The Mersey Daughter (Empire Street #3)(63)

‘Sir!’ she tried again. ‘Captain Cavendish! Can you hear me?’ She racked her brain to remember his first name. She knew she’d seen it written down somewhere, although of course she would have been forbidden to use it to his face. What was it? Something from the Bible. Matthew, Mark … Peter, that was it. ‘Peter!’ she shouted desperately, ignoring the searing pain in her throat. ‘Peter, are you in there?’

Then, just above her, in the window of what might have been the ground-floor flat’s living room, she saw a shape and it was him, pushing aside what remained of the glazing, then turning and bending down. The next moment he was there again with a small bundle in his arms. ‘Fawcett!’ he bellowed, his voice hoarse but still strong, ‘Fawcett, is that you? Are you out there?’

‘Sir! Peter! I’m right here, just beneath you!’ A gust of wind briefly blew the smoke clear, and they could see each other, lit in the bright orange of the searing flames that were getting ever closer by the second.

‘I’m going to pass you the baby!’ he shouted. ‘Stand just beneath me and stretch up your arms. Can you reach? Not quite? Well, I hope you are good at catching. I’m going to drop him into your arms. On the count of three.’

Laura didn’t hesitate but got as close as she could to the burning building, ignoring the first-floor windowsill now alight and dropping splinters of burning wood on to her. ‘Sir!’

‘One. Two.’ Another, larger, piece of burning wood crashed down and almost hit her. ‘Three.’ He dropped the bundle and she struggled to hold it, the weight more than she had counted on, but somehow she grasped it and held it to her chest, unable to tell if it was alive or dead. The flames were playing about the top of the ground-floor window now, the frame smouldering, the sparks coming thick and fast.

‘Sir! Get out! Peter, don’t wait, jump!’ she cried, backing away so that the precious bundle wouldn’t catch fire as well. ‘Do it now!’ For a terrible moment she thought he hadn’t heard, as he seemed frozen to the spot in the window, the flames now burning erratically around the top of the frame. Then he sprang into action, his blond hair bright in the ghastly orange light, climbing on to the sill, pausing for balance, and then leaping through the smoke and fire to land heavily at her feet. His uniform jacket was undone and his shirt, she noticed, was torn. There was a bloodstain down the front, too, but he was alive. Hefting the bundle on to one shoulder, she reached a hand down to help him up.

Grimacing, he took it and hauled himself up. ‘Better make ourselves scarce, Fawcett,’ he said and then broke into a grin. ‘I don’t think this is the best place to be hanging around. Do you mind if I lean on you – I’ve ricked my ankle.’

‘Of course, Peter. Sorry, sir.’ Laura shifted the bundle once more and it emitted a tiny wail. She felt it tug at her heartstrings, but now was not the time to think about it. They had to get back down the length of the burning street before they were safe, and then find the ARP post. If she allowed herself to, she would begin sobbing, in a mixture of relief for the child and fear for the peril that still faced them, but there wasn’t a moment to waste on that right now.

Cavendish swatted at a stray spark which was singeing her uniform jacket, but it was no good. ‘Fawcett. Get your coat off at once. Here, we’ll shelter under mine.’ He threw her jacket aside just as it burst into flames, and held his own much larger one over the pair of them and shielding the baby. As fast as they could, him limping and leaning on her, her twisting to support him but still protecting the baby, they got themselves down the street and to the shelter of the corner, where there was a break in the buildings that the fires hadn’t crossed. The light of the flames revealed the baby’s blanket was singed and damaged, and it was beginning to give off smoke.

‘Throw that rag away before the smoke chokes the poor creature,’ he ordered gruffly, and Laura swiftly unwound the remains of what once had been a pretty wool blanket, embroidered with teddy bears, and flung it into the gutter. ‘Here,’ she said, unwrapping her scarf, ‘we’ll put this around him.’ Gently she tucked it around his wriggling body, as he wailed some more. ‘That’s right, you have a good cry,’ she said, ‘and let’s hope that means your lungs are all right. Come, his mother is this way.’ Slowing now, and realising just how exhausted she was, Laura led Cavendish along the side street towards the blessed sight of the ARP post and help.

Laura sipped her tea, which had the luxurious addition of a generous dollop of sugar. They were in the local police station, and she was wearing a Red Cross blanket around her shoulders in place of her ruined uniform jacket. If she’d been the sort of young woman given to embarrassment, she might have blushed at the knowledge that her very much non-regulation underwear was on show. Everyone was busy milling around, but all she could do was huddle on the wooden bench and warm her unaccountably cold hands against the mug. Shock, she supposed.

The baby had been reunited with his tearful mother, and both had been taken away by a Red Cross nurse to be assessed for any injuries or smoke inhalation. Judging from the ever-louder cries of the little child, he was going to recover well – maybe sooner than his distraught mother. She had, however, managed to thank Laura and Captain Cavendish, telling everyone that they were heroes and the baby would have been dead had it not been for their swift action. Laura screwed up her eyes at the thought. The woman was probably right. Now that the rush of adrenaline was over she was shaky, almost unable to believe what they had done. The heat, the fear, the urgency – and worst of all that moment when she’d thought the captain wasn’t going to make it. Her heart had turned over then – but he had made it, he had jumped to safety. He was now getting patched up somewhere in the police station. She knew he’d damaged his ankle in that final desperate leap but she couldn’t help thinking about the blood down his shirt. Was he badly hurt? What had happened in the burning top-floor flat to give him such an injury? Frantically she looked around, trying to see if there was anyone to ask, but everyone seemed to be too busy. She supposed the evacuation of the local streets had caused chaos on top of the regular disruption of war.