So fragile and yet determined. The boy was exhausted and in great pain, and he was obviously a fighter – which was reassuring, because he was going to need that resilience. ‘So, you’re going to be a father, eh? Congratulations. Well, we’ll get you fixed up as soon as we can. Don’t worry, we won’t keep you any longer than necessary.’ Archie cast a smile to reassure him.
Jack remained unsettled and tried to heave himself up again, but his body failed him and he sank back. ‘I’m getting married . . . next week.’
‘Not in this state, I’m afraid. It’s not possible. Maybe in a month or two, we’ll have to see.’ Archie flicked a gaze at Sister Jamieson, her eyebrows knitted together in a frown. He shook his head. These boys were all the same – always running, always fighting. Getting married, indeed. People often said Archie performed miracles – utter nonsense, of course – but this was one miracle too far.
Jack lifted his arm and looked at his hand, his mouth open wide, lips dark and swollen. He cried out again. ‘Lord Jesus, help me.’ He glanced up at Archie with beseeching eyes. ‘Help me, please.’
Archie crouched down and rested his outstretched hand on the side of the bath and adjusted his black horn-rimmed spectacles. ‘Okay, here’s the plan. You agree to a soak in the tub while Pete and Jimmy there remove all this cloth. Then we can get you out and dress those burns.’
‘But Doc, I haven’t got time for that. My girl . . . ’
‘Will wait for you, I’m sure.’ Although they didn’t all wait. He’d seen it happen. Wives or girlfriends, desperate to see their husbands or lovers again, only to recoil in horror when they were reunited. For some, it was a very brief reunion.
‘You don’t understand. No child of mine is gonna be born a bastard!’ Jack’s chest heaved and determination flared in the young man’s eyes.
‘Okay. We’ll see what we can arrange.’ Archie turned to Sister Jamieson. ‘Do the best you can. I’ll be back later, and we’ll take things from there.’
‘Yes, Mr McIndoe.’
As he stepped out of the bathroom, Archie savoured the cooler air while he strolled through the ward. He glanced at his watch. Ten o’clock. He noticed some of the men who had headed out to the pub last night were still in bed, no doubt sleeping it off. Archie suppressed a chuckle as he glimpsed pictures of scantily-clad women and pin-ups which adorned walls above beds. Then there were pictures of babies, wives, and squadrons. A merry tune flowed from the radio. Music soothed the mind, healed the heart and comforted the soul while also drowning out groans and cries.
‘Morning, Maestro.’
Archie turned in the direction of the voice, the Aussie’s colonial accent evoking memories of his own native New Zealand. ‘Morning, Tom,’ he said, nodding as he carried on through the ward.
A nurse with auburn hair tied in a neat bun emerged from the sluice room, pushing a trolley filled with vases of daffodils and snowdrops. As she sailed by, Archie drank in the sweet floral scent. Silken yellow and white blooms nodded from green stalks and added a touch of home to the drab, clinical surroundings.
Thank the Lord for the ladies of East Grinstead, who had come up trumps when he’d told them how making the ward bright and cheerful was vital to the recovery of his patients. Fresh blooms arrived every few days, and a warm glow flared in his chest when he saw how the town had pulled together.
‘Good morning, Archie,’ the nurse said in her soft Irish accent.
‘Morning, Bea. I see you’re doing the honours today.’ He grinned. ‘The old homestead looks better already.’ Of course, there was an ulterior motive for the flowers – the sweet fragrance helped mask the foul odour of burned flesh, which reeked and could be overwhelming.
When Archie reached his office, there was a letter resting on his desk, stamped RAF Charterhall. About time. He wondered if the MO had taken Richard Hillary off active duties. Archie recalled Richard’s words. I don’t think I can go on for much longer. Richard had been so determined to return to flying duties. Archie recalled the relentless badgering and his own reply. You haven’t a hope in hell of getting back. The Air Force won’t let it happen. Maybe he should have been more forthright, but in the end, he’d thrown up his hands and told him to get on with it. If you’re determined to kill yourself, go ahead, but don’t blame me. As his own words rang in his head, an icy chill draped over his shoulders.
