THE BEAUTY SHOP

by Suzy Henderson

  ‘Come on. There’s no time like the present. You tell me what to say.’ Lily cast a reassuring smile.

  His jaw tightened. He was backed into a corner. So let her write the damn letter. What did he have to lose? Mac kept it simple as he dictated the message, and Lily scratched away with her pen. He didn’t want Stella to be pressured into visiting and besides, he had nothing to offer her.

  ‘She must be special, this girl.’ Lily’s gentle voice jolted him from his reverie.

  ‘Yeah.’ She sure was and always would be. Tears sprang to his eyes.

  ‘Well, that’s the letter finished. I’ll see it goes in the next post. I’m sure Stella will be thrilled to hear from you.’ Lily smiled and hurried away to the nurse’s office.

  ‘I doubt that,’ Mac muttered.

  Later that evening, Mac waited until the night nurses were busy attending to other patients before slipping out of bed. Dickie had said there was a mirror in the side room, which was empty right now. He slipped in, and all was dark. It hung on the wall opposite the door and snatched the faint glow of light that now streamed in from the corridor. Dickie had already loosened the dressing off so all he had to do was lift it up from the bottom, which was not so easy with bandaged hands, but he managed somehow. His mouth ran dry. The smell of burned flesh was even stronger now, and he almost gagged. He clenched his jaw and stepped closer to the mirror, closing his eyes. The nurses didn’t allow mirrors because they didn’t want you to see what you had become, and he didn’t want to see either, but he had to know. He took a deep breath and opened his eyes. Even from the shadows, he could see the mark of war. Laughter from the guys out in the ward fractured the silence, and he jumped.

  The right side of his face was red raw; a cluster of weeping blisters lay below his right eye, fanned out across the cheek, and slipped down to his neck. The skin was puckered – rigid and ugly. The Maestro’s words rang in his ears. We’ll fix you up. Words weighted in confidence. How was he going to fix this?

  The breath caught in Mac’s throat, and his chest heaved. On the normal side, stubble thrived. How strange it didn’t grow through the burned flesh. That side of him reeked of death and decay. The blackout curtains masked the night and shielded the moon, and he suddenly had an urge to see the universe above, as if seeking reassurance that there was more to this life than what lay here in this place right now. He parted them slightly and gazed up. A yellow crescent hung in the sapphire night, and he closed his eyes and summoned her image. Ruby lips, green eyes that shimmered like the Pacific, svelte hands that had graced his skin with silk. He took a deep breath, holding her image a little longer in his heart. No, she wouldn’t want him now, not like this. Now he had to lock her away in the farthest corner of his mind.

  He faced the mirror. ‘Birdie died because of me.’ His face crumpled, tears flowed, and salt water snaked down his cheeks, soothing. He conjured up the German people caught within the bombers’ path who lay beneath mounds of burning rubble. All human beings. He swallowed to drown the guilt, but it fought back and floated to the surface. ‘God forgive me.’ His shoulders heaved and shook and his voice cracked. Musical notes drifted in through the open door – ‘We’ll Meet Again.’ Mac lowered his head, and his body gave way to the emotion that had bound him for days. He leaned back against the wall and sank to the floor. After some time, someone placed a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Don’t worry, mate. I’ve seen far worse.’ Dickie smiled as he crouched down in front of him. ‘Mac, look at me.’

  Mac’s breaths were short and shallow as he sucked in air and the heat rose in his face. He raised his chin.

  ‘Take deep breaths, nice and steady.’ He placed his hands on Mac’s shoulders. ‘Slow and steady, now. That’s it.’

  The tightness in Mac’s chest gradually eased, and his heart slowed as he took longer, deeper breaths.

  ‘That’s better, mate. You’ll be all right, you’ll see, and when your face is fixed those scars will fade a little. You’ll be amazed at what the Maestro can do.’ Dickie secured Mac’s dressings in place. Next, he took out two cigarettes, lit them and put one in Mac’s mouth. ‘This is as bad as it gets. You’re on the up, now. Trust me, I know.’

  Mac stared into his eyes and somehow he believed him. Here, they were one and the same, and there was no explaining to be done. Here, they could believe they were normal.

  ‘Right-oh. Let’s get you back before you’re missed and I’ll grab us a couple of beers.’

