‘Dr Gibbs warned us about that. Said he’d have black days.’
‘It’s hardly to be wondered at, is it? A young handsome man suddenly finds he’s lost his looks and to him it feels like losing his identity. He doesn’t feel the same about himself any more and he imagines other people don’t feel the same about him either. He thinks he’s repellent and that makes him resentful. He will often reject help when it’s offered—’
‘But you wouldn’t be put off by that, would you?’
Laura looked searchingly at her, wondering if there was more to the question than appeared on the surface. ‘No, of course not. Neither would you, would you?’
‘No. But I was hoping if he could come to Beckbridge, we could all help him. Dr Gibbs said it was up to Mr McIndoe, so perhaps you could speak to him…’
‘I’ll do what I can, Kathy, because I’d like him here too, but I’ll wait until he goes to East Grinstead. I know you are anxious about him, but try to stay calm. At the moment he has to come to terms with what’s happened and that’s a struggle he has to fight alone.’
‘Are you saying I shouldn’t go and see him?’
‘Wait until he’s seen Mr McIndoe. He has a wonderful way of being positive, bucking his patients up, explaining everything to them so they begin to realise it isn’t the end of the world. It’s easier for him to be objective than for relatives who are too closely involved.’
‘What about you? Can you be objective?’
‘I’ll try.’
‘You won’t give up on him, will you?’
‘No, Kathy, I will not give up on him.’ She knew, even as she made the promise, that leaving Beckbridge was out of the question.
The boys had been anticipating Christmas for weeks, talking about it, letting everyone know that just because they were too old to believe in Father Christmas, didn’t mean they didn’t like having their stockings filled. Kathy, who had been looking forward to having Steve at home, suddenly felt deflated, as if none of it mattered any more. How could they celebrate, eat and drink and play games, when her beloved son lay in a hospital bed fighting for his life? And he didn’t want to see her. It was her own fault for letting him see how dismayed she had been by his poor dear face. It was the shock, that was all; she would be in better control next time. She wrote to him every day but her letters had to be read to him because he couldn’t pick them up and couldn’t see properly, and that put some constraint on what she said. Nor could he reply, except by dictating to one of the nurses or ward orderlies. It was most unsatisfactory. How could she think about Christmas?
‘I know Uncle Steve is ill,’ Donny told her. ‘But he wouldn’t want us to be miserable, would he?’
She pulled herself together. ‘No, of course he wouldn’t.’
Mr Archibald McIndoe was a New Zealander in his late thirties. He wore horn-trimmed spectacles through which he seemed to view the world with a cheerful optimism that was catching. ‘First things first,’ he said, after examining Steve’s injuries the day after he arrived at the Queen Victoria Hospital in East Grinstead. ‘Eyelids first. Then you’ll be able to blink properly and look out on the world again.’
He didn’t know that he wanted to; his sight was a watery blur but at least he couldn’t see the monstrosity that was Steve Wainright. It was a month since his crash, a month of torment interspersed with hazy drug-induced sleep, a month in which he had ridden a roller coaster of emotions: glad to be alive, wishing he were dead, relieved his mother had not come again, resentful that she didn’t care enough to come and see him, wanting to hide away from everyone, wanting to go home. And there was the constant pain. But he could not help responding to the surgeon’s grin, though smiling was itself difficult. ‘And what will I see?’
‘Well, there are some pretty nurses here and it isn’t a bad place. Later we’ll do something about your hands. One step at a time, eh?’
‘How many steps?’
‘Quite a few.’
The surgeon was not exaggerating. The heat from the fire, so he was told, had made the skin round his eyes contract so that his top and bottom lids did not meet properly. Mr McIndoe proposed to give him new eyelids using skin from beneath his arm. This he did a week later. After the dressings were removed, Steve found he could, with a little effort which became easier as the days went by, open and shut his eyes properly, could shut out what he didn’t want to see. At least his face was back to its proper size and though the skin on his nose and cheeks was still pink and scarred, it was healing.
