THE BEAUTY SHOP

by Suzy Henderson

  Mac nodded. ‘I’ll do whatever it takes.’ He slid his hand back beneath the water.

  ‘Don’t worry, we’ll have you roping steers in no time at all. Well, I’ll leave you to your soak. Good to see you again, Mac. Cheerio.’ Archie grinned and winked.

  ‘Thanks, doc. I appreciate it.’

  Archie blew out a breath as beads of sweat rolled down his back. It was early days, and Mac was grappling with the reality of his situation, rolling through a range of emotions. It was the way of it, and it was normal to grieve for what seemed lost and beyond reach. Mac was clinging on to his former self, and, although he didn’t know it, there would be further battles to win if he were to live a full life. Archie realised he would have to push him in the right direction.

  Something caught his eye and he stopped. ‘Is this yours, Jimmy?’ Archie held up a copy of Bazaar magazine, which depicted a picture of Lauren Bacall posing with the American Red Cross on the front cover.

  ‘What’s that, Maestro?’ Jimmy squinted across the room. ‘No, that’s not mine. You take it.’

  Archie sauntered through the ward, his mind reeling with thoughts. These boys couldn’t wait to get back in the air. Was one roasting not enough? He pinched his lips together and paused at the office door to speak with Sister, but before he could utter a word, angry shouting erupted in the ward. Pilot Officer Stan Johnson was out of bed, frantically tearing at the dressings on his face while the young VAD looked on, her eyes wide, and a look of utter helplessness on her rosy face. Sister Jamieson dashed out to help, with Archie close on her heels.

  ‘Get me a bloody mirror – now!’ Stan yelled, his bandages hanging loosely around his neck, revealing his burned face, devoid of expression – devoid of a nose and eyelids. Swollen, scarlet lips bulged out from his bloated face – even his ears were partially burned away.

  ‘Please, Stan, we don’t have mirrors in this ward. The nurse meant nothing by it. She’s so young, that’s all,’ Bea said, trying to calm the man, who was now gasping for breath.

  Sister Jamieson brought some portable screens and placed them around the bed to shield him from the curious stares of the other men. ‘It looks like the new VAD got a shock when she saw his facial injuries. She may have said something in error,’ she said to Archie with wide eyes, wringing her hands.

  ‘May have? She bloody well must have for him to be in this state. Well, I don’t want her on this ward. She’ll have to go – at once.’ Archie’s eyes narrowed, and heat spread up his neck and flooded into his face. ‘Stupid girl,’ he muttered. He heaved in a deep breath; the nauseating odour of burned flesh rushed into his nostrils, and he snorted it out. ‘Now then, young chap, what’s all this about a mirror? It’s far too soon – you haven’t given me a chance to show you what we can do yet, and besides, your first surgery is scheduled for this afternoon. Let’s get that out of the way first and then you can judge the results for yourself.’ Archie sat down on the man’s bed and patted his shoulder.

  ‘Look at me. I’m finished.’ Stan hung his head, his shoulders drooping.

  Sunlight trickled through the window, spilling over the bed and the table. ‘You’ve got some pretty serious injuries, but I promised you when you first arrived that we’d fix you up, and that’s what we’re going to do.’

  Stan sank down on the bed and sighed. ‘I’m a mess, Archie, a bloody mess. How in God’s name are you going to fix this?’ He pointed at his face, his chin trembling.

  Archie laid his hand upon Stan’s shoulder, and tremors snaked up his arm. ‘One step at a time, that’s how.’ Archie stared into the lad’s eyes and nodded. ‘Now, Bea will put some fresh dressings on and I’ll see you shortly in theatre.’ He stood up. ‘It takes time, but you’ll get there.’

  He charged off to Sister’s office and closed the door. The blood rushed through his ears. ‘Make sure you dismiss that girl. I won’t tolerate behaviour like that – it’s no good for the boys. What message do you think she’s just given him? It’s bad enough when their own wives and girlfriends abandon them. We do not abandon them, nor do we judge. What the hell do these girls think war is? It’s horrific and bloody brutal, and I want people who won’t flinch. Is that understood?’ He was aware that almost everyone could hear him, but he didn’t care.

