Carrier

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It was the nausea that came with the dawn which woke Allie Gamble to semi-consciousness. She tried to sleep, curling herself against Hob, feeling the stubble of his chin against her shoulder — but it was no good: she had not felt so sick for as long as she could remember.

She slithered from between the sheets and tiptoed to the dormer window tucked into the gables of Leat Cottage, their first real home, and smiled to herself as she edged back the primrose curtains: there was the usual old blackbird, whistling his morning hymn. She turned towards the bed, her eyes lingering on Hob’s profile: he was like a child lying there, relaxed in sleep…

Hob had told her only the bare outlines of what happened during that terrible Wednesday of 2 January. She could never forget that day and night waiting for the telephone call from MOD: watching him asleep like this, it was impossible to brush away the fleeting image of death, of Rollo Dalglish and Hob in the blazing Lynx — and it was to Rollo, Hob’s captain and observer, that Hob owed his life.

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