His hands were another matter. He had already suffered the torture of having the tannic acid coating on his hands removed by soaking them in a bath of saline solution. As soon as the air had touched the exposed flesh it set his nerves jangling unbearably; even a curtain flapping created enough draught to be agonising. He had gained some relief when his hands were placed in special envelopes. Gradually, so gradually he thought the time would never come, they had healed and he no longer had to suffer the dressings. The trouble now was that the skin became hard as buffalo hide and as it contracted it drew the fingers in so that they were almost touching his palms and he could not extend them. It meant more operations but in the meantime he was able to wander about the beautifully maintained grounds of the hospital, even go out for a trip to the local pub, but that was a disaster. He could feel everyone’s repugnance, especially when he tried to pick up his glass between his mangled fists and dropped it. They assured him it didn’t matter, but he’d had enough and fled.
There was nothing much for him to do but submit to whatever the hospital did to him, read the newspapers and listen to the wireless, frustrated that the war was going on without him. The bombing campaign was gaining momentum; the struggle in North Africa was slowly turning the Allies’ way with victory at El Alamein, and the Germans had been forced to give up the siege of Stalingrad. Its indomitable inhabitants had won that particular battle.
His parents came to see him and assured him he was looking tons better, which he supposed was true, but they carefully avoided talking about his injuries, chatting instead about what was happening in Beckbridge: the spring sowing of cereal crops; they had half a dozen new lambs, one of which Gran was hand-rearing; Ian Moreton had been home on leave and seemed a much improved character. Stella had had to register for war work and had chosen to go to a factory in Northampton making barrage balloons and was no longer at the Hall; Helen was looking after Robby almost full time now and loved it. The Yanks were everywhere and the girls had all gone to a dance at the American base to celebrate the New Year. The twins were full of mischief as usual, but doing very well at grammar school. And everyone was looking forward to having him home.
Home! He felt ambivalent about that, nervous about how people would react, hating the idea of being pitied, hating even more the thought of people avoiding looking him straight in the face. And yet he didn’t want them to. He had seen himself in a mirror and knew he looked repulsive. ‘Don’t think it’ll be just yet,’ he said, lifting his distorted hands. ‘Have to have something done about these.’
His mother accepted his half truth and kissed him goodbye, making him feel a heel. But he couldn’t face his relatives and friends: Jenny, Meg and Daphne; the Moretons; Joe at the pub; Aunt Helen, though she must be used to burnt airmen by now; definitely not Wayne Donovan, who was, according to everyone, handsome and charming. Was Laura still in touch with him? She never mentioned him and he’d be blowed if he’d bring up the subject himself. She came as often as her duties would allow, but travel was not easy and her visits were usually made when a patient had to be brought for an operation or taken to Beckbridge for recuperation and she could ride in the ambulance. She spent a long time quizzing him about how he felt. He didn’t know how he felt. He was angry and frustrated that he was such a mess and he was missing his squadron. And he would not hear of going to Beckbridge Hall.
‘Why not?’ she demanded. They were sitting in Mr McIndoe’s office, which he had told Laura they could use. ‘I
’ll be able to look after you until you come back to have your hands grafted.’
‘I don’t want you to look after me.’
‘Thank you very much. I won’t bother then.’ She stood up and left him.
He called after her, but she gave no indication that she had heard him, and it was only when he reflected that she might not come again that he realised how much he looked forward to her visits and how, even in his blackest moods, she managed to lift his spirits. He went back to the ward, where he persuaded Johnny to go to the pub with him. Johnny looked even worse than Steve, but he was always laughing and joking. How much of it was an act, Steve could never be sure. The two of them got very drunk and rolled noisily back to the hospital after everyone else had gone to bed. The night sister pushed them into a side ward to sober up. The next morning, Mr McIndoe sent for Steve and hauled him over the coals, not for getting drunk, but for disturbing everyone late at night. ‘You need a change of scene,’ he finished. ‘How about going to Beckbridge Hall until I’m ready to start on your hands? You could enjoy some time with your family and friends.’
