Love, Death, Chariot of Fire

by Winton Higgins

  But he’s being childish. There’s Flo. And Gordon. And his mother, Elizabeth! He’s responsible for them, for their financial security, for their safety in these ominous times. To protect them he has to protect the country they’ll be living in when he’s dead. So he has to survive long enough to build the killer fighter.

  He turns back to the surgeon. ‘Is there any chance that you’ve made a mistake? Should I be seeking a second opinion?’

  ‘You’re perfectly entitled to do that. If I had any doubts, I’d positively encourage you to seek one. But I have none. And right now time is of the essence. Any delay will reduce your chances still further.’

  ‘So what do you recommend we do?’

  ‘I suggest you and Mrs Mitchell return home, make what arrangements you can, and return to London on Monday. I can book you into St Mark’s Hospital where they can prepare you for the operation which I will perform the following day. You’ll need to stay in hospital about two weeks. Recovery will be slow, unfortunately. After that, I can arrange an excellent convalescent home for you: the Herbert in Bournemouth, down in Dorset – just a little west of Southampton on the south coast there – where you could stay for a few weeks. You could engage your own specialist nurse. She can administer your medication and show you how to manage your colostomy.’

  ‘But we’re supposed to be driving to Devon tomorrow for our summer holidays!’ Mitchell exclaims. It sounds petulant, he knows. He just wants a reprieve.

  ‘I strongly advise against any delay. The sooner we get rid of the cancer, the better your chances.’

  ‘Is surgery the only treatment for cancer?’

  ‘The only one that has a real chance of working. Of course, cancer is a uniquely horrible and capricious disease. So it attracts all sorts of quacks and snake-oil merchants who peddle miracle cures to prey on desperate people. Recently some bona fide practitioners in Vienna seem to have had limited success treating cancer with ionising radiation – so-called X-rays. But as I’ve said, time is of the essence in your case. You can’t afford the time to pursue highly speculative cures like that.’

  The memory of his visit to Henry Royce’s home over four years ago springs into his mind. Even Vera’s reference to ‘the ghastly difficulties’ that a colostomy brings with it.

  ‘What’s it like living with a colostomy?’

  ‘It very much depends on the patient’s strength of character, Mr Mitchell. Many become morose and reclusive, abandoning pastimes and interests that once brought them satisfaction. Some even commit suicide. Not just because of the physical inconveniences, the unpleasant smells in one’s clothes if one doesn’t manage the colostomy diligently, the need to watch one’s diet to avoid constipation, diarrhoea and flatulence, and so on. But also, quite unfairly, because a degree of social stigma attaches to colostomates in certain circles. Unfortunately, I have to suggest that you exercise discretion about whom you inform about your actual condition.

  ‘At the other end of the scale are those who vow not to let the colostomy inhibit them beyond what is strictly necessary, and keep their lives and interests on track. Even sporting ones. And conjugal relations. Picken has made me aware of the sort of man you are, Mr Mitchell, and the important work you do. For all our sakes, I expect – and very much hope – that you’ll be finding your place among the pluckier colostomates.’

  The patient grimly reflects on his new designation: Reginald Mitchell esq., CBE, battling colostomate. All very well, but he lives and works with others. Starting with Flo. Will she still accept his physical love? And if so, how will their ‘conjugal relations’ actually work after his operation?

  He looks across at her, takes her hand. She emerges from her torpor, squeezes his hand and returns his gaze. There’s a brave love in her eyes, though she’s biting her quivering lower lip and her cheeks run with tears.

  Chapter 7

  A convalescence

  ‘Hazeldene’, Russell Place, Portswood. Wednesday 25 September 1933, 8 am. Reginald Mitchell wakes slowly, gingerly, for the first time in his own bed since his operation in mid-August. He and Flo have come home from their month-long stay in the convalescent home in Bournemouth. She drove the car, with him beside her and Gordon and his nurse, Helen Richardson, in the back seat. Mitchell himself was in no condition to take the wheel, and indeed he’d rather dreaded the prospect of the trip, however short. Not even the Rolls’s sophisticated suspension could cancel the usual bumps and jolts of road travel. He couldn’t even sneeze without sending a fresh bolt of pain through his lower body.

