Very quickly but with great care, the two nurses lifted me gently into the wheel chair, guiding my leg and ensuring it was properly supported.

“What is it?” I demanded, “Is she... has she...?”

They didn't answered but busied themselves with getting me comfortable and then, when they were satisfied, wheeled me rapidly from my side ward and out into the main corridor.

A few minutes later, my heart pounding with trepidation, we arrived at the intensive care ward.

The curtains were drawn around Jemima's bed and I could hardly breathe as the nurse who was pushing me stopped and waited whilst the other went through. I could hear voices, speaking rapidly but quietly, in French and could understand nothing, no matter how hard I strained.

Suddenly, I caught a phrase I could understand. One of the voices said quite clearly:

“Non, c'est mort!”

Dead! She was dead! I just sat, numb, shocked.

I looked up at the nurse who was still behind me, hands patiently on the handles of my chair. She just looked down at me and smiled. I could read nothing in her eyes as my own began to well up.

I had to see Jemima and began to push myself up out of the seat.

Firm hands on my shoulders held me gently but firmly in place.

“Non, Mademoiselle, s'il vous plait.”

At that moment the curtain parted and the first nurse put her head through, indicating to the second that she could bring me through.

My heart was almost stopping and I held my breath as we passed through the gap.

Jemima lay motionless upon her bed covered only by the white cotton sheet. She looked so serene, unmoving, her arms straight along her sides on top of the sheet.

I was too late and my eyes filled with salty water which overflowed and trickled down my cheeks.

“Noooo...” I whispered the drawn out word and began to move my head slowly, side to side, as my lower lip began to tremble uncontrollably and my hands shook as I clasped them tightly together.

As if my utterance had disturbed her, Françoise turned, seeing me for the first time.

“Karen, I'm sorry. I didn't know you were there.”

I looked up at her with tear filled eyes. I wanted to say something but my lips would not move and the words would not come. The tears flowed freely.

“Hey, come on, it is Ok. See?”

As she spoke, I heard a voice.

“Karen?” Jemima turned her head to me.

My hand clapped to my mouth immediately and the tears flowed even more.

“Jemima...” Her name came falteringly through the tears and tremors. “You... You're alive!”

My words were no more than a whisper.

She smiled and nodded, reaching out her hand to me which I clasped tightly and pressed it to my face.

“I thought...” I kissed her hand. “I thought I had lost you, even before I found you.”

Françoise seemed seemed alarmed.

“Karen! Why did you think that? I would have told you!” she declared and looked at the two nurses. speaking to them in French. Both shook their heads vigorously, frowning and uttered:

“Mais, Non!”

“I heard you say it, Françoise.” I said, “I heard you say, 'c'est mort'!”

“Oh, Karen!” she laughed, “I am so sorry, I meant my watch! It has stopped. It is dead! ”

At the same time she held up her fob watch. The little second hand was unmoving.

I didn't know whether to laugh or cry and I began to do both as I felt Jemima grip my hand tightly.

Françoise stroked my head.

“Jemima is going to be fine.” she said softly, smiling. “They have found and repaired all the damage. She must rest but there is nothing too serious. It was the huge loss blood that almost finished her.”

One of the nurses handed me a small absorbent cloth to wipe my eyes and I dabbed away the moisture.

“You won't get rid of me that easily.” A small voice from the bed piped up.

I didn't know what to say and just held her hand to my face.

“I have been stupid, Karen, I know that.” Jemima spoke quietly but easily. “I just had to find you and know that you were safe.”

“That is not stupid, Jemima. Something has happened between us that I don't fully understand but I do understand why you needed to find me.” I squeezed her hand as I spoke. “What was stupid, though was leaving the hospital before they had time to properly check you over.”

Jemima gave a little chuckle then a groan as her stitches pulled in her abdomen.

“They said that the seat belt had caused a small rupture inside due to the force of the impact on landing. If I had stayed in Toulouse they would have found it.”

“Well, pretty stupid then, eh?” I said with a light hearted air but inside I felt no such thing. I was just happy that she had got here when he did.

We sat in silence for a short time, me holding her hand and she with eyes closed.

“I am so tired, Karen.” She spoke as though she had not slept for days.

“I am not surprised..” I laughed. “You lost so much blood that it will take a little time for your strength to return”

“I suppose so.” Silence again for a moment.

"How about you, Karen.” she said eventually. “I came here to find out about you and all I know for sure is that you are alive.”

“Oh, I'm Ok.” I smiled, looking down at my leg. “The gash was very deep and, like you, I lost quite a lot of blood. It will be a while before I am on my feet again but I will be fine.”

