“I had to. I was told. That was for the Germans. So they’d take me seriously.”

“They took Louisa jolly seriously, and she just goes about as her proud wee self.”

“They’re coming to see you,” said my sister. “Louisa and Ellen, I mean, not the Germans. They said they’d wait until you were more likely to be awake.” She raised her head to plant a quick kiss on my cheek. “I couldn’t wait, though.”

It was nice to be able to talk to her properly, like coming up for air after thinking you were going to drown. A better painkiller than the morphine.

“I’m glad you didn’t,” I said.

Louisa:

Jamie was sitting up when Ellen and I got there in the afternoon. His pale skin was covered with scabs beneath the scraggly week-old beard, and his bandaged hands lay in his lap. The clear hazel eyes, unfocused in his narrow fox’s face, went bright and excited when he saw us.

His sister was perched on the edge of his bed, and she also looked up as we came in. Now that she was without her painted face and plaited crown of hair, sitting next to Jamie and wearing the same expression of welcome and relief, I couldn’t believe I hadn’t seen right away how alike they were.

I had to admire her for pulling it off.

Ellen strode across the hospital room full of spring flowers, leaned down, and kissed Jamie on the mouth.

“There you are, Jamie Stuart. You owe me that one from before.”

Then she turned to the girl who wasn’t Miss Lind and they held each other so close and tight that the copper and gold hair tangled together at the sides of their heads.

At last they all stopped cuddling. I felt like a bit of a gooseberry. I wouldn’t have dared to kiss Jamie, even on the cheek; I was still a bit in awe of him.

Ellen saw, and reached one hand to pull me closer.

“Show him the box of chocolates Nan sent,” she said. “That’s good for a laugh.”

I got them out of my schoolbag. “She’s been saving them since last year, and they’ve already survived a German bombing and a house fire, so watch out.”

“Ta, Louisa,” Jamie rasped. “Put them in the drawer as there are no surfaces left. Ruddy female relatives and their ruddy floral tributes.”

“Here’s your logbook,” said Ellen. “Which bit did you want to torture yourself with?”

She sat in the chair beside him, holding it where he could see it, like a young mum reading a storybook to a small child.