‘Oh, now, I’m sure he’ll be all right.’ Mrs Brown smiled. ‘Sit down and we’ll have a nice cup of tea and you can tell me all about it, dear.’
Stella gave her the news of Mac and told her all about Alex and how stupid she felt, stopping here and there to blow her nose. ‘I told Mac to leave, and he did.’ Her face crumpled as her chest heaved and tears flowed. ‘I have to see him.’ She sniffed and dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief.
‘Well, you try telephoning Addenbrooke’s tomorrow. Now, drink your tea. I’ve put half a sugar lump in yours, dear, seeing as you’ve had a shock. Happen you need it.’
With a sad smile, Mrs Brown left the room, returning a minute later with the photograph of the soldier from the living room. She passed it to Stella. ‘I’ve seen you looking at him, but I suppose you’ve been too polite to ask. His name was Captain James Allyson. He joined the Grenadier Guards in 1913.’ Her face lit up, radiant. ‘We were engaged.’ She sat down and closed her eyes for a moment. ‘And then the war came. Oh, I can see him now as I waved him off at the station. The platform heaved with soldiers, with kitbags and rifles and all us women clutching our hankies. He was so excited to be going – well, they all were in the beginning. He was so handsome and young. Goodness, we both were.’ She smiled and chuckled, but Stella guessed her smile masked something more.
She returned the photograph.
‘He had his own company of men, and he was only twenty-one. I still have all the letters he sent. Everyone said it would be over by Christmas that first year, but we didn’t realise how bad it would be. It dragged on for four years and in that time boys became men, hardened or destroyed by what they’d gone through. James changed. He was so jumpy and quiet.’
She looked away as her blue eyes glazed over, pressing his face close to her chest as if she could make him a part of her for eternity. ‘Oh, how I looked forward to his leave – one time he was due home for a whole week. But then his sister called at our house, something she’d never done before. I still remember how my tummy lurched when I saw her standing there, white as a sheet. I knew before I even opened the door.’ Her voice quavered, and she glanced at Stella, her brow furrowed, her eyes red. ‘He was killed in France, at the Battle of Arras on the twenty-eighth of March, 1918. We would have been married in July that year. Of course, we wanted to marry sooner, but my parents decided we should wait until the war ended. Then, as it dragged on, father gave in, and we set the date. But it was too late.’ She sniffed as she gazed down at the photograph, tracing his outline with her fingertip in a smooth, gentle caress.
Stella blinked fresh tears away. ‘I’m so sorry, Mrs B. That’s so sad.’ It was times like this when words were so inadequate, so futile and yet so necessary.
‘I vowed never to marry, but then years later I met my husband. He was a kind soul, and I came to love him in time, but not a day goes by when I don’t think of James and what might have been. I had a good marriage, but it was too late for any children by then.’
She’d have made a lovely mum, Stella reflected as she wiped a tear away.
‘So, you visit your young man. Don’t be afraid and grab the chances life throws you with open arms. Ride through the challenges and you’ll come out the other side stronger and happier. That way you’ll never miss an opportunity. Pay no attention to the things people say. He’s decent, and I’d know if he wasn’t. So, when you see him, tell him how you feel. Don’t waste a minute of time, it’s too precious.’
Mrs Brown returned the picture to its rightful place on the mantelpiece and smiled, brushing her finger softly over his mouth. ‘You must follow your heart, and sometimes you must take a leap of faith.’
In Cambridge, a honeyed sun shone through acres of blue as people hurried along pavements and vehicles trundled through the town. As the bus crossed the River Cam, Stella glanced down, mesmerised by the light that danced on the ripples of water. She strolled through the grand gated entrance of the hospital and along the tree-lined drive, stepping into the entrance of the main foyer, which was flanked on either side with sandbags. Inside, Addenbrooke’s bustled with people and medical staff, and the clinical smell hit her at once – intense and unsettling. Memories of her father flooded back, and a lump swelled in her throat. She swallowed and took a deep breath, forcing herself to stay calm and carry on. When she reached the ward, it was impossible to pick Mac out from a sea of men and bandages, but a helpful nurse pointed to his bed.
