The
Beauty Shop
Suzy Henderson
This edition first published in Great Britain in 2016 by Avis Press
Copyright © Suzy Henderson 2016
The rights of Suzy Henderson to be identified as the author of
this work has been asserted in accordance with the
Copyright, Designs, and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be
reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any
form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording,
or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright
owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations and events are
either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Cover design by JD Smith Design
www.suzyhendersonauthor.com
This book is dedicated to my beloved grandmother, Joan Charlton, and to everyone else who belonged to that extraordinary generation who, without hesitation, volunteered to ‘do their bit’ for King and country back in 1939. Lest we forget.
For Alan, who always encouraged my writing and longed to read the book, but sadly left us before he could. The story is for you, and I know the words will have reached you by now. (1934-2016)
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Acknowledgements
Chapter One
Ward III, Queen Victoria Hospital, East Grinstead, November 1942.
The boy lay swathed in bandages that masked third-degree burns to the face, neck, chest, arms, and legs; the aftermath of a skirmish with the Luftwaffe. It was a miracle he’d been able to bail out of his flaming Spitfire and pull the cord on his parachute, with hands of molten wax, skin that hung in shards like ripped silk, and fingers melded together by the heat of the furnace. Archibald McIndoe inhaled as he hovered in the doorway of the side room and wrinkled his nose against the cloying stench of charred flesh that assaulted his nostrils. It was a nauseating odour he was used to and usually ignored, but tonight was different. Tonight it was especially malodorous and reached into the back of his throat, and he cupped his nose with his hand as he tried not to gag.
He sauntered out into the ward. Music flowed from the gramophone further down, and the upbeat, familiar Glenn Miller sound swung out, a delightful blend of saxophones, trumpets, and strings. ‘American Patrol.’ The volume was unusually low; he sensed that was purposefully done out of respect and his heart contracted. A haze of stale cigarette smoke and the sweet aroma of beer blended in the air to mask any clinical odours or otherwise. With the blackout curtains drawn, the bedside lighting cast a subdued glow around the ward. He stopped in front of the coke stove and held his hands in the wave of heat that streamed from the door. They were still numb from the frosty evening air, even though he had been back inside for a while.
He glanced around. The place looked more like a barracks than a hospital. One airman lay stretched out on top of his bed, reading a newspaper, a smouldering cigarette resting between the first two fingers of his right hand. He glanced up.
‘Evening, Maestro.’ The voice was flat.
Archie nodded a greeting. Three others sat huddled around the table in the middle of the ward, playing cards. Suddenly, an airman in RAF blues sprang up from his chair and grabbed the blonde VAD nurse with the ruby lips and twirled her around, dancing to the tune, which promptly changed to a slower number. Then he drew her close as they waltzed to notes that quivered in the air. He glanced at Archie and grinned. ‘Hello, Maestro. Fancy a beer?’
‘No thanks, Dickie, not tonight.’
His upturned mouth sagged into a straight line, and he nodded, his hand slipping from the nurse’s waist as he moved away – thirty seconds of frivolity anaesthetised by the gathering dark clouds. As Archie ambled back towards the side room, the boys gazed at him with sombre faces, their eyes glazed. Amidst the clink of beer glasses, the chain-smoking, and the banter, they all knew.
Back in the side room, another sound filtered in, a desperate, chilling rasp, and the hairs at the nape of Archie’s neck prickled. He sighed. He had told the boy exactly what he said to all of them when they first arrived. ‘Don’t worry. We’ll fix you up.’ His stomach sank. He’d tried his best, truly he had.
He strode over to the bed. David’s breathing had changed since this morning. He was in the period of transition; the final phase. Archie swallowed. Dear God, why had it come to this? David lay quite still, rattling breaths cutting through the hush, a thatch of golden blond hair just visible above his bandages. Did he have a girl and did she ever thread her fingers through his hair? It was a random thought, plucked from nowhere, silly really, but then this whole event was bizarre and surreal. It shouldn’t be happening – just like this damn, bloody war. The words of his cousin Harold Gillies sprung into his mind: This war will bring injuries never seen before. Archie nodded. ‘Right again, as usual,’ he muttered.
Why couldn’t he have saved him? Yes, the boy had severe injuries, but injuries he could have survived. But the infection that had taken a serious hold several days ago had changed the course of David’s life, bending its flow in another direction. Sepsis had spread, his organs were failing, and there was nothing to be done. Nothing at all, except sit here and wait. The boy sucked in breaths through an open mouth. Archie glanced around and spotted the kidney dish on the bedside table with a mouth swab and water. He gently dabbed David’s dry lips and tongue. At least he could do that.
Archie was not familiar with death. Most of the time, his patients lived, so it was a dreadful blow when death came calling. This boy had suffered enough, and now in a cruel twist, he would die after all, and he’d put up such a splendid fight. Archie heard Richard Hillary’s words loud and clear as if the young fighter pilot were standing next to him: Tell me, Archie. Does a chap ever sense that death is waiting?