He glanced up as sunlight streamed into the room, trapping dancing, shimmering dust motes in the golden haze. What a time for Jack to be thinking about marriage, but then he was merely taking care of his girl the best way he could. Of course, not all girls were loyal. Women swarmed around fighter pilots, the Brylcreem Boys, and now, while at their lowest ebb and burned to a crisp, some of the wives and girlfriends buggered off. A knock on the door shattered his reverie.
‘Morning, Boss.’
‘Ah, Blackie. Come in.’ Edward Blacksell, Archie’s RAF Welfare Officer, was invaluable in keeping the airmen in line.
‘I’ll not stay, just checking you’ve remembered the committee meeting later.’ Blackie dropped a stack of medical notes onto the desk.
‘Yes, how can I forget? I stand accused of lowering the tone.’ Archie raised his eyebrows. ‘Again.’
Blackie sighed. ‘Yes, well, watch out for Sister Hall today. She’s barking at everyone. One of our boys came back in the early hours, drunk as a lord, and I’m afraid he lost his way.’
‘Oh no, he didn’t end up in the wrong bed, did he?’
‘No. The daft beggar barged in on an emergency operation. Caused a bit of a stir.’ Blackie smirked. ‘Sent a tray of instruments flying when he staggered into a trolley. The surgeon was Mr Edwards, and he’s furious.’
‘Marvellous. That’s me in the dog house.’ Archie pictured Edwards’ rounded, ruddy face and couldn’t resist smirking to himself. ‘Okay, thanks, Blackie.’ Boys will be boys.
As the door closed, Archie wondered what the ladies on the committee would throw at him this time. Last time they’d been outraged over the beer barrels on his ward, the flowers, and the uniforms. Well, hydration had won the argument over the free availability of beer. Burns patients required lots of fluid. He chuckled to himself. As for the uniforms, he’d been outraged to learn that complaints had been made about his boys wearing their service uniforms. Ridiculous. The situation was simple. He disliked the convalescent uniforms – they made the men look more like convicts, and so he’d burned the lot one day in a fit of rage. His boys were serving their country and needed to feel that they still were. They needed normality.
Thank God he didn’t take that RAF Commission and didn’t have to follow orders. If he had to ruffle a few feathers to get what he needed for his boys, then so be it. He grabbed the silver letter opener and slit open the envelope with surgical precision. ‘Now then, let’s see what you’ve been up to, Richard.’
His eyes flicked over the words and as he read he sighed and shook his head, picturing Richard, his scarred, disfigured, claw-like hands – fingers that struggled to hold cutlery, which fumbled with buttons and gripped a pint glass as if wrapped in woollen mittens. Why hadn’t the MO intervened as he had requested in his letter? That left eye of his hadn’t been up to the strain of night-flying. ‘What the devil was the RAF thinking?’
He wondered what made a man so desperate to return to a fight that almost killed him the first time. Perhaps they felt that flying instilled a sense of normality? They could climb through cumulus and cast aside their imperfections and scars beneath the dispassionate gaze of the sun. But flying aircraft required full hand control, something Richard had lost.
After Richard’s propaganda mission to America last year, word had spread of the good work being done at East Grinstead and that along with the success of his memoir, The Last Enemy, had brought unexpected attention and aid to the Guinea Pig Club. Letters with cheques, money orders, and notes offering hospitality and jobs along with gifts for the injured servicemen had been arriving ever since. Blackie had been a godsend and h
elped set up a charitable fund to manage the donations, which Archie realised would be needed to help some of the lads start new lives after the war. That had been the only good to come of the trip.
The icy reception Richard had received from US officials had caused him to see red. Apparently, they were rather concerned about how the American people would react to Richard’s disfigurement and of any adverse effects that might have on their own military recruitment, and so Richard had been shielded from the limelight. And then the eye operation he’d had over there hadn’t exactly been successful. He ought to have stayed here, had surgery, and then, just perhaps, it would have been a different outcome.
Archie looked again at the letter as the words slipped in and out of focus, and he thought of the irony of fixing the injured only to send them back for more. He strained his eyes, and read out loud:
He and his observer were killed in an accident at 0137 hours on the 8th January 1943.