“What about your family?” she asked, “Do they know you are all right?”

I paused before replying, wondering how they would have been if they had survived the war. I was sure they would have been worried sick about me. They may not have got on with each other but I was sure they both loved me. Even my Dad and I wondered how he may have been if he had not been so traumatised by fighting in two wars.

“Karen?” Jemima's soft voice broke the silence.

“Oh, erm, sorry. I, erm, I don't have any family. My parents were both killed during the war.”

“Oh, I'm sorry.” she said. “No brothers or sisters?”

“No,” I replied, “None.” another pause. “What about you. Does your family know you are here?”

“My father lives in India and I doubt he would care whether I was alive or dead.” she snorted, “and my mother... she lives with a man half her age and spends most of her time inebriated!”

“Jemima! I am so sorry!” I felt so sad for her.

“Don't be sorry. I grew up trying so hard to please my father but I was not the boy he so desperately wanted. He only married my mother because he got her pregnant. My grandfather was a British army officer stationed in India and my father was the son of a very wealthy family, by Indian standards at least. He charmed my mother into bed, she was just nineteen. She fell pregnant and they married to avoid any disgrace..”

“You don't have to tell me, Jemima.” I tried to let her know that it didn't matter

“I know, but I want to. I want you to know everything about me, warts and all.”

I didn't reply but let her continue.

“They returned to England after my birth but as I grew up my father became more and more distant. My mother took to drinking and she would bring young men back to the house. I was sent to boarding school and, eventually, my father returned to India. He sent money to support me but that was all. I have not seen him in twenty years.”

When she stopped I just held her hand. I had never heard such a story.

Without opening her eyes, she continued, as if thinking to herself.

“As I grew, I supposed I got used to calling different men 'Uncle.' I had no idea that they were my mothers lovers By the time I was old enough to understand I had become accustomed to it and thought nothing of it. To me, having sex with men was not so much different to sharing coffee or dinner. It was just something one did if one liked somebody or wanted something. I had never experienced the thing that people call 'love' when having sex. It was just one of those things you do in life.”

“Jemima.” I ventured as she paused. “On the flight manifest you were shown as Mrs.

Jemima Rana. What about your husband?”

“What about him?” she snorted again. “He was a waste of time too. I married him for his money. He was Indian also. You would think I would have learned after my father but no. He wanted me to be the good little wife. Stay at home, organise dinner parties, while he travelled the world sleeping with whoever he wanted. Well, that wasn't me at all, I wanted to be successful and make my own money and whether he liked it or not, that is what I did.”

“So how do you make your money?” It didn't really matter to me what she did but I was now curious.

"I bought a warehouse and began an import/export business. With Europe rebuilding so quickly I can buy from factories all around the world and make a lot of profit.”

“I can follow that.” I said, “So what about your husband?”

“I haven't seen him in five years.” she replied. “I buy from his companies but I don't have any contact with him. He makes money, I make money.”

I was beginning to understand now why she had behaved as she did when she slipped her hand up my skirt. Her whole life had been one disappointment after another but beneath her sad yet tough exterior I had sensed a woman who just wanted to be loved.

“What about you, Karen. Did you have a nice family life before the war took took it away?”

I thought for a moment. Memories flooding back before I replied.

“Not really.” I replied somewhat distant. “My father was a soldier in the first world war. He joined up when he was just seventeen. He never spoke of what he saw but I do know he served in the trenches in Belgium. I think something happened to him because I don't remember him being sober very often. I last saw him in nineteen forty-one when he went back to the army. I know he was posted as missing believed killed but I don't know where or when.”

I took a deep breath. Jemima was watching me intently but didn't speak, just allowed me to go on.

“When he was home on leave he would beat my mother if she so much as said something out of place. He threw his dinner at her more than once if there was something he didn't like.”

Jemima gazed at me, her beautiful dark eyes twinkling as she blinked.

“He sounds like a horrible man. At least my father did not beat my mother.”

“I try to think of him as sick rather than just horrible. I am sure my mother would not have married him if that had been what he was always like.”

“Maybe.” she replied. “Did he beat you too?”

“He hit me just once.”

I remembered the day he came home and could hardly stand he was so drunk. He began shouting at my mother because his dinner had dried out whilst she tried to keep it warm for him. I was nineteen then and the Battle of Britain was just beginning. My father was on leave after being rescued from Dunkirk. He picked up the plate, looked at it, then at my mother and suddenly threw it at her. By sheer good fortune she managed to avoid the projectile which crashed into the wall with such force that it left an indentation in the plaster.