‘I don’t know,’ Archie murmured. ‘But I sense it.’ He sank down on the chair next to the bed and glanced at his watch. Eleven o’clock. He pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes, stifling a yawn as fatigue closed around him like a warm, fuzzy blanket. He’d spent twelve hours in surgery and longed to return home, but he would wait. The boy was an American with the RAF; a stranger on foreign soil. No one should be alone at the end.
Sister Jamieson bustled into the room carrying a steaming, white enamel mug, her rubber-soled shoes squelching acros
s the linoleum floor. ‘I saw you come in, and I thought you might like a cup of tea,’ she said in a hushed voice.
‘Thanks.’ He was in need of something a little stronger, in all honesty, but that would have to wait. He took a sip. At least it was warm.
‘I can ask one of the nurses to sit with him if you need to go. There’s no telling how long it will be.’ Her thin, pale lips flickered to form a faint compassionate smile, revealing a dimple on her left cheek he’d never noticed before, although the woman rarely ever smiled.
‘It’s all right. I’ll stay a while. Besides, there’s no one to rush home for.’ Home was but a mere shell now that his wife and daughters were in America, but at least they were safe, thank God.
‘Such bad luck he came down behind enemy lines. If only they could have repatriated him sooner.’
‘Yes, well I suppose he’s lucky they sent him back at all.’ Archie sipped the tea and Sister Jamieson retreated. He liked to think that even German doctors would obey the Hippocratic Oath and do their best for their patients. The enemy. His elder brother’s face slipped into his mind. Jack had been captured in Crete in 1941 and was now in a camp somewhere in Germany. Two birthdays spent in captivity. Archie prayed he was well and wondered if he’d received the Red Cross parcel as yet. He closed his eyes for a moment. Why in heaven had Jack joined up? He’d even had to lie about his age, given that he was forty-one at the time. Archie shook his head. Jack had inherited Mother’s artistic ability and had studied art, but he’d gone on to run the family printing business after Father passed away. It was as if war had sought him out, with the lure of one final fling.
The music from the ward suddenly ceased, and a hush descended. Out in the corridor, the sluice door protested as it swung shut with its usual creaky groan and water gushed as someone turned on a tap. The night nurse rattled past the door with a tray of steaming mugs, and he caught the comforting aroma of malt as it drifted in the air on a ribbon of steam. He glanced at the rise and fall of David’s chest as the boy sucked in shallow breaths, followed by the release of excruciating rasps that snarled over his lips.
He placed the cup down on the table and sat back, his eyes closing as thoughts hurtled around in his head. David was nineteen years old. Such a waste of a young life. Not even old enough to vote or drink alcohol in his own country – yet old enough to die for it. Archie sighed. He usually found the late nights to be a tranquil haven as the hospital’s beating heart slowed, but tonight there was no comfort to be found here amidst the rattling gasps and the persistent frustration burrowing deep into his soul. Dear God, he was trying to rehabilitate these boys, not stand back as they slipped away. He pursed his lips and swallowed, balling his hands into fists, his nails digging sharply into his palms. Failure cut deep and he ruminated over the futility of war. A chill crept in through the half-open door and clung to his shoulders.
He dragged his glasses off and rubbed his weary eyes, then shuffled his chair closer to the bed. David’s chest rose and fell with a rattle and a gurgle of breath. Archie reached out and took the boy’s bandaged hand in his. ‘It’s all right, David. It’s Archie here. Don’t worry, my boy.’ The hearing was always the last to go.
David’s laboured breaths alternated between raspy and quiet as the hours ticked away, and Archie lost all sense of time as he waited in the dimness of night. Finally, the boy released a gentle hiss of breath, like a retreating tidal wave shushed back to the sea. Archie sat for a moment, partially relieved, partially stunned, and then he leaned forward and pressed his fingertips to David’s neck, locating the carotid artery. He reached for the stethoscope and listened to David’s heart. Nothing. Already his skin was draining to a sallow yellow in the wake of the body’s shutdown, rapidly cooling.
Ten past two. Archie placed his hand gently on the boy’s chest. ‘Rest now, my boy, and God bless you.’ His eyes suddenly welled up, and he took a deep breath as he dragged the cold, crisp sheet up over David’s head, then exhaled some of the tension away. At least it had been a peaceful end.
In a matter of days, a telegram would arrive at David’s home, and the boy’s parents would be distraught. Archie would write to them and assure them he’d sat with their son up until the end. It was vital they knew their son had not been alone. It was important to know something, no matter how small. Damn this bloody war.
He hovered in the doorway for a moment before closing it, grasping the handle while he stood quietly in the shadows, surveying the ward. These boys were lucky to have a second chance, although not many of them felt that way in the beginning. It’s not easy to count your blessings when you’ve had your entire face burned away or lost the use of your hands. Archie had seen outcasts and what had become of them, and he was damn well sure that was not going to happen to these boys.
