Stella couldn’t believe those words had slipped from his mouth. Reliable, dependable Mac, who had pursued her for weeks.
‘But I don’t love Alex.’
‘Well, he sure loves you. Remember, I got the sock in the jaw to prove it. Go back to him. He’s bound to have you.’
What was he saying? Stella’s skin prickled as goosebumps erupted. He wasn’t even looking at her, for goodness’ sake, and did he think she was a parcel to pass around? ‘Mac, I don’t think that’s fair. I’m sorry about the accident and about your friend.’
‘I don’t need pity.’ He flicked his gaze at her, his face red, his eyes narrowed. ‘Go back to Alex. Go home and live your life. At least you still have a normal life.’ He rubbed his brow.
His words left a bitter taste in her mouth. A single tear pearled on her eyelash, and she quickly swiped it away and sniffed. A normal life. Glen Miller’s ‘American Patrol’ swung out and Stella glanced up to see an airman in RAF blues next to the radio. She fixed her gaze on Mac, glancing at his bandaged hands, and swallowed. ‘You have a life too.’
‘I don’t rightly know what I’ve got, and I won’t for some time. The doc says I might never fly again. In fact, I might not be able to do a lot of things.’
She placed her hand on his shoulder but he stiffened, so she drew back and shuffled in her seat. ‘I’m sure it’s not that bad.’
‘What would you know?’
The air rushed out of her chest. ‘Well, tell me.’
He pursed his lips for a moment. ‘I have a mix of second and third-degree burns to my face, neck, hands and legs. I’ve just had the first round of surgery on my hands so I won’t really know anything for a little while. If I’m lucky, I’ll still be able to use them, but maybe not as well as before.
‘Oh, well I suppose it’s bound to take time. It sounds serious.’
Stella fixed her gaze on the man in the bed opposite, who picked up his beer glass with both hands, gripping it to his chest with hands that were more like stumps. He wore a look of intense concentration and a lump swelled in her throat as tears rushed to her eyes, but she blinked them away. She was transfixed until he met her gaze and cast the most radiant smile as if nothing in the world was wrong. Stella smiled back as heat warmed her face and neck. She turned to Mac. ‘You knew I was coming today, didn’t you? I said I’d be here in my letter.’ She shuffled in her seat.
His gaze was intense. ‘I didn’t get any letter.’
‘Oh, I see.’ That might explain why he was being so cold. ‘Well, I suppose the post is struggling at the moment what with the amount of service mail.’ She grinned, nervously biting her lip. ‘Oh Mac, I’m so sorry this happened.’
‘Wasn’t anything anyone could have done, except me.’
‘What do you mean?’ She stared into his eyes, but he turned away. ‘You did everything you could and hurt yourself in the process.’ Out of instinct she reached for his arm, gently stroking it. ‘Here you are, thousands of miles from home, helping us fight this cruel war and look what it’s done,’ she said, her voice quavering.
‘Hey, come on. It’s me that got hurt. Don’t feel sorry for me, I can take it.’ Mac cast a sad smile, and she could tell he was trying to make light of the situation. ‘I’m glad you came. I thought that maybe after you received my letter, well . . .’ He paused and looked away for a moment.
The lost expression on his face moved Stella, and she sensed something different about him. He was distant, but then it was hardly surprising after everything he’d been through. Just then, the man in the next bed groaned, quietly at first, and then, when no one responded, louder. His head was bandaged, with only slits for his eyes, mouth, and nose.
‘What does he want?’
‘Probably a smoke. The guy misses them like crazy. He’s so bandaged up he can’t move.’
Stella glanced all around and noticed a packet of cigarettes on his table. She rose and went to his bedside. When she asked him if he wanted to smoke, the reply was a muffled ‘yes’. She lit a cigarette and placed it in his mouth. The ward seemed to hush, and she turned to see that all eyes were on her. Stella took the cigarette, flicked the ash into a tray, and gave it back to him. She noticed the chart on the end of his bed, and she picked it up and read his name. ‘Hello, Mike. I’m Stella. Very pleased to meet you.’