Stella wondered why it was screened off and she hesitated, wild thoughts rushing through her mind as she wondered how badly injured he might be. She swallowed; her palms were moist with sweat and her heart pounded. Gingerly, she pulled the screen aside. Her heart sank as she gazed at him lying there with his eyes screwed shut and beads of sweat shimmering on his brow. He thrashed around as if he was dreaming, turning his head from side to side, and then he muttered something she couldn’t quite hear. Bandages covered his hands and lower arms, and he had dressings on the right side of his face and across his chest. He looked so vulnerable – smaller, somehow. Quietly, she sat down in the chair next to him.
‘No! Birdie, get outta there,’ he called out.
‘Mac, it’s all right. You’re dreaming.’ She touched his arm, gently. ‘It’s me, Stella.’
He stopped muttering and reached across with his other hand, placing it on hers. The bandage was already soiled, and she turned away, trying not to dwell on the state of his hands beneath. His face was rosy, and rivulets of sweat rolled down his temples. A bowl of clean water sat on the bedside cabinet with a cloth, which she soaked and then dabbed his face and brow. His eyes flickered open, and he gazed at her and mumbled something before closing them. Oh, why did she tell him to leave? She’d been such a fool. It was Mac who had needed her, and now more than ever. She longed to hold him, but how could she? He winced, and she saw pain in his contorted face, and her whole being ached. She stroked his shoulder and placed her hand gently on his chest. Somehow, the rise and fall and warmth of it comforted her. When the nurse bustled in and made a point of glancing at her watch, Stella knew it was time to leave.
‘He’s very restless.’
‘Yes, he’s in a lot of pain at the moment, and we’ve had to give him morphine. He’s rather groggy right now so I doubt he’s making much sense.’ She wrote something on the chart and replaced it at the foot of the bed.
‘How bad is he?’
‘Well, he has burns on his hands which will need surgery. The burns on his chest are more superficial, but he’ll need surgery for the face. It’s early days. Shall I tell him you came by?’
‘Yes, please. Just say that Stella was here. Thank you.’ She leant forward and whispered in his ear. ‘I’m going now, but I’ll be back soon, I promise.’ She looked at him one last time and kissed him on the forehead, and he wrapped his arms around her, pinning her to his chest.
‘Stella,’ he whispered, and then fell silent, and his arms relaxed, releasing her.
On her way out, she passed a man in a grey chalk suit, sitting on the side of a patient’s bed. He adjusted his black horn-rimmed spectacles, and Stella clearly heard him say, ‘You boys are all the same. Always taking your goggles and gloves off when you’re flying. Well, not to worry. I’ll fix you up.’
He must have been a doctor, and his accent was unusual. Was it Australian? Perhaps, she wasn’t sure, but he sounded jolly. His tone was soft, gentle, and reassuring, and Stella saw how the patient grinned, even though his eyes were bandaged and he was obviously in a bad way. Suddenly, her chest grew tight, and she could barely breathe. She hurried along the corridor, half-running as her heart raced. Outside, she turned her face up to embrace the fresh air and the golden touch of the sun, sucking in deep breaths and gradually her heart slowed and her chest eased. He’d whispered her name. God, she couldn’t bear to think of Mac in pain like that. When he’d held her, his firm hold had reassured her, but now he needed the reassurance.
Chapter Fifteen
The Beauty S
hop
Mac cast a gaze at the nurse as she wheeled a trolley laden with piles of crisp, fresh linen out into the ward, its wheels squeaking, protesting beneath the burdening weight. She approached one of the beds, removed the clipboard that hung at the end, and wrote on the chart, then glanced at the mound beneath the covers.
‘Not getting up today, Pete? Sister Jamieson’s on duty, you know. She’ll have your guts for garters so she will.’ Her Irish accent, soft and light. An auburn lock of hair escaped her cap, and she tucked it behind her ear.
‘I’m supposed to be on sick leave, Bea. Can’t a chap have a lie in for once?’
‘Sick leave, you say? Ah, for a moment there you had me fooled. I could have sworn I saw you racing that wheelchair up and around this ward last night. Having a whale of a time, you were. And I’m sure it was a man just like you that almost knocked that poor woman off her feet. And I suppose you’ll be telling me next it wasn’t you who got drunk and fell into the bath while it was still full! Water all over a clean floor and you dripping right through the ward.’ Her mouth curved up into a smile.
