Princess For Hire. The British Kid Part 6 by Angharad Copyright© 2011 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

“So what do we do now, I wonder?” Pauline said to no one in particular, staring out of the hotel window to the trees in the distance.

“I expect they’ll have some sort of protocol,” offered Becky, “it’s the airforce, they probably do it by numbers.”

“What—cry two, three, blow nose two, three?”

“Yeah, that sorta thing.”

“I barely recognised him,” a tear ran down Pauline’s cheek, “it didn’t look like my dad. It looked like a partly cooked steak wrapped in a bandage.”

Becky was about to make some noise of revulsion but realised it would just reinforce Pauline’s anxieties; instead she moved towards her friend and placed two hands on her shoulders. “These things are always bad in the beginning, as he recovers he’ll get back to his old self.”

“His face was gone, what if he’s all scarred, what if he’s blind—how will we cope?”

“They’ll do their best for him, he’s a pilot—they cost loads to train—believe me, they’ll want him to recover.”

They spent the rest of the day going out to eat and watching television. Pauline didn’t care for the American form of mass entertainment, ten zillion channels and nothing worth watching on any of them. She went and lay on her bed and cried herself to sleep—if things got worse, she’d be alone and in a foreign country. For all the complications of running round in bras and skirts, she felt a friendship with the princesses she’d never experienced before despite attending three or four different schools in England, including one rather expensive one in the West Country. She’d never fitted in before, she wondered if she now knew why.

Quite what would happen if her dad did recover and she had to end the charade she couldn’t bear to contemplate, but for now she was grateful for the support and friendship of Becky and her other girlfriends in the princess project.

The next morning they were offered a tour of the base which Becky would have enjoyed, certainly as Beck; but Pauline who’d been shown round several in the UK was definitely against it. Instead, they went shopping and Pauline bought her dad a get well card and a new top for herself. There was nothing else she could think of. Becky did suggest a photo and then realised the questions that would pose.

After a lunch of pasta and minced beef, she was taken back to the hospital and saw the same doctor. “Well, young lady, I don’t know what you did to your daddy but he seems much calmer since you visited.”

Pauline shrugged, “I just talked to him and held his hand where it wasn’t burnt. Is his face going to be all right, will he be able to see?”

“I’m afraid the scans show a great deal of head trauma, so until swelling goes down and the body starts to heal itself, we won’t know how much damage has occurred. I’m sorry to be so vague, but in these cases of severe trauma it can take weeks or months to know how much damage has occurred.”

“Will that affect his memory?”

“It certainly could.”

“So he could like think I’m a boy not a girl?”

“He might not even remember he has a child, or even who he is.”

They took Pauline in again and this time she was prepared so didn’t feel overwhelmed by the sight that lay before her. “Hi, Daddy, it’s Paulie, come to see how you are and to tell you to stop lying there and get yourself better as soon as you can.” She held the ends of his fingers where they protruded from the dressings, once again they twitched in response to her touch. “I love you, Daddy, please get better soon.” A tear dripped from her face onto the back of his hand and his hand moved in response.

A nurse who was monitoring his vitals from the machines whispered in her ear, “You keep talkin’ to him an’ touchin’ him an’ he’ll be better in no time at all.”

“I’m not Florence Nightingale, you know,” Pauline retorted.

“No you’re not, you’re his daughter and he’s responding to your touch and your voice. Right now, he’s probably floatin’ somewheres not sure where he is or even what he is, whether he’s right side up or down, but your voice and touch he knows an’ he can feel the love you’re sendin’; so just you keep doin’ just that, it’s really helpin’ him way more than anythin’ else.”

“Really?” Pauline almost gasped.

“Really, so you just keep on talkin’ to your daddy.” The nurse placed the clip board with assorted charts by the side of the bed, touched Tim on the arm and said quietly to him, “Right, Loo-tenant, I’m goin’ off to get a coffee an’ I’m handin’ you over to your daughter, see ya later.”

As the nurse spoke Pauline became aware of Tim’s eyes moving rapidly under his closed lids and his fingers seemed to twitch.