  ‘Yes, Mr McIndoe.’ Sister Jamieson, usually so composed and unflappable, seemed a little stunned, as a scarlet tinge flooded her cheeks.

  Archie was still fuming when he reached his office. He needed girls who could keep their heads at all times. He was trying to show these boys that they still had lives worth living. How could he do that if silly girls were going to look horrified whenever they saw a disfigured face? His staff needed to treat them all normally otherwise his methods would fail, and he was not about to let that happen. No, he would have to recruit some fresh faces. The boys could do without these young, well-meaning types who had no idea how to control their emotions or disguise their feelings.

  Archie pursed his lips as a surge of adrenaline coursed through his body. For Christ’s sake, these lads had almost lost their lives, and many had lost their faces, their boyish looks, and their independence. They were transformed from glorious, revered flyboys to faceless dependents whose stars had dimmed, searching for their identities. Some depression was inevitable, but silly girls acting hysterically around them were bound to propel some of them head-first into the black.

  His nurses needed to act the part, and they had to be convincing if they were to show the boys that looks weren’t everything. He needed girls who could flatter and make them feel good about themselves no matter what; help them to feel like a man – needed, desired. He glanced down at the copy of Bazaar. Lauren Bacall was certainly a stunner, the perfect medicine, but he had little chance of charming a Hollywood actress to East Grinstead. No, but there was another way. He smiled to himself.

  Childish laughter and squeals of delight flowed in through the open window. Archie spun his chair around and gazed outside. Two small boys sailed through the hospital gardens ahead of their mother, with their arms outstretched like wings. Gulls squealed as they circled above. A sudden sadness gripped his chest, and he heaved in a breath as the sight evoked childhood memories of New Zealand summers. Memories which elicited feelings long since forgotten.

  A family weekend away in Brighton, New Zealand, at the beginning of the Christmas holidays in 1912. Jack, his elder brother, had squelched through the wet sand barefoot, dressed in shorts and a top as he clambered over the rock pools that lay on the reef at low tide. They went there most weekends, to their family holiday cottage. The gulls cried overhead as Archie’s feet sank into the wet, gritty sand, warming his wiggling toes. Jack hoisted a crayfish from the green pool on the reef and lowered it into his bucket of seawater. Archie’s gaze flicked out to sea, to the giant waves in the distance as the breeze whispered warm, salty air into his face and mouth. That’s when he saw it. A huge mountain of black granite that rose from its deep-sea bed as waves lashed and fizzed at its sides, blowing foam onto the granite ledge. A secret island.

  Squinting at the endless blue above, he gazed in awe at a stretch of white feathered clouds. ‘Angel Wings.’ A shadow passed over him as a white albatross glided out over the ocean and swooped down to settle on the rock – his island. The bird, relaxed and free, turned and cast him a taunting look, then beat its wings and soared into the blue with grace. The tide had turned, and the water crept closer as waves roared in and ebbed away with a shush, the relentless beating heart of the ocean, another taunt. A burning flared in his chest. ‘I’m going to swim out there.’ Archie crossed his arms and held his head high as he quickly assessed the distance.

  ‘No, you’re not. It’s too far, Nookie. You’ll never make it.’ Jack laughed.

  ‘Who says? It’s not too far for me.’ His brother ought to know better than to set a challenge. ‘Besides, I’m the best swimmer in the family.’

  Later, at home, when Archie told his parents of his plan, his mother’s face
paled. ‘You can’t swim that far, it’s not safe. You’re getting too many wild ideas just lately.’

  His father sucked on his pipe and chuckled. ‘You’re only twelve, and it’s too far for a shrimp to swim.’

  ‘I have to do it. I promised. It’s my New Year’s resolution, and I can’t break a promise, can I?’

  And so the next day at low tide, he stripped down to his bathing trunks and dived in as his family watched nervously from the shore. Archie battled the raging current that prevailed in the Channel and the Pacific rollers further out until, finally, he reached the rock, grabbed the ledge, and hauled himself out, propelled upward on the swelling arms of the ocean. Breathing hard, he waved to his family, who waved back, then he turned his gaze out to sea. The heart of the ocean raged and spat froth at the rock and drenched him, but Archie was the victor, and his heart swelled as he raised his chin and puffed out his chest. The gulls cheered from above, as he dared to dream of adventures that lay beyond the shimmering horizon.