As he opened his mouth to speak, she cut in again. ‘Mr McIndoe has bent over backwards for all of you, but there are limits, you know, and last night you surpassed them.’
Pete’s face glowed scarlet. ‘Well, it was all just a bit of fun. You know how it is when boys get together.’
‘Oh, I do. And just so you know, Sister will be keeping her eyes fixed on all of you today.’ Bea raised her eyebrows before bustling away to the next bed. Just then a guy whizzed by, propelling his wheelchair while gripping a pint of beer between his thighs.
‘Top of the morning, Bea,’ he said, in a mock Irish accent.
Her jaw dropped, and she stood with her hands on her hips, her eyes narrowed. ‘Good morning, Mr Evans. It’s early to be drinking, don’t you think?’
‘Well, that’s a matter of opinion. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, the hair of the dog and all that.’ He laughed and propelled himself across to the breakfast table where a few of the men sat, helping themselves to tea and toast.
The morning sun bathed the ward in golden light. Fragrant roses, carnations, and tulips flowed from vases placed by every man’s bed. Mac wondered who brought the flowers. Blooms of pink, orange, and cream blended with fern and sure did brighten the place up. Nurses busied themselves making beds; crisp, starched white sheets with light green counterpanes on top, tucked in tight with traditional nursing corners and the sheet folded back over the counterpane to lie neatly at the foot of the pillows.
In rows, the beds reflected regimented military bunks, and it was the only order you would find here. Everything else other than medical care seemed to be haphazard, irregular, unruly, and goddamn weird. The United States Army had a saying for such things: SNAFU – situation normal, all fucked up. Mac smiled. And the guys here really knew how to shoot a line.
A bell rang out, and Mac could hardly believe his eyes when one of the guys sailed into the ward on a bicycle. He stopped, dismounted, and pulled a brown paperbag from the basket on the front and shouted out, ‘Eccles cakes. Get your Eccles cakes.’ He then dipped a hand into the bag and dragged out the cakes one by one and threw them onto the beds.
The doors to the ward swung open, and Mr McIndoe strode in and surveyed the scene like a general scrutinising his troops, then he removed his spectacles and wiped the lenses with his handkerchief before heading to Sister’s office. Mac was desperate to know how long he was going to be stuck here. Mr McIndoe had seemed like a great guy when he first met him and had made him feel at ease and in safe hands.
He glanced over at the guy in the next bed, who was having surgery later. He was from Idaho. After a skirmish with a German fighter, the fuel tank in his Spitfire had exploded. God knows how he bailed out. He was a mess. When Mac asked him what he did before the war, he said, ‘I was studying at art college. When this is all over, I’m hoping to go back.’
Mac shook his head. Just like Birdie. He looked down. Maybe he was all washed up. The war had in one sense been a blessing in that it had revealed his true passion – flying. He was born to fly; he felt it, and if the US Army Air Force now took away his wings, it would be like restricting the air he breathed. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and slowly exhaled, aware of his heart hammering in his ears.
He recalled his excitement when he’d enlisted. But reality had soon dawned, and the war, which he’d thought to be a just cause, had transcended into a monster that sucked the life right out of you. It stripped away any religious beliefs one layer at a time until all you felt was a hollow in your gut and an ache in your chest that grew heavier, deeper, until it crushed you inwardly and you could barely breathe, hope, or care whether you lived or died. That was where he’d been when he first spotted Stella across a crowded dance hall, and by the time she turned and met his gaze, his heart whispered she was for keeps. He screwed his eyes shut.
His thoughts turned to his crew. A well-oiled machine ripped apart, with Mac as the damaged cog. Service life had become his life and now, separated from the only other home he’d ever known, he was adrift in strange waters. Vera Lynn crooned over the radio – ‘We’ll Meet Again.’
He’d lain in bed for a week since arriving; not that he could recall much. The nurse told him earlier that he’d had a pretty bad infection, but today he felt stronger. In the early hours, he’d woken in sweat-drenched sheets to find the night nurse hovering over him, her hand on his shoulder asking if he was all right. Hell no, I’m goddamned burned, he’d wanted to yell.
‘You were shouting out in your sleep. That’s the second time tonight.’ She’d smiled at him, but it was a pity smile.
