The sound of my scream brought nurses running from whatever they were doing.

I was staring at the door, terrified of who I could see.

Two of the nurses came to my side, speaking gently, trying to calm me but I couldn't understand them. I was shaking and whispering to myself.

“It's a dream, it's a dream,” over and over.

Françoise appeared beside me.

“Karen,” she pleaded, “What is it? What is wrong?”

I pointed an unsteady finger at the man by the door, the man with the now sad face.

“Françoise,” I said, “tell me it's a dream, please... ”

“No, my dear, you are not asleep. What is wrong?”

“That man, by the door. Do you see him?”

She looked in the direction I was pointing.

“Yes, I see him. Why? What has he done?”

“Ask him...” I could hardly breathe now and the words came it in short, shaky breaths, “Ask him who he is.”

Françoise frowned and turned slowly towards the figure who now had a small tear hanging from his eyelid.

“Monsieur, qui etes-vous?” she asked him. “Who are you?”

“Madam, Je m'appelle Albert Farmer. Je suis le pere de Karen,” he replied sadly.

“He says he is your father,” she said carefully.

“No, he can't be! My father is dead!” I remembered vividly the day my Mum received the telegram informing us of his death.

“Karen, I will talk to him but you must calm down.” Françoise' voice was so soothing that already I was beginning to breathe more easily but my heart was still pounding like a hammer.

I swallowed and took a deep breath and tried so hard to tell myself there was nothing wrong and there was an easy explanation but I couldn't do it. My heart was beating so fast I began to feel dizzy.

I felt as though the room was beginning to fade and the voices became distant, and vague. I felt both hot and sick at the same time.

“Karen, Karen.”

A distant voice and a gentle movement on my arm. I felt hot and my whole body tingled as the voice became clearer.

“Karen...”

I felt a cool, wet cloth dabbing at my brow and I opened my eyes to see Françoise looking down at me, a look of concern on her pretty face.

“Ah, she said, “You are back with us.”

“Where is he?” I whispered, afraid of what she may say. “Was it another nightmare?”

Françoise smiled gently.

“No, Karen, it wasn't a dream.”

“Then he is an imposter, a liar! My father is dead!” I felt an anger rising inside me. “Why would someone do that?”

“Don't get upset,” she said, “I don't want you to faint again. I will go and speak to him and find out the truth, yes?”

“No!” I squeezed her hand tightly, “Please don't leave me alone!”

“There will be a nurse here, don't worry,” her voice calm and reassuring.

“Alright,” I agreed but try as I may I could not stop myself trembling.

I waited for what seemed a lifetime. I couldn't keep still, my hands clasping and releasing then fingers tapping rapidly on the hard mattress edge.

The nurse whom Françoise had left to watch me came to my side.

“I get you a drink? Mademoiselle, Thé ou Café?”

“No, please, don't leave me alone,” I pleaded with her, “Stay until Françoise returns. Please?”

She nodded and returned to her seat while I just sat upright, tense and trembling.

No thoughts were running through my head. I was incapable of rational thinking and my mind was a blank, a million things spinning so fast that they were unrecognisable and all I wanted was to not be alone.

The clock must be broken, surely. I had looked at it so many times and yet the minute hand had moved so little.

“The clock,” I said to the nurse, unable to check my impatience.

“Pardon?” she replied, frowning with incomprehension.

The clock,” I repeated, pointing to it this time, “It is, erm...” Oh damn, what was the word? “Arreté?”

The nearest I could remember for stopped.

The young nursed smiled gently.

“Oh, non, Mademoiselle, it ees, 'ow you say, OK?”

I nodded agreement and cursed a little under my breath which, to the nurse, probably just sounded like a growl as she looked at me with pity in her jade green eyes.

It seemed as though a week had passed when, eventually, Françoise returned.

I looked, no, stared at her, pleading silently to tell me.

She didn't waste any time.

“I think he is telling the truth,” she said, “I think he is your father.”

I slumped back onto the pillow, groaning.

“Nooo... My father is dead. It cannot be him.”

“We have talked at length, Karen. I think, if you feel you can, that you should see him and let him explain it himself.”

I glared at her.

“My father was a mean and violent man. Why should I care what he has to say?!”

“That is your choice, of course,” she replied, “but if you want my advice I would say at least give him the chance to talk.” She paused then, before adding, “I think you will be surprised.”

“You don't know how he treated my mother!” I hissed at her, “Or me if I had let him,” I added as an afterthought.

“He told me,” she replied almost matter of factly.

“Did he?” I replied sarcastically, “And did he tell you how he beat her? I doubt it very much!”

Françoise didn't alter her expression, even a little, when she answered:

“Yes, actually he did.”

She took my hand and held it tightly.

“I know it is difficult, Karen, especially now but I think you should at least listen to what he has to say. I will stay with you if you wish.”

