firelight. And here was Bela Lugosi. But where was their ambulance? “Did you take Paige to hospital in the new —?”
“Here we are, then,” Camberley said, opening up the back of Bela Lugosi. Mary sat down on the edge, suddenly very tired.
“I need some help over here,” Camberley called.
Two FANYs Mary didn’t know came over, helped her into the ambulance and onto a cot, covered her with a blanket, and hooked up a plasma bag.
“It’s not blood,” she told them. “Was he all right?” But they were already shutting the doors, the ambulance was already moving, and then they were at the hospital and she was being unloaded, carried in, deposited in a bed.
“Concussion, shock, bleeding,” Camberley told the nurse.
“It’s printer’s ink,” Mary said, but when she held out her hands to show them, they were covered in red, not black. Paige’s arm must have bled more than she thought.
“Has Lieutenant Fairchild been brought in yet?” she asked the nurse. “Lieutenant Paige Fairchild?”
“I’ll ask,” she said, and went across the ward to another nurse.
“Internal bleeding,” she heard the other nurse whisper and shake her head.
She’s dead, Mary thought. And it’s my fault. If I hadn’t pushed Talbot down, I’d never have met Stephen, he’d never have come to the post.
But that couldn’t be right. Historians couldn’t alter events. But I must have, she thought, unable to work it out