‘I’ve blotted my copybook there as well. Can’t you get on with my hands straight away? Then I could get back to my job.’
‘You think I’m patching you up just to have all my good work undone?’
‘What else am I good for?’
‘A lot, but I haven’t got time to list them. You’ll have to work it out for yourself.’
Steve went back to the ward and kicked the bed leg, which did nothing for his mood and only hurt his toe. ‘Had a wigging?’ Johnny asked.
‘Yes. Being sent to Beckbridge.’
‘That’s not a wigging, that’s a reward.’
Steve managed a laugh.
He returned to Beckbridge on Good Friday, the 23rd of April. Whoever it was that decided such things, gave him a railway warrant and left him to make his own way by train. It was the first time he had been out on his own since being shot down and it was a nerve-racking experience. He imagined everyone was looking at him, repelled by his ugly face. He was glad that the weather was cool enough for him to wear an overcoat and cap as well as woollen mittens; he couldn’t get his fingers into gloves. The mittens covered his claw-like hands but they made it even more difficult to pick things up. When people saw him struggling they rushed to help, which didn’t make him feel any better. He thanked them and tried to smile but smiling did not improve his looks, a fact he knew from practising before the mirror.
He had written Laura an abject apology and included a postal order for her to buy something for Robby’s second birthday, and received a reply thanking him and saying he was forgiven, but she had also added he ought not to reject help freely given and though she understood his frustration perhaps others might not. She said she hoped he would reconsider coming to Beckbridge Hall; it was his mother’s dearest wish, ‘and I need my rock,’ she had added, which made him wonder why. Was she finding the work of looking after people like him too demanding? Was it Wayne Donovan? Did she want advice about him? He had never met the man and already he disliked him. Or was it simply to get him to behave himself, trying to make him feel needed? They were questions that had plagued him ever since she had come to see him in Hammersmith and told him she needed him.
The train from Liverpool Street to Attlesham was a slow one. Not only did it stop at every station, it was more than once shunted into a siding to allow a long freight train of tarpaulin-covered wagons to pass through. Military freight, he realised; guns, bits of aeroplanes, army vehicles. The war was being waged without him. He arrived at last to find Laura waiting on the platform for him. She looked so bright and fresh in her uniform, her waist – smaller than ever, he could swear – cinched in by the wide navy belt with its silver buckle. Her red-lined navy cloak was thrown carelessly over her shoulders.
Afraid she would be repelled, he didn’t know whether to kiss her or not, but she solved the problem by reaching up and kissing his scarred cheek before linking her arm in his. ‘I’ve got the car,’ she said, leading him out to where the Humber was parked. ‘I managed to persuade the villagers against the welcoming committee, the flags and the brass band.’
‘Good God! They never wanted to do that, did they?’
‘It was mooted.’
‘By whom?’
‘The twins and Joyce for a start. Joyce reckons you saved Ken’s life.’
‘I never did. In fact, I nearly forfeited it. But thanks for stepping in.’ He didn’t need to ask how they had found out he was on his way home; his mother would never have been able to keep quiet about it.
Laura opened the passenger door for him, made sure he was settled before shutting it and going round to the driver’s side. ‘That’s not to say you are going to be able to avoid seeing them altogether.’
‘No, I know. But not today. I’m devilish tired.’
‘I thought you might be, so I’ve prescribed twenty-four hours’ rest. After that, limited visitors for short periods. You can cope with that, can’t you?’ She started the car and edged out of the car park.
‘You’re an angel.’
‘I wish you wouldn’t say that. I’m far from angelic. In fact, I’ve been giving everyone hell just lately.’
‘You’re tired too.’
‘Yes, it’s a national disease.’
‘There’s something else?’