  The nurse noticed his anxiety as the departure time approached and suggested a precautionary shot of morphia before they drove off. So in the end he’d travelled in a state of painless euphoria.

  He’d grown fond of this state of mind. In it he could enter into the immediate experience of motion and the shifting scene outside the car in a wholly new way. It rained intermittently along the way, which only made the colours more vivid, in defiance of the season. The trees, hedgerows, grass and man-made objects that swept by revealed their sharp outlines and peculiar forms starkly, impinging on his attention in a way they’d never done before. Each raindrop, clinging to the windscreen beyond the reach of the wipers, refracted the light in its own individual way. Why hadn’t he continued with his drawing and painting classes instead of becoming an engineer?

  As he’d slowly withdrawn from the anaesthetic after his operation at St Mark’s Hospital, unspeakable pain had taken possession of him. His lower body had become a pit of red-hot embers that reduced him to moaning and whimpering. At first he hadn’t even been conscious of the stink and indignity of having his bowel motions emerge from his truncated entrails poking out of the left side of his lower abdomen, and lodge in a cotton pad held in place by a sort of belt.

  Then along came his redeemer – morphia! It temporarily doused the embers and led his wits onto a lush, elevated plane on which his new abject condition didn’t count. So long as the effects of each injection lasted, he could nod his head benignly for Flo, the nursing staff and Bill Gabriel, his surgeon. Even when they assured him that the operation had succeeded, he was lucky to be alive, and had made the right decision in accepting surgery.

  Over the dozen days in the hospital’s surgical ward the pain diminished by degrees, and the injections came a little less often. As their effect faded each time, the pain reasserted its dominion. Along with the realisation that his once so serviceable body had been irrevocably mutilated. Then he regretted agreeing to the operation. He congratulated himself on his initial reaction to Gabriel’s diagnosis and offer of surgery: ‘I’d rather be dead!’

  If the memory of this outburst lingered into the next encounter with the morphia, a couple of lines from Keats – learned by rote in his school days – replaced it with more decorous phrasing:

  Now more than ever seems it rich to die,

  To cease upon the midnight with no pain.

  Such a fortunate death lay beyond the reach of a fledgling colostomate facing the almost certain return of his cancer and a postponed lingering death. The only way to grasp that fortunate death would be to take matters into his own hands.

  Suicide? For some men – those without dependents, wider responsibilities or moral fibre – it could be a compelling option. But a man in his own position couldn’t contemplate it. He has Flo and Gordon to make provision for, both while he’s still alive and after his death. Then there’s Vera, his close colleagues in the design office, and the men working in the machine and assembly shops at the Woolston works.

  Finally there’s the fascist menace hanging over the country. His special onus to do something to fend it off has been festering in his mind, especially since Hitler’s installation as German chancellor earlier in the year, and the expectations he felt coming his way at his father’s funeral in June. These concerns lie in wait for him, and fill his mind in the in-between moments when it’s flooded by neither pain nor the drug. Like right now.

  How ironic that he wor
ries so much about his dependents when he himself has fallen into such utter dependence. And how he loathes being a burden on others like this! On Flo, who encourages, consoles and comforts him tirelessly. Even on Gordon, and the boy’s forbearance and discretion as he keeps up a jocular father-son interaction. Then there’s Helen Richardson, the specialist colostomy nurse in her late twenties who helps him change his cotton pads and cleans him up without grimacing, and treats this disgusting chore as if it were no more than restrapping a sprained ankle. Who teaches him how to manage his condition by himself. And who delivers the blessed morphia.

  After a week at the Herbert Convalescent Home in Bournemouth Flo came into his private room grinning. ‘Miss Richardson says it might be time for you to get up and take a stroll along the famous Bournemouth Pier, Reg. And it’s a fine day. Indian summer, in fact. She’s pleased with your progress, and you’ve just had an injection. So why don’t we seize the day? She’ll join us.’