  Mac followed him to the ward, his head reeling with thoughts, a cigarette dangling from his lips. One side of his face was a mess, and he wasn’t going to be able to hide away here forever. How would people react to him? Jesus. He heaved out a breath. He should never have had Lily write that damn letter.

  Another week passed by and finally it was time for Mac’s first operation. He still hadn’t received a reply from Stella, which was probably just as well. He didn’t want her to see him like this. Dickie tinkled on the piano, flirting with a cute VAD, seemingly teaching her how to play, although it looked like he was showing her more than the piano as he whispered in her ear. She blushed, giggled, and shuffled closer.

  They had woken to a wet, misty day, and the smell of rain penetrating dry earth drifted in on the breeze through the open windows. The delicious, sweet, scent carried memories of home, and as Mac waited for surgery, bile rose in his throat. What if it made no difference? He thought of his squadron, and he screwed his eyes tightly shut.

  Lily had persuaded him to do a jigsaw yesterday. What a joke. She’d sat by him on the bed, trying to figure out which piece went where. ‘You tell me which ones will fit, then,’ she’d said in that gentle, sweet voice of hers. He couldn’t make any of the pieces fit, not with his hands, not now, maybe not ever. And so he gave up and sat staring at the wall, and she’d been real sweet about it, but nothing she said made him feel any better.

  He’d suffered the indignity of having his entire left arm shaved earlier by Sister Jamieson. Then he’d jumped as she doused it with ether, a cold, icy spray which made his eyes water as the fumes reached into the back of his throat. Afterwards, Jimmy, the bathroom orderly, shaved his left leg and groin. Now he lay on top of the bed like a mummy, with his hands, lower arms, and his right leg wrapped in sterile dressings and bandages.

  ‘Strewth, mate. I see you got the full works,’ Dickie chuckled. ‘Hey, how about a drink?’

  ‘Don’t think I can, boys. Save me one for later,’ Mac said.

  ‘No alcohol for you today, at all,’ Sister Jamieson bellowed, stepping forward. ‘This man is having an operation, and I’d advise you not to be plying him with beer. Mr McIndoe is most strict about that on surgery days. And it’s rather early, don’t you think?’ Her tone was acid, and she cast Dickie a steely glance.

  ‘Can’t break one of the Maestro’s commandments, now, boys,’ Pete muttered through half-clamped lips.

  Sister glared at him, her eyebrows raised, and she walked away.

  ‘She should be in a museum.’ Dickie smirked. ‘Thou shall not covet beer on ops day.’ The guys laughed.

  Mac glanced at the clock. It was almost eleven. They’d be coming for him any moment now. His mouth was as dry as the desert, and he was desperate for a sip of water as he licked his lips and swallowed. A letter on his bedside table caught his eye. He didn’t recognise the writing, but his heart hopped in his chest as he ripped open the envelope.

  ‘Good news?’ Pete asked.

  ‘Not sure.’ Mac’s eyes flew across the lines, hungry for her words.

  Dear Mac,

  I was so relieved to finally hear from you. I was so worried when Vera told me about your accident and I’m so sorry to hear that your friend died. You were so brave in rescuing him. I came to see you in Cambridge, but you were sedated and sleeping so I don’t suppose you knew I was there. You didn’t say much in your letter so I’m hoping that everything is all right.

  I’ll come and see you just as soon as I can get leave. Th
ere’s so much I need to say, and we parted on such bad terms. I’m sorry for what I said and for hurting you. Well, I hope they’re looking after you there and that you’re feeling better. I miss you.

  Love,

  Stella xx

  Mac’s eyes fixed onto that second last word: love. Did she love him? His heart leapt, and he read the letter again. So she did come to the hospital in Cambridge. He blew out a breath. Even so, she hadn’t seen the real him, and while his heart and soul ached to see her, he realised nothing had changed. She was still better off without him. He screwed his eyes shut and swallowed the lump in his throat.

  ‘All ready?’ Archie’s face appeared serious as he strode towards him in his surgical scrubs, but his eyes twinkled and bore that mischievous look.

  ‘As I’ll ever be, doc.’

  ‘I’m afraid you can expect some pain when you wake up, but we’ll keep you topped up with morphine for that. It can take a few days for it to settle, but once we know the grafts have taken, you can start doing some therapy.’