  His determination and sheer iron will had brought success, and that very flicker of determination flared within him still. Never in his wildest dreams could he have imagined that his adventures would eventually lead him here, to East Grinstead. He shook his head. ‘There’s always a way.’ Jack was so often in his thoughts, and he prayed his brother was being treated well by his German captors. Archie blew out a heavy sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose.

  Faces, looks, identity. A scene suddenly sprung to life from a childhood book. When Alice first saw Humpty Dumpty sitting on the wall, she remarked, ‘The face is what one goes by, generally.’ Quite right, first impressions and all that. Of course, Humpty Dumpty had complained how all faces were the same and how he longed to see a face with a mouth at the top and both eyes together on one side. As a young boy, Archie had thought how strange that would be, and he’d laughed. How he’d tried to imagine such a face – and now he barely had to imagine at all.

  He pondered the words from the story as various meanings and theories bobbed around in his head. A world where such difference might be tolerated and accepted. Here, in this small town, he was in the throes of accomplishing that very feat. As for the rest of the world, well, even he could see that was going to take time.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Just a Little Prick

  ‘Mr Hicks, what are you doing in bed?’ Bea said with a hint of disapproval. ‘You’ll miss breakfast if you don’t get a move on.’ The linen trolley rattled and squealed until she abandoned it at the foot of the bed.

  ‘I’ve been trying to move for the last fifteen minutes, nurse. Some bugger’s tucked my sheets in too tight again. I can’t budge with these ruddy bandages on my hands.’

  Mac suppressed a laugh as Bea glared at the men sitting at the breakfast table. They were huddled close, casting sideways glances while attempting to stifle their laughter, sniggering. Bea untucked the blankets and Dave Hicks finally clambered out of bed. As he made his way to the table, Mac heard him say, ‘I’ll bloody swing for you lot one of these days. Just you wait.’

  An outbreak of hearty laughter erupted, and one of the guys almost choked on a piece of toast, coughing and spluttering as his face turned a deep shade of scarlet. Dave perched on a chair at the table with a smirk and Pete slapped him on the back, poured him a cup of tea, popped in a straw, and pushed it across to him. Next, he took a slice of toast, scraped a thin layer of butter on top, and held it up to Dave’s mouth. Dave took a bite. ‘Ta,’ he mumbled through the mouthful, the prank already a fading memory.

  Mac marvelled at the camaraderie; it was a routine, something they did every day, so well-rehearsed that Dave didn’t even need to ask.

  Mac cast a gaze at the screens positioned around the bed next to his as voices drifted out.

  ‘Come on, Ginger. Give me one of your famous bed baths.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about and keep your voice down or Sister will hear you.’

  A VAD nurse with fiery red hair slipped out from behind the screens and marched off to the sluice room.

  ‘Now then, is there anything I can get for you, Mac?’ Bea stood at the foot of his bed.

  ‘Can someone write a letter for me?’

  ‘We can indeed. I’ll send Lily over to you. Not be long.’

  Mac wondered what to say to Stella. His head screamed not to write, but his heart insisted. Maybe he was wasting his time. She wouldn’t want him now anyway, and even if she did, she’d soon get tired of looking after him like a child. He’d just write and say he was injured and might be here a while. It was the right thing to do.

  Swing music bubbled through the ward. Mac watched as Bea slipped by, wheeling a trolley and disappeared into the sluice room. Then, the linen cupboard door slowly creaked open, and from the inside, Dickie cautiously peered out into the ward, glancing both ways. The coast was clear. He caught Mac’s eye, his mouth curved into a wicked smile, and he winked. Mac nodded. What the hell was he doing? He didn’t have to wait long to find out. No sooner had Dickie walked away, a young VAD emerged from the cupboard, tucked a few loose strands of ash-blonde hair into her white headdress, smoothed her hands down the front of her apron, then marched off into the sluice room. As Dickie passed Mac’s bed, he paused.

  ‘What can I say, mate? Can’t get enough of me.’ He laughed and swaggered off to join the guys at the breakfast table, lighting up a cigarette on the way.