  ‘I haven’t got anything to wear that’s suitable for a seaside resort.’

  ‘I thought of that before I left home, darling. I packed your plus fours and argyle socks – you cut such a dash in them.’

  ‘You mean I look less like an accountant in them?’

  ‘Oh, they do a lot more for you than that.’ She kissed him on the forehead before drawing him out of bed, laying out his clothes on it, and helping him dress.

  Miss Richardson, who’d changed into civvies, met them in the vestibule. The exit was only about twenty yards by gravel path to Alumhurst Road where the car was parked ready to take them down to their destination on the seashore.

  Halfway along the path he stopped and turned to gaze at his temporary home from the outside. It consisted of a stylish cluster of Gothic wings spreading out from the main building, as well as free-standing cottages, over all of which loomed tall pine trees. Sight unseen, but with his morphia-sharpened senses, he’d already noticed their special scent when his window stood open. Miss Richardson had told him that the trees’ aroma possessed special curative qualities and was one of the reasons for Bournemouth’s growth as a health resort and watering-place.

  Soon he was walking along the pier, beside the sparkling sea, in the warm sunshine. He estimated its length to be at least three hundred yards, and he relished the novelty of walking such a distance after his weeks of bed rest. The two smartly dressed tall women – cloche hats and all – flanked him. The trio mingled with other sightseers as they walked past the various stalls lining the pier. His initial feeling of frailty and unfamiliarity with everyday life passed. The chorus of the old song, The Man Who Broke the Bank at Monte Carlo, came to mind:

  As I walk along the Bois de Boulogne with an independent air,

  You can hear the girls declare,

  He must be a millionaire!

  When they reached the wooden barrier at the end of the pier, they turned around and leaned back against it to rest. His gaze slowly swept the three miles of beach, Bournemouth’s shoreline. A few tiny figures ambled along it, the seagulls wheeling above them and looking like small white insects. Behind the beach rose the sand cliffs, punctuated by chines and dells which must offer secluded nooks for picnics and dalliance. Bournemouth was so unlike Southampton – clean and peaceful, not sullied by industrial development. Its ‘industry’ consisted in the care of convalescents like himself, more long-term invalids, and a modest trickle of tourists. Its houses were pretty self-standing villas set among the only larger buildings – the churches (with St Peter’s dwarfing the others), convalescent homes like the Herbert, and the Town Hall. The majestic trees rose above all these structures.

  Mitchell sensed an odd, added dimension to his appreciation of this prospect. He’d been in beautiful places before, but they’d never flooded his sensibilities like this one did. The vista of sea, beach and town shimmered magically before his eyes. He wondered if this was the morphia’s work.

  The trio set off on their return stroll along the pier. He began to feel pleasantly tired. When they reached the land end of the pier, Miss Richardson pointed out the Club House on its right-hand side.

  ‘It has an excellent tea room, and Mr Gabriel has an arrangement with the club. His people can use it even though they’re not members. If anyone’s interested.’

  They all were. They ordered Devonshire tea, and chatted about the town’s charms in such weather while they waited for it to arrive.

  Flo took his hand. ‘You know, darling, I think Miss Richardson here has become quite a friend, and it’s time we got on first-name terms with her. So, Helen, what do you think?’ The strolls along the pier and taking tea at the Club House became part of their morning routine when the weather was fine. In Bournemouth it usually was.

  A week before their scheduled departure, when they were alone, Flo turned to him. ‘I have spoken to Dr Picken on the phone and let him know how things are going here. He suggests we ask Helen if she’d agree to come home with us, stay in our spare room for a fortnight, and make sure you settle back in with the appropriate domestic arrangements in place. If we like that idea he can swing it with her employers.’

