‘Mrs Oberon!’ The man’s voice is calling her from down a long, dark corridor. Lillian screws her eyes shut and tries to ignore him.
‘Mrs Oberon. Can you hear me? Will you open your eyes for me?’ The voice is insistent.
It takes a huge effort to prise open her eyes, and when she does, she is momentarily blinded by white strip-lights overhead. Blinking to focus, she finds herself lying in the white hospital room with the beeping machines and the curtain drawn round her bed. A tube is taped to the back of her hand, through which clear liquid snakes from a plastic lung hanging on a nearby stand.
A man is leaning over her. ‘Mrs Oberon, I’m Doctor Ahmed. I’ve come to check on you. How are you feeling today?’
He has a nice face, young and handsome with dark brown eyes.
The doctor moves to the end of the bed and consults the charts on a clipboard. ‘It’s good news, Mrs Oberon. Your fever has come down. Carry on like this and we could be looking at discharging you in a couple more days.’
‘I have to go home,’ she says, her voice a dry rasp. ‘I have to go back to Cloudesley.’ Beside the bed, she notices a vase of drooping red tulips; petals, curled and browning, are scattered across the table top. How long has she been here? Time has lost its form.
Home. She closes her eyes and thinks of a swaying meadow, dappled sunlight falling through green branches, walking among tall, leafy trees. She thinks of long, tapered feathers with eyes the colour of emeralds and sapphires. ‘I need to go back.’
‘Well, you just keep doing what you’re doing,’ says the doctor, scribbling onto the clipboard, ‘and we’ll have you out of here in no time.’