  Unbelievable. As Mac pondered over what to say to Stella, the ward doors opened, and a young woman teetered in on high heels, clip-clopping across the polished linoleum floor, casting her icy-blue gaze over each bed. She clutched her purse tightly against the brown tweed suit she wore, and with her free hand, lifted it to her matching tweed hat as if to check it was still in place. Mac watched as she walked by. Her eyes raked over each and every one of them as her face took on a startled, uncertain look and she flicked her tongue across her ruby lips.

  ‘Beth, you came.’ George Thomson called out. He lay in the second bed along from Mac and was easily within earshot. ‘Sit down, love.’ He propped himself up.

  The woman paused at the foot of his bed, her lips pursed. The poor guy had been waiting for a visit from his wife for weeks now and by the look on her face, she didn’t seem too pleased to be here. Hesitantly, she sat down. Mac turned away, but he could hear their conversation plain enough. There wasn’t much room for privacy here.

  ‘I knew you’d come, Beth,’ George said. ‘I missed you.’

  ‘Yes, well, I had to see for myself.’ Beth sniffed.

  Her voice was cold and shrill, and an icy trickle slipped through Mac.

  ‘Really, Beth, it’s not as bad as it looks.’

  ‘You’ve lost your leg, George. How much worse could it be?’ she snapped. ‘How are you ever going to work again? Look at you. You’re not the same man I married, lying there like that.’

  George patted the bed. ‘Come and sit here, love.’

  She didn’t move.

  ‘Sorry, George, but I can’t do this. I can’t be stuck at home caring for you like some nursemaid. I want to dance – how are you going to dance now? Life will never be the same. That’s all there is to it.’ She rose majestically, her face solemn. ‘I told you not to join the RAF. I’ll send your things on to your mother.’

  One of the guys flicked the radio off, severing the music.

  ‘But Beth, love. You don’t know what you’re saying. You’ve got to give me a chance. It’ll work, you’ll see. The Maestro is going to fix me up.’

  Long faces peered over at George and flicked gazes at one another while George implored his wife to stay and listen. She backed away, her narrow eyes empty as she turned and marched off, her head held high as her clattering footsteps echoed, fracturing the ensuing silence.

  How could she abandon him like that? It was cold and cruel. She couldn’t be a nursemaid, that’s what she’d said. If a man’s own wife can’t do it, what hope did he have? Mac swallowed.

  G
eorge lay sprawled on his bed, his mouth wide open, as tears slipped silently down his cheeks. He was in no position to go after her. One by one, the boys approached him with empathetic gazes, and one patted his shoulder while another lit up a cigarette and passed it to him. Another placed a pint on his bedside table, maybe for later, and returned to his chair. While most ebbed away, two seated themselves at the bottom of the bed, smoking and waiting.

  Mac couldn’t suck in breaths fast enough. He had to see what he looked like, but where would he find a mirror? Girls flocked around GIs, but no one wanted to be saddled with a disfigured one. He pictured Stella and a light dimmed inside. His eyes misted over, then he spotted Lily through the haze, who smiled and waved a writing pad up in the air. Inwardly, he groaned.

  ‘Bea said you wanted to write a letter home?’ Lily sank down in the chair, waiting with her pen poised.

  ‘Yeah, well, I’m not sure if it’s the right thing to do.’

  ‘Oh?’ Lily smiled warmly. ‘Is it a girl?’

  ‘Yeah, only I figured she’s better off without me.’ Mac leant back against his pillows and closed his eyes. Cigarette smoke wafted in the air, mingling with the stale, nauseating odour of burned flesh. He sniffed. A faint scent of lavender rose through it all and his heart squeezed.

  ‘Well, I don’t know about that, but if it were me, then I’d like to be the one who makes that decision.’

  She had a point. He’d pursued Stella like crazy, and it seemed she’d felt something for him. Of course, after what he’d witnessed, he had no right to ask anything of Stella – or to expect it. Besides, he didn’t want a nursemaid. A surge of pain tightened in his throat, and he was powerless to grab or punch anything right now. Each time Lily moved, lavender assaulted his senses, and he drank it in, fuelling his hunger to hold Stella in his arms and kiss her lips, and fuelling his rage for craving her love.