He lunged forwards toward her, his fist in the air ready to strike her so I jumped between them and grabbed his arm, shouting at him to leave her alone.

Unfortunately I had not gripped him tightly enough and he broke free and struck me across the face with the back of his hand, knocking me sideways across the table and causing several pieces of crockery to crash to the floor.

I could taste blood in my mouth and found that I had cut my lip on my teeth.

Getting slowly to my feet I looked at him, swaying, arms by his sides. Drawing myself upright I stared him straight in the eye.

“If you ever lay a hand on me or my mother again, I will kill you!” I hissed through clenched teeth.

“Yeah...?” he replied slowly and raised his hand again.

I didn't waver or flinch but continued to hold his gaze.

“Make no mistake.” I whispered “I will kill you!”

I could see the uncertainty in his eyes which gradually turned into recognition and sorrow, then, slowly, he let his hand fall to his side. He turned and staggered from the room to collapse onto the sofa in the living room.

The following day he returned to his unit.

I only saw him once more after that. He came home on leave for Christmas. He again got drunk and became abusive and once he raised his fist to strike my mother but then saw me watching him. He didn't touch her but picked up another beer and drank it straight from the bottle. It was gone in seconds.

When last we heard he was posted to North Africa with the Eighth Army. I never saw him again. When my mother received the telegram informing her he was missing, all I felt was a deep sense of relief. I hoped he was dead. Not out of anger but because he would at last be free of whatever had tormented him all these years.

“Karen?” Jemima's voice sounded far away and I took a deep breath.

“Oh, sorry, I was just remembering some things.”

“Your father?” she asked and I nodded.

“What about your mother? What happened to her?”

“Well, after my father was gone she never really changed much, never was one for making friends so she and I just went on as we always had. She was killed by a V2 rocket that fell whilst she was shopping, in November, nineteen-forty-four, died instantly.”

“I remember that! It was Woolworth's in New Cross wasn't it?” Jemima frowned as if trying to remember.

“That's right.” I replied. “It was a Saturday, about lunch time. I was working that day and she had gone to buy some groceries. Hundreds of people were killed. The only blessing is she could have known nothing about it.”

“So how did you get to know?” she asked.

I didn't really want to remember any more. It had been a traumatic time.

“Maybe some day I will tell you more,” I told her, “but I think we have learned enough about each other for today, don't you?”

“Hmm, yes, perhaps and I am not going anywhere just yet but there is one thing I would like to ask if you don't mind?” She smiled.

“All right.” I replied.

“Why are you not married?”

“Oh, I don't know.” I answered wistfully, “I never met anyone I wanted to stay with I suppose. I have a deep distrust of men, perhaps because of my father and others. Who knows, maybe one day.”

Jemima closed her eys.

“Strange.” she continued before opening them again. “We seem to have so much in common yet are from such different backgrounds.”

“You are right, I hadn't thought of that.” I looked at her beautiful face. “Do you ever wonder what the future might hold?”

“Not usually.” she replied. “I normally just take each day as it happens.”

“Well, yes, so do I but the crash has made me start thinking.” I looked down at my hands. “I have always just taken whatever comes along but now...” I looked up at her.

“Now?” she said quietly.

“Well, the two of us are here, together. So different and yet, in many ways, so alike. Did you imagine when you got up a couple of days ago, that you would end up in a hospital in France having been so close to death and with a crippled Stewardess for company?”

She closed her eyes again and gripped my hand tightly.

“No.” she replied, “I didn't.”

“Well neither did I so, from now on, I will take nothing for granted!”

I looked around. I hadn't noticed until now that Françoise and the nurses had left us alone. I had no idea how long they had been gone but suddenly, the curtain twitched apart and the matron put her head through the gap

“I think Jemima should rest now, Karen.”

I nodded in agreement.

“Don't go away.” I smiled, “I will see you tomorrow.”

She squeezed my hand and nodded.

“I hope so.” she replied. “I truly do.”

I didn't speak as we took the short trip back along the corridor to my side room. My head was so full of thoughts that I hardly even noticed when we stopped by my bed.

Françoise and another nurse got me back in and then took my blood pressure and all the other checks they had been doing since my arrival.

“I am going going home now, Karen.” she said when they had finished.

“Françoise, Thank you.” I said.

“What for?” she frowned.

“Oh, just everything you have done for me and Jemima.”

She smiled warmly then.

“You are welcome.” she said. “I think you have a very special friend there.”

“Yes.” I replied. Then to myself, thought, 'but how special?'

To be continued...