He peeled off his surgical gloves and flicked a gaze at John Hunter. ‘Thanks, John. I suppose it’s my shout later.’ He grinned and slapped his colleague on the back.
‘Oh, you know me too well, Archie. I’m not one to turn down a free pint.’ He chuckled.
‘Well, I’m joining a few of the lads at the pub after work, so I’ll see you there, say around half past six.’
Archie watched as Jill painted Mercurochrome over Tom’s new eyelids, the antiseptic staining the skin red. It was vital to protect the new graft, but it also helped to reduce the scar tissue. Of course, the boys frequently complained about having to put up with red stamps for eyes, but it was a small price to pay. Lord knows they’d already paid an extortionate fee to warrant being here in the first place.
‘Blackie, these boys will be with us forever. I’ll never be able to completely retire because I’ll be fixing them up for years.’ The thought of it weighed heavily on Archie’s shoulders, but it was his duty. They deserved the best of help, and nothing was too much trouble.
‘That reminds me, I had a word with George Reid about setting up the workshop at the hospital. I managed to persuade him it would be mutually beneficial all round. The idea of the boys manufacturing precision instruments for the RAF makes sense. George’s quotas are filled, and the boys get to be useful. He’s all for it and thinks it’s an excellent venture.’
‘Right. Where exactly are we going to set up?’
‘He’s going to come down and take a look. There’s one building that’s empty right now, and it might be ideal.’ Archie rubbed his right hand and clenched and unclenched it a few times, watching his thick fingers intently as he did so. To think they were capable of doing such delicate surgery had always tickled him. Years ago, Lord Moynihan had been the one to tempt him away from his work in America, with the lure of surgical work here in London. After observing Archie in his operating theatre, he’d said, “You have the hands of a ploughboy, but they behave like an artist’s.”
Archie sighed. The problem was worsening and now affected both hands, but he worried more for his most valuable asset – his right hand, his scalpel-wielding hand. He recognised the signs with stiffness in his fingers and a transient numbness, and his heart sank. Even writing was becoming challenging and painful at times.
‘Everything all right, Archie?’
‘Blasted hands. They’ve been giving me a spot of bother for months now. The trouble is, it’s getting worse, and I think I know what it is.’
Blackie lit a cigarette. ‘Arthritis?’ Smoke curled into the air.
‘No, worse than that. Dupuytren’s contracture. I’ve been having bother for a while now. Stupid really, but at first I put it down to tiredness. Damn war – we’re all tired. But it’s more than that. I’ve been ignoring it, only it’s getting worse. If I don’t have it looked at soon, I’m afraid it might be too late.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I could lose my livelihood. A washed-up surgeon – over my dead body!’ Archie shook his head and poured himself a brandy. ‘It means surgery, and whoever does it will have to do a bloody good job. I’ve got a specialist in mind, a colleague of mine. I might ring him tomorrow.’
He rubbed his brow and sighed, hoping to God he hadn’t left things too late otherwise his artist’s hands might well be reduced to those of a ploughman.
‘On a different note, I wanted to run an idea past you.’ He sank down in his chair and took a mouthful of brandy, savouring the warm, fiery flavour in his throat. ‘The boys could do with a little cheering up. After the incident in the ward, I don’t want any more nurses having hysterical outbursts. We may not be able to control the behaviour of the general public, but we can, at least, try to do so with our own staff.’
‘I agree. What did you have in mind?’
‘We need girls who can put a brave face on when required – girls who know how to put on a show and who can make a man feel he’s still a man.’ Archie raised his eyebrows, picked up the copy of Bazaar magazine, and pointed at the cover. ‘Look at this. Lauren Bacall and the Red Cross. Beauty and medicine. It’s all hands to the pump for the war effort.’ His face broke into a wide grin as he passed the magazine to Blackie.
‘What? Bloody hell. You want me to telephone Lauren Bacall and tell her to get over here?’ He chuckled. ‘Hollywood comes to East Grinstead. Mind you, we did manage to grab Clark Gable that time for the lads. His talk was hilarious and a great morale boost for the troops.’