“It’s okay, Daddy, I’m here,” she said and the fingers closed on her hand, squeezed it as if confirming it was there and then relaxed. Perhaps he had forgotten he had a son?

While Pauline continued to touch and talk to her dad Becky was being given a short tour of the base, they showed her fighter jets and bombers, missiles and bombs, bullets and cannon shells. The girl in her suddenly realised these things were designed with one purpose—killing people. She asked to see the sports facilities and finally they came round the medical block and she sat and waited while Pauline said goodbye to her dad, for the night at least.

The nurse who’d been with him since his admission came out with her; “You realise his vitals are nearly normal since you’ve come to see him?”

“What does that mean?” asked Becky.

“It means our loo-tenant looks like he’s gonna make it. Even his in’ercranials are comin’ down, which means the swellin’s improvin’. You ain’t got some magic we ain’t do ya?” she addressed Pauline.

“No, but he’s my dad and I love him.”

“We noticed, hon, more important, so did he.”

“Was there anyone else in the airplane?” asked Becky suddenly thinking Tim was unlikely to be alone.

“Oh yeah, he didn’t make it.”

“I’m sorry,” offered Pauline.

“Accord’n to the eyewitnesses, an engine blew up as they was comin’ in t’land, hit the runway pretty hard.”

Pauline saw this happen in her mind’s eye and felt quite ill. She rushed outside and threw up over a bush by the entrance. She didn’t want any further details, it was too painful.

They stayed for three more days and while Tim now had his eyes open, she didn’t know if he recognised her or not, or if he knew he should have had a son rather than a daughter. If he did, he said nothing—not that he spoke much more than a few hoarse whispers due to damage to his throat. He understood he’d crashed and that his treatment would take time. He also understood that Pauline and Becky had to return to school. On their final meeting, Pauline hugged him as best she could and pecked him on the side of his face. He squeezed her hand and whispered he loved her and she said she loved him a bit louder and more tearfully.

Becky popped in to say goodbye and Tim managed to whisper to her, “Take care of her,” indicating with his eyes Pauline who was standing by the door silently weeping.

“I will, sir, I’ll take good care of her.” Tim smiled and winked at her then lay back in exhaustion and slept.

The return trip was uneventful though both the girls were absorbed with their own thoughts more than each other’s company. Back at the school, they reported to the headmaster and then went off to sleep—the whole journey had been physically and emotionally draining.

The next morning Becky and Pauline reported for breakfast and answered an avalanche of questions, mainly about Tim’s injuries. “He saw you, what did he say?”

“He didn’t say anything,” said Pauline feeling tearful.

“Yes he did,” corrected Becky, “he said he loved you an’ he asked me to take care o’ you.”

“We’ll all help with that,” proposed Sarah and they all agreed. “Don’t forget it’s cheer practice later.”

“I think I’ll give that a miss, if you don’t mind, not in the mood just now.”

“Yes we do mind, if these elephants can manage it,” she gestured at Elli-Mae and Ruby, then a real girl should find it a push over.” She also had read exercise was good for relieving depression.

“I don’t know, Sarah...”

“But I do, they’ve got a game on Friday against Sassafras College an’ they’re gonna need all the help they can get.”

“Crikey, I don’t think I could do it in front of the whole school, not in that skimpy outfit.”

“Course y’can, the rest of us do, just make sure y’got y’sports bra on.”

Pauline looked down at her chest, she was sure it had grown a little, probably all the junk food she’d eaten on her trip west. Still, now she was back to her usual haunt, she felt a little more comfortable.

In English literature, she took up the part of Portia once again, though Swifty, made them go through the actions rather than just read the part. It made it doubly difficult to do but also gave greater insight into the storyline which was after all written to be performed not read while seated at a desk. As they were leaving, Professor Swift said, “Good to have you back, Miss Burton, we’ve missed your authentic English input.”

Gobsmacked was probably too fine a point to describe her reaction, but it gives some indication of her surprise. “Uh—thank you, Professor.” This was like Hogwarts she thought, where everyone was called professor.

“How is your father?”

“Pretty bad, the plane crash landed and blew up.”

