A neatly turned-out soldier walked down the street, he’d been home a day. Making sure he was nice and clean and bathed before this morning, he dragged himself out of bed late, he’d surprise her, the day was nice as he turned the corner, humming to himself, it was always a pleasure to visit Em. If she was out, he’d kick about for a bit, silence surrounded him, a whistle.
He knew what that meant.
Crap.
He launched himself into the nearest doorway and its meagre protection.
When the noise and the dust settled and it was safe again for him to face the street, the blast had taken nothing from him, his eyes had been well shielded by his arm likewise his ears, only the ringing as he had become used to. The church was gone, the dragon was no more.
Emily’s house had taken a direct hit and was still sliding from the blast. Once the all-clear sounded people rushed from their homes clambering over the rubble.
Jesus they were ruining it. They could be crushing her to death.
“OFF NOW! I’M IN CHARGE! Get the warden! This will be organised and if anyone does something stupid, I’ll brain them.
“GAS OFF NOW!”
***
Emily couldn’t hear any of the commotion above her, her head felt like cotton wool, and she was vaguely aware of something dripping down her face. Taking stock in the dark through her ringing ears and thirsty tongue she was aware of being stuck her feet pinned, trapped at least they didn’t seem to be crushed, yet.
She wasn’t one given to panic, what to do first?
Using her arms, she ascertained she was sat with her back on a wall formed by part of her desk, the top of the desk seemed to have protected her from her own home, it was partially collapsed, held up by a chair it seemed a safe enough pocket for the moment, groping round she felt something soft at her side.
Her bag, in the dark she rooted for her phone, no signal, damnit, in its dim light she cast it as a torch to see what could be done about the pressure on her ankles, three medium stones, pouring the contents of her bag on the floor she decided to risk it.
Using the bag to create extra pressure to prevent rubble slippage she pulled her legs free.
They were bruised and sore but still there.
Time to make an inventory, see if she could survive a while longer. The yield was tiny: Wet wipes, a pen, her keys, phone, a few sheets of paper and the latest letter from Harry.
God, she hoped someone was coming because the alternative was too terrible to contemplate. She began to tremble; the adrenaline was leaving her feeling cold and hollow an angry ache. She needed something to do.
Using one of the wipes Emily cleaned her face of a century of dust and something sticky, it was blood. A cut to her right temple.
Too groggy to think.
What was that smell?
How long before the air ran out?
What if I die?
It’s so dark.
As an errant tear fell from her eye. She checked herself with a call to action, using another wipe to clean her arms and pat down her blouse, if she was to be found dead at least she’d be presentable
The panic returned as she realised what the smell was.
Gas.
Did gas really take you in your sleep?
She opened the letter, something to do in the tiny space, something to calm her down.
Dear Em,
Thanks for your last letter and for the enclosed gift of a cherry blossom, it’s in my pocket, smells of home, and thank you for your lovely story of the teddy bear prankster, that’s a ten drink story so far, you’re going to drive me to alcoholism.
Thanks for that too, it takes the edge off. waiting is the worst thing here, the fresher ones get frown lines, so I prescribe your stories.
Keep them coming.
Aside from borderline alcoholism I’m fine, food’s alright. I’ve made a new mate, met him at a brothel, don’t laugh, actually do, it’s hilarious, I’ll tell you the story when I get home.
He got bored and taught me to make grass jewellery. A useful skill I’m sure. We’ll see
Please find enclosed bracelet.
Yours
Harry
She laughed tears falling down her cheeks, it was platted dry grass, so pretty, she slipped it on her wrist.
Head pounding from the wound, the thirst or the gas?
A couple of scraps of paper and a pen, he was going to have the turnip story. Emily wrote until her eyes could stay open no longer.
***
It took the rescuers a full hour to get the gas main turned off and every minute of that was a pure agony for Harry who knew it could creep up on her if she was still alive. 12 hours later and they’d located the living room, Harry was exhausted leaning on his shovel momentarily before continuing.
No one could persuade him to stop.
This was worse than a swansong mission, this was his Em.
A couple of hours later as the sun was setting he met with part of a wooden table top.
“Everyone help with this!”
Between five of them they hauled the rubble off, digging carefully around until faint light shone through a crack. He peered in; it was Em.
She was so still, so fragile, bloodied tissues around her, his heart lurched.
“She’s here. One last push!”
They made a hole large enough for him to crawl through.
“Bloody hell, it’s freezing in here!”
She was cold, but alive, her breathing shallow as faint wisps of white air emanated from her mouth. Scrambling as carefully as he could, he pulled his jacket from his waist, wrapping it round her gently as he chafed her arms hugging her close before bringing her through the small gap with the help of the others, they took her to a doctor who’d been waiting by the site for three hours.
As he placed her onto the stretcher, he noticed something white fall from her hand.
A Letter:
Dearest Harry,
Tell mam I love her.
What followed in tiny writing.
Read one a month till this war is over, that way they keep coming.
17 humorous anecdotes followed, till her pen trailed off.
He clutched the paper to his breast as relieved tears born of exhaustion and joy fell.
Bless her heart.
Clara Lucea
Missed the last instalment of We Six? Find it here: https://theiristribune.co.uk/lady-in-the-tower/