‘Exactly, man. You’ve hit the nail on the head. That’s precisely what I’m driving at.’ Archie laughed. ‘Mind you, we haven’t a hope in hell of luring Lauren Bacall over here. She’d never fall for it, and I doubt we could afford her fee. But look at the picture. She’s smouldering, isn’t she?’
He stared at Blackie, searchingly, who smiled and nodded. He could always count on Blackie; they were often on the same wavelength. ‘What about ENSA and the girls entertaining the troops here and abroad? There’s Vera Lynn and Gracie Fields. The men love their shows.’ Archie drained his glass. ‘So, that got me thinking. How do you fancy taking a little trip to London’s West End?’ He smiled, taking delight in Blackie’s puzzled expression.
‘Why do I have the strangest feeling about this? I suppose this is another of your ploys.’ Blackie frowned.
‘A ploy? No, no, it’s a beaut of an idea. Can’t fail. A ploy . . . heavens, my mother used to say that when I was up to something.’ Archie chuckled. Trawling for girls was not exactly something a man of his stature ought to be doing, but it was in aid of a good cause – at least he thought so. ‘If we can persuade some amiable girls to work here, then they can help the boys – take them out and so forth. Now if that doesn’t boost morale, I don’t know what will.’
He needed girls who could look them in the eye without feelings of revulsion. The girls would be required to look the part and act the part. Such a pity he couldn’t steal Stella away from the WAAF. Watching as she’d tended to the other patient had been very touching indeed; of course, he didn’t let her know that he’d seen her. She was just the sort he needed here: loyal, caring, sensible, and beautiful. Mac was a lucky man, even if he didn’t realise it just yet. Seeing her that day had made a refreshing change to the women who came instead to ditch their men. Archie only hoped that Stella would come back. Now if she did that, Mac would come to his senses soon enough and snap out of this fog.
‘Good morning, Sister. How is everyone?’ Archie grinned as he flicked a gaze at the clock on the wall.
‘All’s well, Mr McIndoe, but I’m afraid our American pilot is struggling. His spirits have plummeted further today, and he’s refusing to get out of bed. He hasn’t said very much either.’
Archie flicked through the medical notes and stuck his head out of the office door, glancing down the ward. Sure enough, Mac lay sprawled on his bed, simply staring into space by the look of him. He was still grieving, obviously for the death of his friend and no doubt countless others, but also for his own loss. Right now, he had no idea just how much of himself was lost. To him, he was helpless and alone. Archie sighed, gritted his teeth, and steeled himself for a showdown. The boy needed a firm hand and a push in the right direction.
‘Morning, Mac. How are you today?’ He grinned, and the bed creaked as he perched on the edge.
‘Not bad, doc.’ Mac’s voice was flat and impassive. He rolled onto his back and heaved himself up a little.
‘It won’t do you any good lying in bed all day. You need to get up, take a short walk outside, sit in the gardens. A little sunshine will perk you up.’ Archie waited for a reply, but none came. ‘I’m going to assess your hands tomorrow, then we can see how things are. Perhaps next week we might be able to remove your facial dressings, seeing as the wounds are healing nicely.
‘Great. Then everyone can see what a freak I am.’ Mac turned away.
He had taken a bit of a dive, and he was a different young man to the one Archie had first met a few week
s ago. It was almost as if he’d lost all of his fight. ‘Mac, I know this is tough, but I warned you it would take time. Now, I am going to fix you up, and you will use your hands again. You won’t be helpless for much longer. Right now, you need to buck yourself up. Like I said before, you’re going to have to do the therapy to help things along, so lying around here feeling sorry for yourself is no good at all.’
Archie met Mac’s gaze and saw fury burning there. Good. He still had some fight in him. ‘It’s hard, but you have to get on with your life, and you need all the help you can get.’ He sighed. ‘I met your visitor the other day, Stella.’
Mac’s eyes flashed, and his cheek twitched.
‘Yes, she’s a lovely young woman. I’ve asked her to come again and help us out a little. We always need capable volunteers.’