  ‘I’ll do all the therapy and more if it gets me a one-way ticket back to base.’ Mac managed a nervous smile.

  ‘You’ll be fine, Mac. Try not to worry. Right, I’m off to get ready. See you soon.’

  Mac lay back and closed his eyes. He winced. His hands had been throbbing that morning – a constant reminder of the accident – and a sharp pain zipped through his palm and into his wrist.

  ‘Hey, Mac,’ Dickie called over to him. ‘I’ll walk down to theatre with you.’

  ‘Is that even allowed?’

  ‘Course it is. We do it all the time – take it in turns. Sometimes the Maestro lets us watch – well, those of us who can stand it.’ He turned to check the clock. ‘Last time I saw an op with a bloke who’d recently had his nose done. He passed out – only went and landed on his conk, didn’t he? The Maestro had to re-do it.’ Dickie broke down laughing so heartily at the memory that tears rolled down his cheek. ‘Besides, there’s nothing much going on around here.’ He sauntered over to the piano and began to play, and some of the boys sang along – ‘Roll Out The Barrel.’

  ‘Yeah, it’s a barrel of laughs all right,’ Mac muttered, thinking back to jollier times. He took a deep breath. The first time he’d set eyes on Stella had been one of those thunderbolt moments, and he knew she was the girl for him – only she had been with the wrong guy. But now he was the wrong guy. The doors to the ward burst open, and Jimmy barged through, whistling and pushing a theatre trolley.

  ‘Ready then?’ he asked. ‘Hop on.’ He turned to the boys in the ward. ‘Right then, which one of you lousy lot is doing the theatre run?’

  ‘I’m your man.’ Dickie stood up, took a swig from his beer tankard, and charged up through the ward.

  ‘Lord help us.’ Jimmy shook his head.

  Mac lay down on the trolley while Jimmy dragged the blanket over him. On the way to the operating theatre, Mac offered up a prayer to God. He wondered if Dickie was right. The doc always sounded so confident; maybe he could fix him up. But it would never be enough. What would he say to Stella? Maybe she’d be repulsed, but he’d have to see her one last time just so he could let her go. What did she mean in her letter when she said there was so much to say? It was probably nothing – probably more talk about how sorry she was to hear about the accident. He didn’t want her to face life with him like this. The shadows were closing in already, and Bill’s face flashed in his mind. A vice clamped his chest, and he swallowed. They passed through the open doors of the theatre to where the anaesthetist was ready and waiting, dressed in surgical scrubs.

  ‘You’ll be all right, mate. We’ll all be here for you when you get back.’ Dickie patted his shoulder and moved out of the way.

  Archie’s voice filtered across the room, above the spray and splutter of gushing water. His tone was light, and there was something reassuring about it. The doc was a good guy and Dickie had to be right. Archie would fix him up, eventually.

  ‘Ah, we meet again. Now then, Mac, I’m just going to put a needle into your arm.’ The anaesthetist, John Hunter, was a tall, burly chap with a kind face and sparkling eyes. There was a rather playful youthfulness to his voice, which held such rise and fall and made him sound as jolly as he looked. ‘Now, it’s well known that my anaesthesia is more superb than that of other doctors, and I assure you that when you come round, you won’t feel sick. Anyone who does can have a free pint on me.’ His face crumpled into a warming smile.

  ‘I might hold you to it.’ Mac laughed nervously.

  ‘Right then, where were we?’ He took hold of Mac’s right arm and looked for a vein, tapping the skin until a thin turquoise streak bulged on the surface. ‘Now then, just a little prick,’ he said in a hushed, velvety voice.

  Mac looked away as a sharp sting shot through his arm. He glanced up and noticed the viewing gallery above with several people peering at him. Spectators in an operating theatre. This place sure was a madhouse. A strange, floaty, heavy feeling drifted through him as he began to laugh. No wonder the guys called themselves guinea pigs. Everything was experimental, and now here he was, on display in a zoo, and then . . . nothing.

