Ian patted him on the back.
‘Don’t worry, lad. We’ll sort you out. We can rustle up a spare mess tin and other stuff for you. You won’t go short.’
From then on, Harry, Ian and Tom had helped the boy face each gruelling, dismal day at camp.
Now, the thought that Harry and Ian were no longer there was almost too much for Tom to bear. The four of them had looked out for each other. They had shared rations, cared for each other if they got sick and provided the support they all needed to get through each day’s labour. How was he going to get through this without them? And if he ever did get out of this god-forsaken pit, how was he going to make sure that Archie remained strong through this ordeal, without the reinforcements of Harry and Ian? How was he going to make sure that Archie did not give up the fight? How was he going to do this alone?
10
Laura balanced herself precariously on the pull-down seat of the ambulance. She clung with slippery hands to a metal bar, lurching from side to side as they raced through the dark streets. She could hear the wail of the siren. It sounded as if it came from a long way away.
She watched in anguish as the paramedics worked on her father.
Don’t leave me, Dad, she pleaded silently. For God’s sake don’t leave me.
The ambulance slowed down. She glanced out of the window. They were moving along a narrow residential street, manoeuvring between badly parked cars.
‘We’re getting near the hospital now,’ one of the men informed her, looking up. He had an Irish accent. His eyes were bloodshot and exhausted. He must see this all the time, Laura thought.
‘Try not to worry,’ he said. ‘We’ll be there soon.’
She swallowed.
‘Is he going to be alright?’
‘We’re taking good care of him. As soon as we arrive we’re going to take him straight into the trauma room. Someone will tell you where to wait. Try to keep calm.’
When the ambulance drew up under the hospital canopy, they opened the back doors, and bright lights from the entrance flooded in. Hospital staff surrounded the stretcher and carried it swiftly from the ambulance, placed it onto a trolley and wheeled it inside. Once through the doors, more people in white coats joined the convoy and rushed the trolley down a long corridor. Laura had to jog to keep up with them. Everything around her was a blur.
Suddenly the little crowd disappeared through a pair of swing doors marked ‘Intensive Care. Medical Staff Only’. She was alone in the dingy passage; it was not unlike the corridor in the police station, except this one smelled of disinfectant, the other of sweat and despair.
She sunk onto a plastic chair and put her face in her hands. Nobody had told her where or how long she would have to wait.
Unable to sit still, she got up and paced about. She strode to the end of the corridor and stared out of the window onto an empty car park lit by the harsh glare of floodlights. She didn’t want to go any further or turn the corner, in case someone came through the double doors with news. She turned round to see that the corridor was deserted. Would they forget she was there? She had an impulse to run back to the doors and push them open. How could they be taking so long? Why didn’t someone come and tell her what was going on?
She wondered what life would be like without her father. She shuddered. It was impossible to contemplate such a thing. He’d always seemed so healthy, making light of his constant cough and his bad leg.
The doors opened and a doctor came through. He was shorter than Laura. He had oriental looks and was probably Chinese. She walked towards him and he looked up at her and smiled briskly.
‘Your father is stable now. You can see him. He won’t want to talk much. Better not to tire him.’
‘Is he going to be OK?’ she faltered.
‘He has a very weak heart. It has been weakened … He may have suffered from malnutrition in the past.’
‘Malnutrition?’
‘Yes. Was he short of food when he was young? For a sustained period perhaps?’
‘He was a prisoner of war … Of the Japanese. I know that.’
‘I thought so. I have seen it before. There is even a name for the condition – bamboo heart. It means that the heart has been permanently weakened by starvation. He needs to be very careful.’
She swallowed and stared at him, trying to take in what he had just told her. Bamboo heart? It sounded incredible. Starvation? Dad had never even hinted at that.
How little she really knew about his life, of his time in Malaya before the war, the woman in the photograph, his time as a prisoner. She knew nothing of the horrors he might have suffered. How could I have taken you so much for granted all these years? And by the selfish act of a teenager, throwing the letter from Penang into the flames, she had probably denied him contact with someone he had once loved.
How can I ever make it up to you? How can I make up for being selfish and callous, of always putting myself first?
‘Can I see him now please?’
‘Of course,’ the doctor pulled open the door for her.
Dad was lying on a high bed on the other side of the room, surrounded by tubes and monitors. Laura rushed over to him. His face was grey, but he parted his lips in a weak smile. She kissed his cold cheek.
‘Sorry,’ he said in a whisper.
‘Sorry? I’m sorry. I wasn’t there. And I left in a bad mood this morning. How could I have done that to you?’
He clasped her hand. ‘It was my fault.’
She shook her head, feeling that if she said any more she would break down in tears.
‘How are