‘You have?’ Mac sighed. ‘Oh, gee, you don’t understand. I can’t see her again. It’s killing me.’
‘Yes, I can see that.’
‘She’s better off without me.’
Archie sighed and shook his head. ‘How do you know she’s better off? It seemed to me she was quite upset when she left.’
‘Who wants to be saddled with all this?’
He was lashing out. Another phase he had to pass through before acceptance. ‘I think it’s only fair to ask the young lady’s thoughts first before you end things. At least then she might understand.’ He flicked a gaze at Mac, whose eyes had narrowed, his mouth clamped in a tight line.
‘Well, anyway, she said she’ll come back next week, and she seemed happy about helping out.’ Archie stood up. ‘Right then. I’ll leave you to get dressed and rejoin the living. Cheerio, Mac.’
Archie strode back to the office, and a smug smile tugged at his mouth. Didn’t want to see her again? Honestly, who was he trying to fool? He chuckled to himself. We’ll see about that.
Chapter Twenty
A Different Country Club
As Mac sat reading his letter from home, a twinge tugged at his heart. Montana might as well have been a million miles away. His folks had been relieved to hear he was safe and in a hospital. His hands were healing well, and the grafts had taken without a trace of infection. Now he had another mission to complete – therapy. The therapist had given him a small rubber ball to practise with to improve his grip and dexterity. All he had to do was squeeze and crush it tight in each hand as he curled his fingers around it, but it turned out to be a lot tougher than he’d envisaged.
He was glad to be finally free of the thick bandages on his hands; he now had thin dressings secured in place, but at least he could use his hands and was no longer useless. Being able to eat and dress was a great relief, although his hands were stiff and awkward, and he fumbled and struggled with buttons and laces. It had taken him almost ten minutes to tie one shoe earlier. His legs had healed with only mild scars as a reminder. The skin graft to his face had taken well, so the doc said, and he supposed it looked a little better, but it was a permanent disfigurement. The doc said he could do more, but he’d never be able to make him as he was.
The doors to the ward swung open and in waltzed Stella. Mac heaved himself upright on his bed as she strode over towards him, tucking a loose blonde curl behind her ear, her head held high. So, the Maestro was telling the truth. His heart jumped and hammered against his ribs. What was he going to say to her after the last time? He’d been harsh, and man did she look cute today. She wasn’t wearing her uniform and that thin, pale blue summer dress skimmed her curves just right, accentuating the sway of her hips as she moved. There was something different about her too – something in her eyes. A fire flickered there that hadn’t flared before. When Archie had told him she’d be coming back, Mac had seen red, but now, he shrank a little inside as his previous bitter words hurtled around in his head. He swallowed.
‘Hello, Mac. How are you?’
‘Not bad, thanks. I didn’t know you were coming.’ He couldn’t suppress the grin that was tugging at the corners of his mouth. ‘Take a seat.’ He gestured to the chair next to him.
‘Thank you.’ Stella sat down, crossing her slim smooth legs.
Mac swung around and sat on the edge of the bed. ‘Stella, I want to apologise for what I said last time.’
‘There’s no need, really.’ She smiled and glanced around the ward.
Mac dragged a hand through his wavy hair. ‘There’s every need.’ Hell, he wanted to say sorry and take her in his arms, but he couldn’t go back now, and his heart ached. Seeing her again had really thrown him off course. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to be. Why did the doc have to ask her to help out here? It didn’t make much sense, and now it was going to crush him having her so close. That sweet lavender scent she wore drifted on the air, so he inhaled deeply, savouring the rush.
‘You look much better. It’s good to see you up and about.’
He guessed she was a little uncomfortable too, but before he could reply, one of the men called out.
‘Hello, nurse.’ He winked.
‘Don’t mind those guys. I guess they’re still hung over from last night.’ Mac shook his head.
‘Why does he think I’m a nurse?’
‘Well, they figured you did a great job last time.’
Stella blushed, and her mouth curved up into a radiant smile. ‘Well, I did come here to help, after all.’