  Mac strained to open his eyes; his eyelids were lead-heavy, and he tried to keep them open, but it was no use. Suddenly, a loud drumming kicked in, and Mac turned his head to the window. As he peeked through half-open eyes, the black-grey edges of his vision cleared. A golden glow flooded the ward as the drumming ceased and droplets streaked down the glass. Blue sky loomed, but the drumming continued in his head as sharp pain hammered his hands as if nails were being driven through them.

  Still drowsy from the anaesthetic, he drifted in and out of sleep. The pain in his hands intensified, building up to a crescendo as the nails transcended into red-hot pokers. Finally, he cried out. The nurse said something, but he couldn’t make it out, and then she left, and he closed his eyes and drifted through a sea of pain.

  Chapter Eighteen

  A Fresh Start

  Stella steeled herself as she breezed through the gates of the Queen Victoria Hospital. A helpful nurse directed her to the grounds at the rear, where she saw a group of wooden huts, Ward III being among them. She took a deep breath and checked her reflection in her compact. The Max Factor red had faded on her lips, but her hair was neat. Her cheeks glowed rosy from the warm sun and the walk from the station. What if he didn’t want to see her? She’d replayed their argument again and again, and she pictured his face before he’d walked away – before this. Her whole body ached for his strong arms to hold her. Her heart kneaded her chest, and she took a deep breath, opened the door, and sailed into a smog of Dettol disinfectant. As she peered along the length of the ward, she spotted a group of men crowded around the piano. A wolf whistle rang out, slow and shrill, and her cheeks prickled with heat as a shy smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.

  A young man in RAF blues whizzed towards her in a wheelchair. ‘Hello, looking for me by any chance?’

  Surprised and stunned, Stella smiled, noticing his porcelain, taut facial skin and oddly shaped eyes. ‘I’m here to see Mac – Lieutenant Mackenzie.’ The gaggle of voices died away, and she felt all eyes on her.

  ‘Oh, you mean Tex, our regular cowboy? Over there, sixth bed on the right. Good luck.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Why did he say that?

  ‘Better watch out, Miss. Hang around here long enough and they’ll whip off a piece of you and stick it on one of us.’ Those within earshot laughed, and Stella smiled out of politeness more than anything else. What an odd thing to say.

  Perhaps Mac wasn’t having a good day. Once again she’d come at the wrong time, but would there ever be a right time? She stopped at the foot of his bed and her eyes were drawn to the dressings on his face, and her breath caught in her chest. How badly burned was he? His hands and lower arms were bandaged and elevated on pillows which lay by his sides. His eyes were closed.

  ‘Hello, Mac.’

  His eyes flickered open and
widened. ‘Hey, Stella.’

  He seemed surprised to see her and his face creased into a smile and, tentatively, she perched herself on the chair next to his bed.

  ‘I got your letter. Oh Mac, I’m so sorry to hear what happened and, well, I had to come.’

  His smile slipped. ‘You shouldn’t have bothered. It’s a long way from Cambridge.’ He stared at the ceiling as he spoke.

  The coolness in his voice sent a shiver jolting down her spine. She swallowed and gazed around, quick enough to catch curious faces before they swiftly turned away. Why had he written to her if he didn’t want to see her? Some of the men were playing a game of cards at a table further down. Cigarette smoke drifted over, and she caught the waft of beer in the air; it was then she spotted pint glasses sitting on tables, some full, some empty. That was something she’d never seen before in a hospital.

  ‘The ward seems nice.’

  Mac met her gaze and cast a half-smile, but it lacked warmth and meaning somehow. ‘Yeah, real nice. Everything’s swell. So, how are you?’ His eyes were cold and his words stung.

  ‘I’m all right.’

  ‘And Alex, how’s he?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I take it you went away with him.’

  Stella took a deep breath. ‘I went to meet his family, yes.’ His mouth was set in a tight line as he stared at her. This wasn’t going the way she’d hoped. ‘Mac, the last time I saw you I said some things I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt you.’

  He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Don’t worry about it. Alex is important to you. I get that.’

  ‘Yes, well he is, and he isn’t. What I mean is, he’s . . .’ Her words trailed off. Why was it so difficult to explain?

  ‘Stella, when I wrote that letter, or rather, when the nurse wrote the letter for me, I may not have been thinking things through very well. You see, I have no intention of getting in between you and Alex. In fact, you ought to be with him. After all, he can look after you.’