THE BEAUTY SHOP

by Suzy Henderson

  ‘Hey, let’s have a quick look inside before we go. That is, of course, if you don’t mind.’ He stood up and took her hand in his, leading the way. Once inside, Mac closed the door, and they walked slowly towards the altar and sat at the front. The pew was ice-cold and slippery from polish, and a faint scent of incense hung in the air.

  He marvelled at the architecture and the stained glass windows. ‘It’s always so peaceful in church.’ He flicked a gaze at the depiction of Jesus on the cross. ‘Thou shalt not kill. The sixth commandment.’ He sighed and looked down at the ground. ‘What are we doing in the midst of another war? It’s never-ending madness.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s not right, what they’re doing. What we’re doing.’

  It wasn’t right how men, young men, left their base here fresh and full of life and returned as a corpse, or didn’t return at all. He swallowed. Christ, Bill and the others. His heart raced, then Stella reached for his hand, and her warm, soft touch soothed, drawing him back, drawing him to her. He was inches away, and as he gazed into her eyes, he marvelled at tiny flecks of gold that encircled her pupils, swimming in emerald green. Her brow furrowed and a glimmer of a smile toyed with her lips as he placed his other hand on hers.

  He sat for a few minutes more, thinking, praying silently for those who’d already given their lives, praying for his own friends, praying for Bill. Friendships that had been so naturally formed only to be so brutally severed, now mere ripples in the water. He’d almost lost hope. Stella was becoming a shining beacon in a dark sky; his one guiding light in this hell within which he was caught. The only problem was Alex, but Stella was here with him today, and the way she’d looked at him earlier. . . well, she’d felt something, and so he’d hold on to that.

  Back home, Mac went to church every Sunday with his family, but now it didn’t seem right sitting here. Not with what he was doing. Killing people one day, acting all normal the next. The church held no place for him now, and it was beginning to feel mighty close. ‘Stella, shall we go get something to eat?’

  ‘All right.’

  He led her outside, to where the trees whispered overhead as boughs danced and murmured in the breeze, and he drew her towards him. Her natural, pink lips so close – too close. Her soft, wide eyes twinkled and fixed onto his, and when her lips parted, his composure vanished in an instant. He took her in his arms and kissed her, her skin cool against his. When they came up for air, Stella gazed into his eyes before resting her head against his chest. Her green eyes reflected the silhouette of a sunflower; a yellow, swirling floret like a spinning prop, and as a sunflower craved the sun, she was all the light he needed.

  Chapter Six

  RAF Bourn

  As Stella cycled along the perimeter track, she spotted two ground crew on a scaffold outside the hangar, working on the engine of a Lancaster Bomber. In the distance, a honeyed glow stretched across the horizon. RAF Bourn looked so unappealing and had been built in haste at the beginning of the war. There were numerous Nissen huts, grouped together with a series of cinder paths leading from one place to another. When it rained, the ground became sodden, transformed into a squelchy, mud bath with water pooling everywhere. The brick-built control tower formed the heart of Bourn and housed Flying Control on the upper floor. The Meteorological Office, Signals Office, and the telephone exchange resided on the ground floor along with Intelligence. Stella didn’t often get the chance to go in there.

  She reported for duty at seven o’clock and made a beeline for the single coke stove in the hut where she worked. The two-mile bicycle ride had done little to warm her from the frosty air, and her face and fingers stung. She wondered how many bombers had returned from last night’s sortie as she thought of Alex. If only he’d write to her. It was the not knowing that was difficult to cope with.

  The office was barely warmer than outside, and the stove did little to thaw the chill that hung like an icy blanket, making her skin prickle. Stella’s hut was dull with rows of brown, wooden desks, side by side. WAAFs typed in harmony, working through the stack of papers that grew within their in-trays. There was little chatter, the main noise being the relentless tapping of keys ricocheting through the smoky smell of burning coke that mingled with the musty odour of the hut.

  She sat down at her desk. A huge stack of paperwork leaned precariously on one side and inwardly she groaned, wishing she could hurl the lot out of the window. Her thoughts drifted to the night of the dance. Swaying in Mac’s arms, carried away by the tone of his soft, velvet voice, but then the sound of a sudden thud shook her from her reverie, and she jumped.