Mike said something but the plaster muffled his words, and she felt awkward at having to ask him to repeat. She took the cigarette and flicked the ash as Mike exhaled plumes of smoke, and she wondered how badly burned he was beneath the bandages. ‘I hope that’s all right. If you need anything else, just shout.’
She smiled, stubbing out the cigarette, and turned back to Mac, whose disgruntled expression had softened slightly. Stella had never seen a ward like this before, and some of the men barely looked old enough to be serving. Being here shed light on yet another branch of this horrid war, and her heart ached at their suffering.
One of the boys turned up the volume of the radio as the voice of Anne Shelton flowed like velvet – ‘A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square.’ She looked at Mac, who hadn’t complained once so far. The other boys sat in silence, listening with faraway looks on their faces.
‘Stella, the last thing I wanted was to pressure you into coming here.’ He glanced at her then looked away. ‘The last time I saw you, I thought that maybe there was still hope. You chose Alex, but there was always hope. But now, I can’t see a future for us. I’m sorry, but the fact is you’re better off without me.’
‘No, don’t say that.’ She touched his hand, lightly.
‘Please don’t.’ He turned to look at her now, his soft, blue eyes pleading.
‘I don’t want Alex. I never did. I went because he needed a friend.’ A tear rolled down her cheek, and she gritted her teeth, desperate not to cry. ‘I didn’t come here just because you asked. I came because I care.’
‘Damn it, Stella. That’s just it. You don’t have to care about me. I’m no good for you. I’m no good for anyone. Please, go home.’ He screwed his eyes shut and his chest heaved up and down.
‘Can’t we just talk?’
‘Jeez, Stella. You’re not listening.’ Mac’s eyes flashed. ‘I’ve got nothing to offer, I can’t fly, and I can’t marry you, not now.’ His voice broke and trailed off as Stella’s entire body shook and tears rolled down her face.
She quickly rummaged through her bag for a handkerchief.
‘Great, and now I’ve upset you, and I can’t do anything about that either. Don’t you get it? I’m useless. I can’t wash, get dressed, feed myself. I can’t do a goddam thing. You don’t need this.’ He took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. ‘I’m sorry. You’ve come a long way, and I sure appreciate it, but please, don’t come again. Don’t waste your time.’
Stella dabbed her eyes, sniffed, and blew out a breath. She picked up her bag and rose to her feet, aware of the others in the ward watching, listening. ‘I hope you get better soon, Mac. I really do.’ Another sob hit her in the gut, and she steeled herself. How could she go? But then, how could she stay? He didn’t want her there; he didn’t want her. She pursed her lips. ‘Take care of yourself. Goodbye.’
His eyes were on hers, and she melted into blue one last time before leaving as quickly as she could. She had to get outside. Her chest was tight, and she gasped for breath. She burst through the doors and fled out into the grounds, stopping to rest against the wall of the next building, gasping for breath, sobs racking her chest.
‘Hello.’
Stella gulped as a man emerged from Ward III. There was something familiar about him.
He adjusted his black spectacles, and his mouth curved up into a kind smile. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes, thank you.’ She dabbed her eyes quickly, cringing at being caught in such a state.
‘I noticed you were visiting our young American friend, Mac.’
She suddenly realised who he was. She’d seen him at the hospital in Cambridge that day. ‘Ar
e you a doctor?’
‘I am indeed. Archie McIndoe.’ He extended his hand. ‘How lovely to meet you.’
His eyes crinkled at the corners and twinkled bright blue, catching the glint of the May sunshine. ‘Stella Charlton.’ As she shook his hand, his grip was soft yet firm, with a radiance of confidence and ease. Stella suddenly felt a surge in her chest and a sob stifle in her throat. More tears flowed, and she swiped them away and took a deep breath.
‘I can see you’ve had a bit of a shock, my dear. I was just about to return to my office and have some afternoon tea. I’ll ask my secretary for two cups.’
He smiled so sweetly and spoke so charmingly that Stella allowed herself to be steered away to goodness knows where by a man she didn’t know anything about, except that he was a doctor. ‘Thank you, Dr McIndoe.’
‘Oh, not at all, and please call me Archie. Everyone does.’