  Mitchell didn’t have to think long about that. Helen not only dispensed the morphia; she commanded his respect as well as his gratitude. She was obviously highly trained, but her warmth, tact, and easy sisterly co-operation with Flo weren’t skills learned on the ward or in a nursing college. He sensed in her a commitment to her calling that matched his own, one that goes well beyond monetary reward. Still, he guessed she was paid a pittance, and of course never received the public recognition that he did. He decided to write a strong letter of commendation to her employers when she returns to Bournemouth. To do what he can to remedy that injustice.

  It’s a weekday, he realises, and the return to familiar surroundings prompts the longstanding routines lodged in his very bones. He should be hurrying off to work. But Gabriel and Picken have forbidden his return to work until the end of winter. In a sense he’s grateful for these ‘doctor’s orders’, as he’d have trouble just getting up the flying stairs to the drawing office in Woolston right now, let alone putting in a full day’s work while concealing his condition from his colleagues.

  Bob McLean and Vera Cross both know the score and have discreetly arranged things after a couple of phone calls to him in Bournemouth. No one else he works with will know the true nature of his illness or disability. He’ll remain on full salary, receive frequent visits from Vera with correspondence and drawings, and work at home when he feels up to it. He’ll receive visits from colleagues when necessary. Just like Henry Royce used to do in West Wittering when he was similarly afflicted. For the time being that’s the best he can do to meet the urgency of his current projects.

  Reluctantly his mind turns to them. Before Helen comes in with the syringe to save him from the discomfort that would otherwise stop him from getting out of bed, dressing, and sitting at table for breakfast. By the same token she’ll be relieving him of any sense of urgency. About his work. Or anything else.

  He stares up at the ceiling. So, to take stock. Design work on the Scapa flying boat is virtually complete. Development of an enlarged version of it – the Stranraer – has barely begun but lacks urgency. For now other staff in the design office can deal with the flying boats – especially young Bev Shenstone, who is richly repaying Mitchell’s impulsive decision to bring him into the team.

  Most unfortunately, fabrication of the Type 224 prototype – the fat farmyard duck – will soon begin, so that it can be test-flown in the new year. A little later it’ll be pitted against other firms’ contenders developed to the same ministry specification, for possible acceptance as a production fighter. An audience of ministry officials and RAF brass will watch them go through their paces. As if he hasn’t already suffered enough humiliation!

  The Supermarine board feels obliged to keep faith with the ministry and see the Type 224 project through to that point. But no further. Unlike its competitors, Supermarine has no experience bu
ilding specifically military aircraft. Maybe it can be forgiven a beginner’s shortcomings.

  And maybe next time they can turn their inexperience to good account, unburdened by old habits and conventional wisdom. He and McLean agree on the need for a completely fresh start in the search for the killer fighter. They’ve even given it a provisional serial number: Type 300. They’ll develop it in-house, in the same way they developed the Schneider racers. Not in response to a ministry specification, but following their own intuitive sense about what this machine must be able to do. When they’ve produced the design and can show it to the ministry, its boffins can bloody well go ahead and draft their damned specification then. Ex post facto!

  Mitchell can’t yet visualise this machine, though alluring evanescent images of what it might look like flash through his mind when the morphia is present. It certainly won’t look anything like Type 224. It will have retractable wheels, so no trousers at all. And a sleek canopy over the cockpit. Rolls-Royce is working on a whole new engine for it, thanks to the enthusiasm of that firm’s managing director, Arthur Sidgreaves. It’ll be a step up from the Goshawk – with all its reliability and cooling problems – that’s slated for the Type 224. Like the fighter it’s intended to power, the new engine doesn’t yet exist but has a name nonetheless: PV.12 – Private Venture with twelve cylinders.

  Then there’s the all-important matter of the wings. A good wing makes for a good aeroplane; everybody knows that. In accordance with the conventional wisdom Type 224 has thick wings with straight edges to maximise lift. But tomorrow’s high-performance aircraft will defy that wisdom, Mitchell senses. In aviation nothing outlives its usefulness faster than conventional wisdom.