  Vera had dropped a massive stack of papers onto the desk with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. ‘Wakey, wakey!’

  ‘Shh! What if the CO hears you?’

  ‘Needn’t worry about her, she’s in with top brass so go on, tell me what happened with your Yank then.’

  ‘He’s not my Yank, and nothing happened. I showed him around, he took me home, and I said goodbye.’ Stella didn’t want Vera to know about the kiss. She felt guilty enough without having to suffer a barrage of questions.

  ‘That’s all?’ Vera sank down on her chair and put a sheet of paper into position in her typewriter. ‘Ooh, so disappointing. I’ll have to take you in hand.’ She pursed her lips and glanced at the letter on her desk. ‘Well, he might be at the pub with Sam later.’ She began to type, hitting the keys with gusto.

  ‘Who’s Sam?’

  Vera stopped typing and with one eye on the CO’s door leant towards Stella. ‘That handsome GI who danced with me all night. He’s taking me out tonight.’ She raised her dark-pencilled eyebrows provocatively, displaying her pleased-with-herself look. The CO’s door swung open, and Vera resumed her serious face as she promptly returned to her own desk.

  Later, as they cycled home together, Vera told her all about Sam.

  ‘Well, he’s from Texas. His family has a store out there and Sam says when he goes back, he’ll be running it.’

  Stella smiled, delighted that her friend was happy, but she sensed there was more to it than that, which for Vera was unusual. So far in the past two months, she’d had numerous dates, mainly British, some very attractive, but none who had tempted her.

  ‘He’s a real gent you know, treated me like a lady all night – and he can’t half dance. Did you see him? He’s terrific. Oh, and he’s gorgeous.’

  Stella forced a smile. Tired and confused, all she wanted was to get home, close the door and have a warm drink. There was still no word from Alex and try as she might, she couldn’t stop thinking about Mac. Of course, her mother wouldn’t approve, but for now, that didn’t matter. Of course, he was all talk. All that nonsense about taking her flying. GIs had the gift of charming the birds out from the trees. The thing was, she wanted it to be true – for him to be true. He exuded mystery and an exotic air which had stirred her curiosity and instilled a longing that could only be quenched by the touch of his skin on hers. A tingle zipped through her like electricity as she thought of their kisses.

  When she reached her billet, Stella bid her friend goodbye and slipped inside, pausing for a moment as she wondered if she was alone. Mrs Brown usually called out when she heard the door, but tonight all was quiet. Stella’s body ached, and she longed to change out of her uniform, so she headed straight up to her room.

  She removed her tunic jacket and threw it over the back of the small, mahogany chair, and kicked off her regulation black shoes, wiggled her aching feet, and stretched out her legs. She thought about having a wash, but the icy chill in the air warned her otherwise. Her room was sparsely furnished, although she did have an open fire which she could light on cold evenings providing they had enough coal. They’ll ration the air next. A red floral-patterned rug covered most of the scrubbed and polished wooden floor. Next time she went home for a visit, she would bring a few of her things back with her to make it homelier. Stella closed the blackout curtains, lit the hurricane lamp, then settled down to read her book for a while until
evening tea was ready. Pride and Prejudice was one of her favourites, and she had read it several times already. Who could resist Mr Darcy?

  A short while later, the front door slammed, and she ambled out onto the landing and peered downstairs.

  ‘How are you, dear?’ Barely drawing breath, Mrs Brown continued. ‘Mrs Stewart’s nephew is missing. His parents received the telegram only this morning. He’s missing in action somewhere in Italy. Oh, it’s a terrible business. She’s in a dreadful state, so you can imagine what his poor parents are going through.’

  Her usual rosy cheeks were scarlet, and she bustled away to the kitchen, where she placed her basket down upon the scrubbed, wooden farmhouse table. She removed her WI hat and hung it with her coat on a wall hook in the rear porch, taking a moment to glance admiringly at the regimented rows of potatoes, leeks and swede growing in the former bed of the green velvet lawn. The garden was her pride and joy. ‘Shall I make us some tea, dear? Oh, and I’ve got a nice bit of cake I put back yesterday – a jam sponge made with real eggs. Oh, it’s a blessing, keeping hens.’ She put a hand up to her dark brown, greying hair, to check the curls were still pinned, no doubt.