In his office, he gestured to a chair, and Stella sank down. The sweet scent of cut grass drifted in through the open window. The secretary brought in tea and biscuits. ‘Now, I couldn’t help overhearing while you were sitting with Mac. He’s having a bit of rough time at the moment, but it’s only to be expected, I’m afraid.’
‘But he will be all right, won’t he?’ Stella sipped her tea, her fingers burning against the heat of the china cup.
‘Oh yes, absolutely. The trouble is, my dear, these boys think you can put a sticking plaster on everything and they’ll be back in the air before they know it. Unfortunately, it’s not that simple. It takes time, and that leads to frustration, boredom, and time to dwell.’ He raised his eyebrows.
Mac had been dwelling on everything, and now he’d pushed her away. He couldn’t have stopped loving her just like that, surely. ‘Will he ever fly again?’
‘I can’t say. It’s early days, and I’m afraid it would be unethical to discuss details, Miss Charlton. Oh, it is Miss, I take it?’
‘Yes, and please call me Stella.’ She smiled.
‘Well, Stella, the thing is, these boys need someone to believe in them – someone to help them along with their recovery. The physical injuries are just one side of it. The psychological impact is often far worse and harder to manage. Visitors help, and I was pleased when I saw you earlier. No one else has been here to see Mac as far as I know.’
‘Well, I’m afraid he’s told me not to come back.’ Stella placed her cup down on the desk and gritted her teeth as she fought to hold back fresh tears.
‘Oh, I see.’ Archie studied her for a moment as if he was thinking. ‘Well, that doesn’t surprise me. If I were you, I’d pay no attention. Come back another day. If he doesn’t want to talk to you, talk to someone else in the ward. He’ll soon come around.’ Archie smoothed his hair back with his hand. ‘We’re always looking for willing volunteers here, and there’s plenty of things you could do. Don’t give up just yet.’
‘But the things he said. I’ve never seen him so angry before.’ Stella took a deep breath as her throat ached.
Archie’s gaze softened, and he sighed. ‘Yes, so often things are said in haste and all that. Of course, he’s never been in this position before.’
Stella contemplated the words. Perhaps Mac was struggling and finding it hard to cope.
‘If you really like him, then perhaps this is your turn to fight. And prepare yourself for a rough ride. Sometimes people lash out because of their accident, but you know, we always hurt the ones we love. I’ve seen it all before, although so often it’s the other way around.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Oh, nothing. But please think about it. He needs you now more than ever. It’s so vital these boys have someone. And Mac has you. Now, he may well be angry when he sees you again, but he’ll come around.’
Stella didn’t know what to think, but the thought of Mac being even angrier with her was unbearable. She gulped, aware of Archie’s intense gaze.
‘You know, these boys have had to put up with such a lot, and here they have far worse to cope with. Can you imagine how it feels to be permanently changed in some way? It isn’t easy.’
She looked into Archie’s knowing eyes. He was right. She’d seen sights today that had shocked her, even though she hadn’t shown it. Men with no eyelids, or an empty socket where an eye ought to be, trunks for noses, and stumps for hands. All she had to deal with was Mac’s anger. If she could tolerate that and his rejection of her, then perhaps she could help him in some way. It was the least she could do.
‘I can appreciate that it’s difficult for all of them.’ She blew out a breath. ‘I’ll do it as long as you’re sure I’m not causing more distress.’
‘Oh, I shouldn’t think so. Mac will be far worse if you simply disappear, I can assure you.’
Chapter Nineteen
Divine Intervention
Archie tugged his green surgical mask up over his nose and mouth and plunged his hands into the flow of warm water spewing from the tap. His right hand was stiff and twinged as he scrubbed up, and he huffed out a breath. The antiseptic odour of iodine hung in the air.
‘All ready for you, Maestro,’ the theatre orderly said.
Archie nodded. ‘Thanks, George.’
He’d gone over his plans for this surgery once more last night and hadn’t slept well at all, and now, as he plodded into the operating theatre, an uneasiness burgeoned within him with unabated fury. He slipped into his gown, which the nurse held out ready, and flicked his gaze over his patient. Flight Engineer Tom Chandler, a young man of nineteen, lay upon the operating table, anaesthetised.