‘It can wait. My main task at the moment is to get you ready mentally and physically for your next op.’
‘I’m ready now and I’ll listen whenever you feel like talking, though I’d be a bit of a failure if you wanted me to punch someone on the nose.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she said laughing. ‘I reckon those fists of yours are like iron.’
He smiled. She really was good at making him feel normal, even when referring to his disabilities. ‘Do you really want me to tackle someone?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘I thought it might be Wayne Donovan.’
She kept her eyes fixed on the road ahead. It was growing dusk and the covered headlights only illuminated a few yards of the road. ‘What on earth gave you that idea?’
‘I dunno. I suppose it’s because I’d enjoy doing it.’
‘Well, you can’t. He’s gone back to his unit.’
‘Is he coming back?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
Steve leant forward as they passed the end of the farm drive, but there was no one about. He sat back again, half relieved, half disappointed. He was a mass of conflicting emotions. Bridge Farm was home, how could he not want to go there? His mother would be OK because she had seen him in hospital and knew what to expect, but Jenny and Meg, and Daphne, who was still working on the farm even though she was married to Alec, would have no idea how ugly he was. And there were the twins and old Josh and his wife. He couldn’t bear it. And yet he longed for the warmth of the old kitchen, the quiet peace of his own room, surrounded by cricket bats, tennis rackets, golf clubs, battered train sets, model aeroplanes and books on flying. Some of his mother’s cooking wouldn’t go amiss either.
‘I’ve told your mum and dad to bring Jenny to see you tomorrow afternoon,’ Laura said, reading his thoughts. ‘The rest can wait.’
‘Must I?’
‘Yes, you must.’ She swung the car into the drive and up to the front door. ‘Here we are.’
She ushered him inside and up the stairs to a single room. ‘Get into bed,’ she said, as a porter brought his bag and put it on a table at the foot of the bed. ‘I’ll have your supper brought up to you…’
He reached out and felt for her hand. ‘Laura, thank you.’
‘Only for tonight, mind,’ she said, choosing to misunderstand him. ‘Tomorrow you come down and have your meals in the dining room with everyone else.’
He dropped her hand and she turned away. She had made up her mind to be professional, to help him when it was necessary but not mollycoddle him. It was difficult because she felt such enormous sympathy
and wanted more than anything to help him undress, tuck him in and feed him with a spoon because he found it so difficult to wield a knife and fork. But she must not do that. He had to be made to help himself, to regain his independence and self-esteem, and every task accomplished took him one step further along the road to recovery. She knew perfectly well that after the operations on his hands he would be almost back to square one, in agony again and unable to do a thing for himself. She knew exactly what the operation entailed, and it was not going to be easy. They would do the right hand first, and only after he had recovered from that would they tackle the left, but she hoped that by then Steve would be mentally stronger and his recovery all the quicker for it. Some of that would be up to her. And his family.
He did not think he would, but he slept until noon the next day and woke to find a porter bringing hot water for him to wash. The man disappeared and he was left to get on with it. He washed and dressed painfully slowly and, once presentable, made his way downstairs to the dining room, which was set out with tables for four. Laura was wandering between them having a word or two with every man. She beckoned him to one of the tables and introduced him to Flying Officer Ben Savage and Sergeant Wilcox, who had never been up in an aeroplane in his life, he informed Steve cheerfully; he was ground crew and had got his injuries during an air raid when he had tried to taxi a burning Spitfire out of harm’s way. Among others whose injuries were as bad, if not worse, than his, Steve felt better, and in no time they were exchanging notes and making jokes about their treatment. It put him in a better frame of mind to meet his parents and Jenny that afternoon.
Laura found a quiet room for them and left them alone. He stood awkwardly when they entered, not knowing quite what to say, but his mother had no such qualms. ‘Oh, you are up and dressed,’ she said, darting forward to kiss his cheek. ‘You look so much better, doesn’t he, William?’ If she felt any repugnance she hid it well.
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