It had been a night training exercise. Further details explained how Richard and his radio operator had taken off in their Blenheim bomber and climbed into the icy night sky before losing control and crashing into a nearby field. Richard’s words resonated in his mind – I don’t think I can go on for much longer. Archie clamped his eyes tight and bowed his head. The clock on the wall ticked away the seconds; a metronome slicing through the silence. Does a chap ever sense that death is waiting? Richard must have in his final seconds as he wrestled with the controls of the Blenheim.
Archie stared out into the grounds as he remembered the merry band as they had been in the summer of 1941. Richard, Geoff Page, and the others had lounged on the grass beneath the sun as they thrashed out the finer details of their newly formed drinking club. The treasurer, wheelchair-bound with both legs in plaster, had been chosen because he was the least likely to abscond to the pub with the funds. The secretary had both hands wrapped in bandages and was unable to hold a pen, never mind take notes and finally, Archie, elected as president. Youthful spirits shining through older, tougher skins. He saw their smiles and twinkling eyes and heard their raucous laughter and tales of daring air battles. ‘Godspeed, Richard,’ he whispered.
In the distance, a rumble escalated into a roar as a Spitfire sliced through the sky with grace and a greeting waggle of its wings to the obvious delight of the town’s folk. People stopped and stared, and a small boy with straw-coloured curly hair strained at his mother’s hand and waved. ‘We all need to find our wings sometime or another,’ Archie muttered. ‘All the boys yearn to fly, and all the girls love a flyer.’
Chapter Five
Milk Run to First Base, January 1943
When Major Lewis had drawn back the curtain and revealed the map with its blood-red ribbon that delved into the Third Reich, Wilhelmshaven, a hushed chorus of groans erupted around the room. They’d never been to Germany before. It was a stroke of luck when the news came through. The mission was scrubbed at the last minute. The padre had just given a blessing to the crew. He was always out on the flight line before every mission. Maybe he’d had a word with God earlier, because that weather sure changed fast.
Mac wished he hadn’t drunk the extra coffee at breakfast as it now mingled with the eggs and sausages, leaving a foul taste. He drew in a sharp breath and released it slowly as he made his way along the perimeter track towards the old farmstead. The folks there didn’t mind when he dropped by. He might be thousands of miles away from home, but there, in a quiet corner of rural Cambridgeshire, was a little piece of Montana.
He gazed out across green fields, where the sheep grazed upon the hard, frosted ground. Mac lifted his face to the lead-grey shroud that covered the bloodied heavens. The bitter breeze stung his cheeks, and his eyes watered. Usually, he came out here to ask for God’s forgiveness – only today they hadn’t dropped a single bomb. He asked for it anyway. Afterwards, birdsong drifted over him, sweet and high-pitched – the only reply.
He leaned on the old farm gate, gazing out across the airfield and at the B-17s spread out, waiting. A gust of wind hit him, the gate shuddered, and Bill’s face flashed before him. Mac swallowed. It had been a momentary glance across the narrow stretch between them in the sky that transcended words when Bill realised all was lost. A fleeting glance that was the last farewell between friends before the explosion pummelled the air with shock waves and Mac had fought to keep the ship steady. His vision swam as reality hit home. A sharp sting zipped through his palm, and he glanced at his hand, the knuckles white from gripping the splintered fence. His legs trembled.
He took a slow walk back to the base, his breath hanging in the air before him like white contrails. The missions and the losses were stacking up. Before, time had been running out. He’d been so close, sitting on a thinning ledge, drifting, and then Stella came along and rekindled his hunger for life. His name on her lips had struck more than a chord the other night. The sticking point was Alex, but he figured he stood a chance. He’d seen the flicker in her eyes.
The clouds persisted but held the rain at bay as Mac drove along the winding lane. Since the beginning of the war, the British had removed all road signs in case of an invasion, and it sure was confusing trying to find your way around. As he drew up on the left side of the road, he flicked a gaze at the wooden plaque on the wall of the white thatched cottage – Lilac Cottage. He cut the engine, wondering if Stella was still mad at him, and jumped out. Before he’d reached the gate, the front door creaked open, and Stella stepped out, all ready to go. ‘Hi there.’ Mac pushed his cap up with his finger. Boy, she sure was a picture, and at least she didn’t look mad.