Archie sucked in a breath as he scrutinised Tom’s ruined face. He was the sole survivor of a Lancaster Bomber crash in Italy. His eyelids and scorched facial tissue had been doused in gentian violet. The damn stuff did more harm than good and hardened, making it impossible for a person to blink. Thank God the Air Ministry had listened when he’d hounded them to banish it, although it had been too late for Tom. The news was taking its time to filter through to the field hospitals in Europe and the Mediterranean, and now Archie held the future of Tom’s sight within his gloved hands.
He’d studied the boys ‘before’ pictures and raked over every detail again, double checking before he began. How he’d paced the floor in his office, agonising over the best way to do this surgery. Tom’s original features were firmly imprinted on his mind – the symmetrical, round eyes with long lashes, the slim, long nose with a very subtle upturn. Of course, he’d replace that later. Once he grafted new eyelids, the lashes would regrow in time. But as Archie gazed down at him, pain and tingling zipped through his right hand and fingers, and the boy’s old image scrambled and faded like wisps of smoke. He would have to start from scratch. His heart thumped against his ribs and his mouth ran dry.
He flicked a gaze at John Hunter. ‘Happy with everything?’
John looked up from his seat, at the head of the patient. ‘All’s well at my end, Archie. Proceed at your leisure.’ His mouth curved into a broad grin, and he promptly pulled his mask over his nose.
As Archie gazed at the boy’s face, a shadow of doubt flickered within him. The canvas was as blank as his mind, the face so burned, it was featureless. He recalled the portraits of disfigured Great War veterans that hung on the walls of his cousin’s office. Painted by the war artists, they’d helped Harold Gillies rebuild the shattered faces of veterans. From a sea of shattered men came hope, forged by art.
‘Crank up the old gramophone, George, liven things up a bit.’ Music for the soul. It helped him relax, to create, and he needed to muster inspiration from somewhere. ‘Oh, and bring that picture closer, will you?’
‘Right you are, Maestro.’ George grinned as he sifted through a pile of records. Within a few minutes, Beethoven Symphony No. 7 struck up and echoed around the theatre. George dragged a stainless-steel trolley close to the operating table, with a picture of Tom taken before the accident propped up on top.
Pain jolted through Archie’s right hand and sparks radiated
into his fingers. That was all he needed. The surgical lights scrutinised him with a luminous glow, trapping him in their beam for all to see. Where should he begin? Never before had he felt so lost. He stepped back and pursed his lips tightly as if that would hold it all in and he could swallow it back down. All eyes were upon him, including the steely stare of his theatre sister, Jill Mullins, her grey-blue eyes burrowing into his. He frowned as he clenched and unclenched his right hand. What if he made a mistake? He couldn’t go on like this. No, he’d have to get it sorted out before it was too late.
When he’d asked Tom what he hoped to do after the war, the reply had startled him. ‘I intend to study medicine.’ Well, he certainly needed his sight to do that, but then there were his hands to consider. A bit of work was needed if he wished to become a doctor.
Sister Mullins, anticipating his first move, held up the stainless-steel scalpel like a trophy. Archie grasped it firmly, then hesitated. If the numbness in his hand returned mid-way through, he’d be stuck. His heart hammered and his mouth grew dry. Failure was simply not an option, and he couldn’t let this boy down. The operating theatre was his domain – his studio. He inhaled a deep breath. The skin for the eyelids – the graft – would come from the thigh. He glanced long and hard at Tom’s picture before him, focusing on the eyes. He would also take a piece of skin from the stomach, a flap for the tubed pedicle, to use for the nose at a later stage.
Poised, scalpel ready to incise, he took a deep breath and prayed to God to help amidst the rendering, moving music of Beethoven. The uplifting strings and flutes flowed like birdsong, heralding a new dawn in his mind, gathering up his thoughts, re-joining the edges to create the image, piece by piece.
He began with an incision as renewed energy flowed through his right arm, guiding his hand as he worked, swift and neat like a tailor crafting a garment. Where his guidance came from in that moment, he did not know, but he was glad of it. When he finished, he blew out a long breath, banishing all the tension from his body. As he admired Tom’s bloodied eye patches, Archie suspected that Da Vinci himself could not be more pleased.
THE BEAUTY SHOP Page 18