BC had been so brave, BC had fought with more courage than Jason, or Horatio, or any boy in an adventure novel. Even when mortally wounded, he was shouting at Three to … to do what? Destroy a machine. What machine? Some terrible machine built by some terrible enemy. That had to be it. Images of BC cascaded through Emily’s mind as she lay there on her bed. BC running, BC leading, BC fighting … and BC covered in blood, dying. There was nothing that Emily could do to clear her mind of the images. She got up, took out a pencil and a sheaf of art paper, then tried to sketch BC from memory. Several attempts at a portrait from memory produced no real likeness of BC. ‘Well, I’d rather be bad at art than be like Muriel Baker, with her French accent and French beret, and, and French morals,’ muttered Emily, who then took the violet uniform off her doll and began sewing the coat more carefully. As the afternoon passed she remade her doll in a better image of BC, cutting its hair, painting out its rosy cheeks, and giving it a sort of stubby rifle weapon that consisted of several pencils and parts of a matchbox tied together with string.