‘Hello.’ Stella grinned and headed towards him. Her hair seemed different, longer, and she wore a slim-fitting pair of slacks which showed off the contours of her legs, a sweater, and a short jacket.
Mac smiled, waiting until she’d climbed in. A restlessness crept over him as he longed to hold her again, to taste those lips. ‘I wasn’t sure if you’d be home.’
‘Well, you didn’t give me much choice.’ She placed her khaki canvas gas mask bag down in the footwell.
Mac hopped into the driver’s seat. ‘Where shall we go first?’ He gazed into her green eyes.
‘I’m not sure. Why don’t we drive along here and we can have a quick tour of the village?’ She pointed to the road straight ahead.
‘Sure thing. Whatever you say.’ He fumbled through his jacket pocket and produced a packet of gum. ‘Here, try some.’
Stella took a piece. The silver paper slipped off with ease, and she folded the thin strip into her mouth, closing her eyes for a moment as if savouring the taste.
They headed out to RAF Bourn on the outskirts of the village, where several Lancaster Bombers idled on their dispersals around the airfield. From there they drove along the scenic lanes before heading back into the centre of Bourn. ‘This is a Roman road,’ Stella said, as the wind gusted through her hair and golden curls oscillated in its grip.
‘Well, how about that? I guess I should have known, seeing how it’s so straight. I’m walking in the footsteps of Roman soldiers.’ Mac laughed and flicked a gaze at her, taking in her beauty.
‘Driving,’ Stella corrected him with a smile. ‘Bourn’s a medieval village and the old church of St Helena and St Mary up ahead dates back to the twelfth century.’
Mac swung into Church Lane and pulled up close to the metal gates. He reached into the back of the jeep and pulled out a compact black box. ‘I brought my camera, thought I might get a few good pictures while I have the chance,’ he said with a grin. As they strolled through the churchyard side by side, Mac stopped to gaze at the magnificent building. The light-coloured stone and the leaded windows along with the twisted spire intrigued him. It sure was beautiful.
Stella pointed to the belfry. ‘It has eight bells, but all bell-ringing was banned when the war began. If we do hear them, we’ll know the Germans have invaded.’ She spoke so matter-of-factly, without a trace of fear or worry in her voice. The war had brought grea
t change, and he guessed that such things had become a part of normal everyday life.
As they strolled towards the church, Mac stopped to read the inscriptions on some of the ancient gravestones and took a few pictures. Stella sat on a nearby bench as the breeze shook the leaves of the trees overhead and beat a rosy tinge into her cheeks. Her nose was real cute, with a hint of rouge. She pulled up the collar of her jacket and thrust her hands into her pockets. He had to admit the air was a little icy, even in the sun. ‘Say, are you cold? We can go grab a bite to eat someplace.’
‘I’m okay if you want to take more pictures.’
Mac smiled, removed his brown leather flight jacket, and draped it over her shoulders. It was forbidden to do so, but he figured the military police wouldn’t catch him here. Besides, he was a gentleman. ‘It sure is pretty here and peaceful.’ The dark weathered boughs above creaked and groaned in the breeze. ‘It’s strange to think there’s a war raging on across the Channel, and yet here we are, miles from Hell.’
He took a picture of the church and the grounds, then glanced at Stella, who was looking the other way. He pointed the camera and pressed the shutter button. That picture could go in the cockpit. She turned to look at him, and he gestured with the camera. With her head tipped down like that, looking at him from beneath those dark, long lashes, she sure was cute. Then, just as she broke into a huge smile, he clicked again. That one’s definitely just for me.
Mac draped his arm around her and rubbed her other arm to warm her up as she nestled against his side. Being so close was tempting, with her body warm against his, the swell of her hip against his side, and the wind teasing the lavender from her hair. My God, it was going to take every last ounce of reserve he had to stop himself from drawing her into his arms. His thoughts turned back to the kiss they’d shared on New Year’s Eve before guilt had snatched her away. Remembering his western upbringing, he checked himself, took a deep breath, and sighed. He wanted to ask her about Alex, but there’d be plenty of time for that later.
THE BEAUTY SHOP Page 5