He glanced at the door once more as sadness wrapped itself around his chest and squeezed, and he wrenched his grip from the handle. The boy should have lived – could have, perhaps, if he’d been brought here sooner. If. Always an if.
Archie strolled along London’s Bond Street beneath the cover of black, dense clouds, his breath escaping before him as white vapour. He pulled his coat tighter around him, glad of the scarf he had wrapped around his neck as the icy air nipped at his cheeks. His hands tingled, and numbness crept into his aching fingers. He thrust them into his pockets. The thick, acrid smell of smoke hung all around, smouldering from some bomb site after last night’s raid, lining his nostrils. London still breathed as she always did and retained an air of regal elegance as ladies picked their way through rubble-strewn streets, well-dressed in heels with coiffed hair and made-up faces, smiles painted on to boost morale, heads held high, defiant.
He crossed the road and as he glanced left, a familiar face emerged from among the bustling crowd, his air-force blue prominent within a wave of khaki. Richard Hillary, one of his first patients from the Battle of Britain. Archie grinned and stood stock-still as he waited to catch his eye.
‘Richard, of all the people to run into, it had to be you.’ Archie laughed and shook his hand, Richard’s brown leather glove ice-cold in his palm, a sheen of blond hair visible at the side of his blue cap. ‘You’re meant to be up in Scotland.’
‘A spot of leave, Archie. How about you?’
‘Oh, just killing time before I head back to the ward. I had some business here this morning. How about a drink?’ Archie clapped him on the back and led the way. The lad was rather subdued, and there was no bravado – something he’d used as a shield on the ward. It was as if his spark had finally waned.
The mood in the Embassy Club was uplifting as swing music flowed out, and people danced and laughed. The stifling air inside blended with stale smoke and beer. Archie ordered drinks, and they found seats at a table near the door. Richard opened his silver cigarette case and offered it to Archie. He plucked one and leaned forward for a light, flicking a gaze at Richard’s eyes. They were dull and bloodshot as if he had not slept properly in days. ‘Been working you hard up there?’
Richard drew on his cigarette and exhaled a white plume of smoke. ‘You know how it is. These Blenheims aren’t Spits and night-flying is tougher than I’d imagined.’ He reached out to grab his glass, and his hand trembled. ‘My left eye is troubling me now as well, which only makes matters worse.’ He gulped a mouthful of whisky.
Archie honed his gaze on the lad’s eye, where scar tissue tightened and contracted. Clearly, the issue was now urgent.
‘When I’m up there, I can’t see properly.’ Richard pointed skyward with his gloved index finger. ‘How the bloody hell do they think I’m going to be able to bomb accurately like this?’
A boisterous group barged in, laughing and shouting, and Richard jumped. Archie downed his whisky in one fiery gulp. ‘You’ll have to tell the MO. Perhaps he can put you on sick leave until we get you sorted out. I’ll take a look at it and get you booked in for surgery.’ An extra spot of leave would be beneficial too, by the look of him.
‘It’
s not as simple as that.’ Richard downed the last of his whisky and sighed. ‘Besides, I’m not crying off at the first sign of trouble.’ He cast a nervous smile, then shifted his gaze to the couples dancing, a faraway look in his eyes.
And there it was. That underlying current that flowed through all these boys, crackling each time they wavered to remind them of their duty; to remind them they were in the spotlight. Well, to hell with expectations. What good is that when you’re dead? The boy was asking for help and by the look of him, he was desperate.
‘It’s the night-flying, you see. Daylight would be easier. To be honest, I’m not sure I can carry on for much longer.’ Richard’s tone was ominous, his gaze intense and screaming. He ran his tongue over his lips, then cast a nervous smile.
Archie drew on his cigarette as an uneasy feeling settled within him. Richard had hoped to return to flying Spitfires but had instead been assigned to a squadron in Scotland, flying Blenheims, a light bomber aircraft. Archie couldn’t fathom the RAF mentality that had decided the boy was fit to fly bombers.
‘I’ll write to your MO, let him know I’ve seen you, and that I expect you back here as soon as possible for further surgery.’
As they parted company, Richard shook Archie’s hand, grasping it firmly. ‘Thanks for everything, Archie. You’ve been a marvel. Take care of yourself.’ The corners of his mouth twitched to form a sombre smile.
Archie’s chest tightened as he watched him walk away, his blue-grey form melting into the ripple of people. He wished that Richard had contacted him sooner rather than struggling on.
The lead-grey sky deepened as dusk approached and the first spots of rain began to fall, speckling the pavement as a veil of mist stole in from the east and draped over London. A faint rumble filtered in and he turned his face towards the sky as a dark shape neared from the east. It was an American bomber, with a white star prominent on the fuselage. They were becoming a familiar sight now the Americans had arrived. The cruciform shape slipped overhead and droned into the distance.
THE BEAUTY SHOP Page 1