Inside, I was seething with anger but, as I looked at the sweet face before me, her eyes imploring, I felt that anger slowly recede.

“Françoise, I have only known you a few days and yet, somehow, I trust you with my life.”

She smiled, the little lines around her eyes so attractive.

“If you think it is the right thing for me to do,” I continued, “Then I will.”

“Good,” she said with another smile and a nod, “but first we will make you comfortable.”

The other nurse came over and between them they straightened the bed covers, brushed my hair and generally tidied me up.

As they worked I asked about Jemima.

“She is fine, Karen,” Françoise told me. “She has a room like this one.”

Finally, I was ready.

“Are you sure about him, Françoise?” I asked one last time.

“No, how could I be,” she replied, her honesty taking me a little by surprise. “Only you can know that and again, only by speaking with him. Now, I shall get him, yes?”

I nodded and waited impatiently for her return.

As my 'father' walked slowly through the door, my fear returned and I began to tremble again.

He stood just inside the doorway, not speaking but just looking and wringing his cap in his hands.

I studied him for a minute as I had no idea what to say to this man. He didn't look like my father.

This man had grey hair and a grey moustache. My father, when last I saw him, had jet black hair and was clean shaven. This man looked so much older than the fifty years my father would have been and yet, something inside of me stirred in recognition. Although his face was badly scarred, as though he had been in a terrible accident, I could see in his eyes that he was my dad!

I didn't know how to feel. I knew he could not hurt me, not here, and yet I didn't feel threatened by this pitiful figure before me. My fears had somehow given way to something very different, a strange joy that my father, my dad, was not dead after all.

I don't know why but the first words I spoke were not as I planned them.

“I don't know you,” I said calmly, “Why are you here?”

Once again, I saw a tear form and drip slowly from the corner of his eye.

“You know me, Karen,” he replied gently, “I can see in your face that you know me. I came to beg forgiveness and to make amends with my daughter for the terrible life I gave her.”

Another tear formed and fell to the floor at his feet.

“Will you give me the chance?”

My anger and fear had all but gone now, replaced by a feeling of pity. I looked across to Françoise who gave an almost imperceptible nod of encouragement.

“Yes,” I said, keeping any indication of what I was feeling inside hidden from him. “I will listen.”

Françoise placed the chair beside my bed for him to sit and turned towards the door.

“Are you leaving?” I said to her.

“Listen to his story, Karen. I will be near.”

I frowned but she was right, I would be safe. I didn't feel the threat I expected, so I said nothing as she closed the door behind her.

Although not old, this grey haired man sat down with some difficulty. He seemed like Eighty rather than Fifty but as he spoke his voice was young and seemed so out of place compared to his appearance.

“When I last saw you,” he began, “You said you would kill me if I touched you or your mother again. I went back to the army a broken man. Those few words had made me realise what a vile man I had become and you and your mother would be better without me.”

I didn't speak but remembered vividly the day he knocked me across the dining room table.

“I know any amount of explanation cannot make up for what I was and, when I have finished, if you want me to, I will go.”

He quickly wiped his eyes with his fingers, which, I noticed, were as calloused and cracked as those of a labourer.

“I lived every day with memories of the horrors of the trenches,” he continued, without any encouragement from me. “I could not stop them tormenting me. I never slept because, as soon as I closed my eyes I was back there, hearing the screams and reliving the terror and I began to drink. I found that if I drank enough, the memories would become fuzzy and easier to bear. Eventually an hour would not pass without a drink. You mother stood by me. I don't know if she ever told you but we grew up together. We were the best of friends before we became lovers. There never was, nor will there ever be, anyone else in my life who could compare to her and yet, in all my self pity and misery I destroyed the one thing that should have saved me.”

He paused then, to wipe away another tear and, breaking momentarily from his tale, asked:

“Did she find someone to bring her the happiness she so deserved?”

“No,” I replied, “She never so much as looked at another man until the day she died.”

Albert looked up suddenly.

“Died?” he exclaimed, “She is dead? How?”

I told him briefly of the V2 rocket attack and he seemed to shrink into the chair, shaking his head slowly.

“Then,” he said, wiping away more tears and blowing his nose on a brilliant white handkerchief, “she can never know how much I love her.”

I made no comment but simply waited for him to continue.

“After I left for the last time,” he went on, “I was sent to North Africa. Once the Germans had been defeated there, I was brought home for the invasion. I wasn't on the beaches but dropped by air and landed behind the lines. We attacked a German tank squadron and, during the fighting, one of their tanks exploded and I was thrown against a tree with such violence that I knew nothing more for several days.”

As he spoke he continued to look down at his hands.