“He’s still alive though?”

“Yes sir, but badly burned.”

“Where there’s life there is hope, eh girl?”

She nodded feeling a lump in her throat and tears forming in her eyes.

“Better get on, you’ll be late for your next class.”

She nodded and walked quickly with Ellie-Mae who’d waited for her.

“He likes you,” offered Ellie-Mae.

“Who does?” asked Pauline absently, trying to sniff back the tears.

“Professor Swift.”

“Don’t be daft, he doesn’t like anyone less than four hundred years old.”

Ellie-Mae snorted, “He does, when you were away he asked where his English Rose was. When we told him he actually looked concerned for a millisecond.”

“Only ’cause he’d hafta find some other patsy to read his stupid play.”

“He’s thinkin’ adoin’ it as a play, now we have the princesses.”

“If he thinks I’m standing up in front of the whole school and doing it, he’s got another think coming,” declared Pauline.

“He tends to get his own way, Pauline, so don’t upset him.”

“I’m a princess, he’s only a stupid professor—you know, I’m sure there’s a pea under my mattress.”

Seeing the reference to the fairy tale immediately, Ellie-Mae snorted loudly, a reaction which pleased Pauline immensely. These colonials were so easy to amuse—yeah—Captain Jack Sparrow.

Elaine Sanderson, the cheer coach, wasn’t so easy to amuse and Pauline got picked on once or twice. “Come on you lot, the girls I coach at kindergarten have more idea than you—especially our English princess—come on, your royal highness, shake that butt a little harder.”

“Oh shove it, I’ve had enough,” Pauline dripping with sweat and exhausted went to flounce off from the group.

“I thought you were a real girl,” stated Ms Sanderson.

“What’s that got to do with anything?” Pauline felt close to ’fessing up just to get away.

“Real girls are tougher ’an boys.”

“Perhaps I’ll try being a boy then,” retorted Pauline.

“Miz Sanderson, she’s been under a lot of stress recently, her dad...”

“I know all about her father’s crash—he’s gonna need you to help him.”

“Yeah, I know that,” replied Pauline wondering why she hadn’t just fled the gym.

“So how ya gonna be tough enough to help him if you can’t cope with some girly cheerin’?”

“I’ll cope, don’t you worry,” Pauline felt angry first at being challenged and second, for having dragged her father into it.

“Prove it,” challenged Sanderson.

“What?” said Pauline in slight confusion.

“Git your ass back here and show these apologies for a cheer team how a real girl does it—or are you just a whiny limey?”

The rest of the squad, grateful for a moment’s respite, stood watching the drama with bated breath. They knew Miz Sanderson was playing a high risk strategy and the next few moments would result in Pauline picking up the gauntlet flung at her or walking away. None of them dared to say anything they felt it was so finely balanced.

Pauline felt incandescent with anger at this...this upstart Yank telling her she wasn’t tough enough to be a girl. She’d survived bullying wherever she’d been, this was no different—well yes it was—she had realised that being a girl gave her more strength than the feeble boy she’d presented in previous places. If she failed as a girl as she had as a boy the future looked pretty bleak, and the woman was right about one thing, she’d need to be strong to look after her dad, plus the girl was out of the bag now and she wasn’t going back. Her eyes narrowed as she glared at the coach, ‘You want a fight—you’ve got one!’ she said with her eyes as she strode back to the others.

Elaine Sanderson smiled internally, with one girl and another transgender one plus the four other pretenders, she didn’t have much to play with, but she had some sort of hope for the future of a team. All she had to do was lick them into shape—yeah, miracles take a bit longer.

The rest of the practice was of a new intensity, the energy flying between Pauline and the coach was sparking them all to new heights of performance, even though it was a mixture of anger and stubbornness. When Miz Sanderson told them to finish they were all so tired they could barely move.

Only two of them and Becky moved like girls before the drama, now they were all more fluid and limber. They might just make a cheer team, thought Elaine as she went away that evening—and that would be a turn up for the books—doing real cheers like the girl squads, not the very basic stuff you teach boys—they might just get there. Yeah, the girls done good.