  ‘Thanks, Mrs B.’ Stella sat down at the table, thinking of the surreal times they were living through. It was strange how quickly one could empathise for families of the missing and of the dead, and yet in the blink of an eye, set it all aside and carry on regardless. Of course, they’d sink if they didn’t.

  Mrs. Brown tied her white lace-frilled apron around her thick waist. ‘I made this years ago when lace was easily acquired. Now it’s all rationing, queues, and squabbles, and barely any lace to be had – and that butcher’s up to no good.’

  Stella bit her lip to suppress a laugh. ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘I saw him hand over cuts of meat he shouldn’t have had in the shop. He thought I wasn’t looking, but now I know exactly what he’s up to – black market I shouldn’t wonder. Well, he’d better be on his best behaviour from now on, and he can think twice about tricking me out of my ration, or I shall report him, make no mistake.’ She turned her hand to buttering bread, scraping on a thin, sparing layer, and then she filled the kettle, placing it on the range to boil. ‘Tea won’t be long, and then we can have a nice little catch-up, dear, and you can tell me all about your day.’

  Stella wandered into the living room, and as she gazed around, her eyes fixed upon an old grainy picture of a young man in army uniform on the mantelpiece. There was another photo of the same man, standing next to a young woman, and there was something familiar about the woman’s eyes and that mouth. Mrs Brown set the tea tray down on the table by her armchair. She’d used her best china and made some sandwiches. Stella sank down in the armchair by the fire.

  As Mrs Brown poured the tea, Stella studied her face. Those eyes and mouth . . . no, it couldn’t be, could it? The fire crackled and spat sparks of brightest orange into the mouth of the chimney, and Stella gazed at the forked flames that roared. As she sat, mesmerised by the blaze, Mac slipped into her mind, while Mrs Brown chatted about the WI and what Mrs Bradshaw had been up to three doors down.

  Mac had been so confident and charming at the dance, but the other day at the church he’d revealed his vulnerable side, as if he’d been laid bare before God. He was far from home, fighting a war, and, like Alex, he was struggling too. No doubt he was lonely, adrift in a strange country. The way he’d looked into her eyes before he kissed her had sent her heart soaring, and she smiled to herself.

  The droning sound of engines filtered into earshot and grew into a roar. ‘Merlin engines,’ Stella muttered, excusing herself and slipping out into the garden. She looked up to see a group of Lancaster Bombers against the backdrop of a half moon, heading out towards the Channel.

  ‘Good luck, keep safe,’ she whispered, gentle words etched in silvery white, carried by the light breeze, dissipating into the night.

  The next day, Stella awoke with a start. Rolling over, she glanced at the clock – half past nine. She’d missed breakfast. Oh, Lord, she’d overslept, and Mac was calling at eleven. She jumped up, staggered across to the window, and drew back the curtains to reveal a milky blue sky. Buds and branches glistened beneath a cloak of silver. She dressed casually, pulling on trousers, a blouse, and jumper. Mrs Brown would have gone shopping by now, which was a relief, as Stella had no wish for awkward questions.

  After breakfast, she gathered her things – gas mask, money, coat, scarf, and gloves. That ought to do. A nagging doubt resurfaced, but she pushed it to one side. She was having a day out with a friend, and she meant to enjoy herself. At eleven o’clock sharp, Stella stood waiting by the living room window, and a flash of olive green sailed by. She glanced out and saw the white star on the side of the vehicle and her heart raced. She grabbed her things and opened the front door. Mac flashed that cute grin and Stella’s stomach fluttered as warmth speckled her cheeks. She walked down the front path towards his intense gaze until dark beads gave way to sapphire blue.

  ‘Morning, ma’am.’ He cast a mischievous grin as he waited by the passenger door.

  ‘It’s a lovely day.’ She climbed in and the hairs prickled at the nape of her neck as she met his gaze. They drove towards Bassingbourn, and as they neared Mac’s base, he appeared distracted and kept glancing up at the sky. Without warning, he swung across the road and bumped the jeep up onto the grass verge, and they stopped with a hard jolt.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ She glanced at him as he sprung out and squinted up into the sky.