The dreams were growing more vivid, and last night he swore he saw Birdie for real. And when he clambered out of bed to check around the ward for signs of his dead gunner, the nurse had scolded him like a child. She insisted it was simply a dream, but he was darn sure he’d seen him standing there in flames. Jesus, he’d smelt the burning flesh like roasted pork, and it drifted all around now, thick, lining his throat. Maybe it was his own flesh. He couldn’t shake it off so he closed his eyes as Vera sang of blue skies and dark clouds.
His injuries showed signs of healing, so he’d been told, and at least the pain wasn’t so bad now. It was a relief to finally ditch those stinking pyjamas and put on his service pinks and greens, and he felt a step closer to his former self, but he had to know how bad he looked. The nurse had brushed him off this morning when he’d requested a mirror. What was that all about? She’d applied a light dressing to his cheek and neck. ‘It’s healing beautifully,’ was all she’d said. Her opinion. Everything was a mess. He couldn’t fly, he was trapped here, missing the guys, missing Stella. And now he couldn’t do anything for himself. This wasn’t how he’d imagined it when he enlisted, but back then he hadn’t given much thought to dying either.
A friendly voice fractured his reverie. ‘G’day, mate. I’m Dickie – a pilot with the Australian Air Force. Welcome to the Beauty Shop.’ He took out a battered cigarette case and offered it to Mac.
‘Mac. I’m with the Eighth.’ He gestured with his bandaged hands, unable to hold a cigarette.
‘No worries, mate.’ Dickie lit it for him, reached over, and placed it in Mac’s mouth. ‘Not be long and you’ll get those bloody bandages off.’ He lit one for himself and removed Mac’s so he could flick the ash.
‘What did you call this place?’
‘Listen, boys, we got ourselves another Yank.’ Dickie grinned at him, his once sun-kissed skin from the Australian shores had faded, replaced by scar tissue, but his sparkling, almond eyes held an air of mischief. ‘The Beauty Shop, mate – it’s where you come to be made up, you know, after you’ve been fried. Mind you, some of the blokes call it a madhouse.’
He laughed, then drew on his cigarette. ‘It’s all right. We’re a mixed bunch – Pommies, Yanks, Poles, Aussies, Kiwis, Free French, all mashed, burned, or fried for King and country
.’ He studied Mac for a moment, grinning. ‘Could have been worse, you know.’ He glanced at Mac’s bandaged hands. ‘Bloke down the end there, they’ve got him wrapped up like a mummy. He’s well and truly fried, poor bugger, and blind.’
Worse? Yeah, he should be dead, like Birdie. Mac sighed. Jesus. He glanced around at everyone as Dickie’s voice seemed to fade away. One guy wasn’t even in his bed. He was in traction, suspended above it, a mass of bandages stuffed in striped blue and white pyjamas with a thatch of thick brown unruly hair.
Dickie’s voice cut in. ‘That bloody waster opposite is Lee.’
Mac glanced across at a guy in RAF blues wearing an eye patch, slouched on his bed, reading a copy of Rafters magazine.
‘And that’s Pete over there by the bathroom. He’s a laugh.’ Dickie drew on his cigarette. His eyelids were bright red and drooped like hoods, and his entire face was a patchwork quilt of scarlet and pale skin, like his hands.
Lee glanced up from his magazine and nodded his head, which he held at an awkward angle, and the breath caught in Mac’s throat. Lee had a roll of skin like a sausage attached to the bridge of the nose, which hung down across his face and reached inside his shirt. Mac wondered where it ended. The guy couldn’t hold his head upright, and it sure looked uncomfortable.
‘Watch out, lads, stand by your beds. Dragon approaching twelve o’clock high.’ Dickie stood up. ‘Take it easy, mate.’ He winked.
Sister Jamieson made a beeline for Mac, carrying a brown medical file, walking with a rigid, straight back, her thin lips curving into a faint smile. Her white headdress sat aloft her greying hair, which was scraped away from her sallow face and pinned at the back.
‘Good afternoon, Lieutenant. I’m glad to see you looking more comfortable. Mr McIndoe will be along shortly to reassess you. In the meantime, the orderly will take you to the saline bath.’ She raised her pencil-thin eyebrows, her brow transcending into multiple furrows.
THE BEAUTY SHOP Page 14