was next to heaven—but I was thoroughly alarmed. I was hungry, my hair needed combing, I was dirty, and ships, I now knew, were big, smelly things full of strange men who were none too clean themselves. Cape Town was the last place I wanted to go. I had no idea how we were going to smuggle ourselves aboard ship and neither did Sam, but just then a policeman appeared in the docks. I saw him talking to one of the port officials; he was obviously asking if anyone had seen two young girls. At that moment, he saw us—and Sam saw him. She yelled at me, ‘Come on, run!’ And she ran back toward the tugboat where we had spent the night.”
Lottie leaned on the poster, to make it stick to the card. “But I didn’t run. I just stood there as the policeman hurried toward me. By then, I wanted to be caught.”
Lottie looked at me directly. “Sam was the youngest of us sisters, but in some ways the toughest. Maybe she had to be tough because she was the youngest—she was the smallest while we were girls and had to assert herself.”
A pause, while Lottie began work on the third piece of cardboard. Will was wrestling with Whisky under the table.
“I understand what you are saying, Lottie.” I swallowed what remained of my Scotch. “Thank you for the warning.”
She leaned across, placed her hand on mine, and squeezed it.
Dear Hal,
Full marks for going home again. As for what you say about Ma—well, to be honest, I knew it. Pa has taken to writing me secret letters, without telling Ma, so I know all about her condition and how worried he is. I should really try to get some leave but I’ve been told it’s out of the question.
Alan has told his wife about me. I said I thought it was a bit premature, unnecessary even. I mean, what if he’s killed tomorrow? His wife will be doubly bereaved. And if I’m killed… well, she need never have known about me. But Alan’s Alan. An upright Presbyterian with a fierce Highland conscience. To be frank, his conscience frightens me from time to time.
Since I can’t get home just now, you’re going to have to do the work of two and get home a lot more than you have been doing. Why don’t you try and see old Dr. Barnaby and ask him what the prognosis is? I’ve asked Alan and he made a face. But I don’t think he wants to alarm me and he is hundreds of miles away, with other things on his mind.
God, I’m getting gloomy. I’ll try to be more cheerful next time.
Love XXX x OOO = XXXOOO
Izzy
I think it was about now, just after this last letter from Izzy, that we received a visit in Northumberland Avenue from the Blood Transfusion Service. They came round quietly and addressed us in small groups. They explained, as Izzy had explained that evening in Stratford, that there was a new science of blood, that the blood running in all our veins and arteries can be divided into four groups—A, B, AB, and O—and that, if someone who has lost blood, in an accident, say, or of course in war, was given blood of the same type, then his or her body would accept the new blood and not reject it. The man doing the explaining—a young doctor with melancholy brown eyes—said that a way had been discovered to prevent blood from coagulating, which meant that we, in the comparative safety of Northumberland Avenue, could now do something direct for the war effort: give a pint of our blood, which would then be rushed to the Front, to help our boys wounded in the trenches.
It was a stirring speech, in its quiet way, but even so people were a bit wary. A lot of people don’t like injections, or the sight of blood, and a pint sounded like a lot. The doctor reassured everyone that giving a pint did not endanger the donor’s life, that the only precaution that needed to be made was bed rest for twenty minutes after the blood was taken, to check there were no adverse reactions, and a cup of tea.
I was clued up more than most, of course, so as soon as he had finished his presentation, I volunteered. That encouraged others, I think, and he led a small group of us to a tent made of tarpaulin that had been