  ‘Not sure, yet. That’s one of our boys coming in over there. Fort doesn’t sound right.’

  Stella turned her face to the sky, straining to focus on the black shape in the distance. The faint hum of engines grew louder, and as it neared, two red flares sailed up into the pewter sky from the upper turret of the Flying Fortress. She gripped the seat tight, the breath catching in her throat. ‘They’ve only got one wheel down.’

  Mac headed over to the boundary fence. Stella joined him, watching, waiting in silence. The descending aircraft shrouded them for a moment as its silhouette slipped overhead, the thunderous roar of the engines vibrating right through Stella as her hair blew back, fluttering in the slipstream. She looked up, noting its dented, silver belly, its skin ripped open in places, wounded, yet still she glided with grace. With clammy hands, Stella gripped the rough wooden fence, and held her breath, waiting.

  She recalled that day at Bourn some months ago when a Wellington bomber had crash-landed and burst into flames. Thick, black, acrid smoke had billowed out, engulfing the aircraft, and she’d watched while the firemen tried to douse the flames. Those poor boys, trapped inside. Tears pricked her eyes, and she took a deep breath.

  As the Fortress touched down, the lowered wheel struck the runway with a bounce and then landed with a squeal of rubber, staying level for a moment, running on one wheel, before tilting to the other side. The aircraft veered off onto the grass and came to rest at the far side of the airfield. Smoke billowed out from one of the engines, but there were no flames. The fire and ambulance trucks wailed their way to the scene as the breeze blew a waft of acrid smoke in her direction.

  As she turned away, her gaze flicked over the vivid green of the surrounding fields, the white nodding snowdrops, and the trees gently bending in the breeze. It was surreal how life flowed while young men died in the skies, or died trying to reach home, and people all around simply carried on. Stella released her grip on the fence, but a sharp sting in her finger caused her to wince. ‘Ouch.’ She peered at it as a pin-prick spot of blood emerged and swelled into a ruby droplet.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Oh, it’s nothing, really. I think I have a splinter.’

  ‘Let me see.’ Mac reached for her hand and lifted it close to his face. ‘I see it.’ With nimble fingers, he withdrew the splinter and put her finger to his mouth and kissed it.

  Stella gasped as a tidal force of blood surged through her body. ‘Thank you.
’

  ‘Are you all right?’ Mac put his hand on her shoulder. ‘You look a little pale.’

  ‘Yes, I thought, well, I’m glad they landed safely.’ She swallowed, sensing the lump swell in her throat.

  ‘Yeah, they’re not called Flying Fortresses for nothing. They take quite a beating and still bring you home.’ He took her arm in his as they walked back to the jeep. ‘Made a safe landing, all things considered.’

  His flight jacket was soft and supple beneath her hand. A memory suddenly bobbed to the surface. In the queue at Mr Thomas’s butcher’s shop weeks ago, she’d overheard two of the women speaking about a crash at Bassingbourn. The B-17 had belly landed, with the ball turret gunner trapped inside, and the poor boy was crushed. They hosed his life right out of that mess of mangled metal. Not a bit of him left to bury. An icy chill seeped through her body and she shivered. Oh, God, why did she have to remember that? It was so awful. Dreadful things were happening all over – and for what? All because of a tyrannical little man across the Channel, insistent upon ruling Europe and the world, if he could capture her. She sucked in a breath.

  ‘Hey, we’ll go grab a cup of coffee. No, wait, it’s tea, right? You Brits drink tea,’ Mac said, grinning. He started up the jeep and headed off to Bassingbourn village.

  Stella nodded, managing a weak smile, her mind still on that ball turret.

  The tea shop was empty except for an elderly couple sitting at the rear. The friendly waitress brought tea and cake and Stella soon warmed up.

  Mac poked his tea with the spoon. ‘Looks kinda weak.’ He took a mouthful and grimaced, prompting her to laugh. ‘Now tasting that was worth it just to see you smile.’

  Her cheeks blazed with heat as he grinned. ‘Mac, do you ever get scared when you’re flying?’