“I awoke to silence. I was lying in a gully, covered with debris and branches and had no idea what I was doing there, in a forest, how I had got there or, even, who I was. My clothes were nothing but strips of burnt rags so I threw them off and began to walk through the trees. I wandered aimlessly through the countryside for hours, never once seeing a single person until I found a remote farmhouse. An elderly couple lived there and they took me in. It was like being reborn. I had no memory of anything before waking in the woods. I could not tell them who I was. They told me later that they could not even tell if I was English, French, German or anything else as I could not speak.

I worked the farm with them and slowly learned to speak French. They treated me as though I was their son and, when they passed away I found they had made arrangements for the property to pass to me. As far as I knew, I was French.”

I frowned.

“I am supposed to believe all this?” I said slowly. “If it is true, how is it that you are here now, telling me this when you say you have no memory?”

“Because something happened,” he replied. “I had vague dreams, nightmares which I didn't understand. I dreamed of a beautiful woman and a young girl but I didn't know them. Whenever they appeared the woman always seemed afraid. She would back away from me, her eyes staring and fearful. The young girl just stood and stared, watching but with no expression whatsoever upon her sweet face. They never spoke and I never asked who they were. I told the local doctor about them and he could offer no explanation but suggested they may be memories from my past. Then, a couple of days ago, I was watching the television and a news report came on, about an aeroplane that had crashed in the mountains, somewhere near Limoges. They showed pictures of the wreckage and also of some of those who had been on board. One of those pictures was of a pretty young air hostess. I recognised her immediately! She was the young girl in my dreams and suddenly I knew. She was my daughter!”

He looked at me intently.

“Seeing you was like having a switch turned on in my head. Suddenly, I remembered everything. I knew who I was! I had to come, Karen, to see you. You and your mother were the only people in the world I cared about and I had lost you.”

He fell silent and I stared at him, unsure of what to make of it His story was so incredible and yet, I felt that he believed it.

My head was screaming at me to get rid of this man who had made the lives of myself and my mother so miserable but in my heart I wanted to believe him. I could smell no alcohol or even tobacco on him. Could it really be him?

All my life I had tried so hard to be what he wanted me to be and I always felt I was not good enough for him, that he was disappointed with me. I hated him but, deep inside, I loved him and desperately wanted his approval. I never got it.

“Why should I believe a word of this?” I asked eventually. “You hated us.”

“No, Karen, I never hated you. I loved you both more than life itself but I was weak. I used the drink and the drink controlled me. I know now that I should have talked to you both but I was afraid. The longer I kept it inside, the worse it became.”

“And now?” I questioned, “Do you still drink?”

He shook his head slowly and gave a wry smile.

“No, I haven't touched any since I was blown up. I haven't needed it.”

Minute, by precious minute, my heart was melting. This man who sat meekly beside me was the father I always wanted but never had.

Very slowly, and with great trepidation I reached out my hand to him. He looked up and the tears began to roll again down his cheeks as he took hold if it.

“I am so sorry,” he sobbed.

My eyes too began to fill and I squeezed his hand tightly.

We stayed that way for a minute or two, no words, just connected, until I heard a sound, someone clearing her throat.

I blinked away the tears and saw Françoise at the door.

She smiled warmly and turned to leave.

“No, wait, don't go. Come and meet my dad,” I called after her, between little sobs.

When she re-entered my father stood and took her hand.

“I owe you so much,” he said to her, “Thank you.”

“Mister Farmer,” she replied, “You owe me nothing. I think, however, that you have much lost time to make up with your daughter.” She smiled at me as she spoke.

“Yes, I do,” he replied “But still, I am grateful to you as without you she would not have wanted to see me.”

“Hmm, maybe so,” she pondered. “I felt you were sincere as you hid nothing when we talked and I think, now, that you and Karen can help each other?”

Her voice changed at the end, questioning.

“Of course, I will do all that I can but how?” he turned back to me, “What can I do? What do you need help with?”

Before I could reply, Françoise answered for me:

“She has bad dreams about the crash. You understand about how bad things affect the mind.”

“I could, I suppose but look how I behaved, how would I be of any help?”

Françoise raised her eyes and shook her head.

“You just talk, Mister Farmer, talk to each other. By talking you let go of all those feelings that are held within you. Both of you have so much to talk about, just do not try to hide the things that trouble you.”

She stopped for a moment and looked at me, studying me.

“I think your daughter has suffered far more than she has told anyone.”

I nodded but said nothing.

“Will you help us?” my father asked her.

“If I can,” she agreed, “but Karen will be leaving here soon. Her leg is healing well and soon she will be able to walk with a crutch.”

“How soon?” I blurted, panicking. I hadn't thought about leaving just yet. “What about Jemima, How long will she be here?”

“Not much longer. Once she has her full strength back she will discharged to go home.”

I hadn't thought about going home! I may never see her again...

To be continued...