‘Nurse, can you help me with this, please?’ A patient held up a piece of paper and waved it around.
‘Oh, yes, all right.’ Stella glanced at Mac and stood up. ‘Duty calls.’
He looked on as she perched on the end of the guy’s bed, smiling and chatting away as he passed her a pen and paper. Mac didn’t quite know what to make of her. Why did she come if not to see him? Maybe it was to show him what he was missing. Well, mission accomplished. He got up and stormed off outside, bursting through the doors as his heart thudded and a rage stirred inside him. He embraced the rush of fresh air and found a bench to slouch on, turning his gaze to the sky.
The blue siren stretched out like one vast ocean, streaked and feathered with wispy clouds, so tranquil, but then the veil slipped, revealing acres of black which dragged swarms of wolves and cannon fire overhead and aircraft rained down. The sky was soiled with death and maiming. His breathing quickened, beads of sweat formed on his brow, and he snapped his eyes shut for a moment as he fought to banish the bad memories.
When he returned to the ward, he heard sobs coming from the sluice room; the door was ajar. He hovered there for a moment when a voice spoke.
‘It’s not right. He can’t touch me like that. If my father hears about this, he’ll go mad.’
Mac recognised the voice. It was the new VAD nurse. She was just some kid – only seventeen, she’d said.
‘The trouble is, there are no boundaries here. Mr McIndoe has done away with all that. This ward isn’t like any other, and it’s that way for a reason. Dry your eyes and I’ll do my best to keep you out of his way for today. And whatever happens, you mustn’t say a word to Mr McIndoe. It won’t do any good. These boys are war heroes and we all have to do our bit for the war.’ Bea’s voice.
He sauntered over to his bed to find Stella leaning against the piano with a few of the guys for company. He sat down, and flicked through his copy of Stars and Stripes, but he couldn’t concentrate, and he looked up to see Bea shepherding the VAD out of the sluice. It was obvious what that was about. There was more than one guy here with wandering hands. He gazed over at Stella.
‘What do you want me to play next, Stella? Name a tune, anything you like,’ Dickie said.
‘I don’t know. Let’s think. How about Vera Lynn’s “White Cliffs”?’
‘Bonzer.’ Dickie struck a chord. ‘Everyone ready? Here we go, and you all have to sing.’
Mac had never heard Stella sing before. He glanced over as they all huddled around the piano. Dickie shuffled across on the stool, and Stella sat next to him, real close. Mac clenched his teeth, and a hot poker stabbed him in the
chest. Dickie sure had an eye for the ladies. Mac flicked a steely glance at him. As they sang, Stella’s voice rose above the others, soft and pure, and Mac lay back on his bed as melodic words flowed from her lips like rippled satin, his skin tingling with every note. He closed his eyes as the longing to hold her grew, and he rubbed his temples as if he could massage it away, all the while willing her to turn round – but she didn’t. She was intent on helping out, all right, and ignoring him in the process. It was probably just as well. If he were allowed to fly again, it wouldn’t make any sense to be involved with a girl, but his heart ached as he watched her. She wasn’t just some girl. He was in love with her, and inside he was breaking. He wanted her so badly, but she’d been hurt enough.
At that moment, the ward doors creaked open, and Archie appeared and strode into Sister’s office. After a few minutes, he reappeared and headed over to Mac.
‘Hey, doc.’
‘How are you today?’ Archie pulled up a chair. ‘The hands are looking superb, Sister says. Healing well. I’ll take a look tomorrow when the dressings are next removed. How’s the pain?’
‘It’s getting better.’
Archie glanced at the group by the piano. ‘I see your visitor is helping out. If only she could leave the WAAF and come here.’ Archie paused, watching them wistfully, and then slapped Mac on the back. ‘She’s doing a grand job.’
‘Yeah, real swell.’ Mac sighed heavily.
‘Oh well, I did ask her to help us out. I didn’t think you’d mind too much.’ Archie flicked a gaze at the others as music flowed from the radio and his eyes bubbled with mischief.
Man, he could really shoot a line. ‘Doc, you could at least try to be subtle.’
‘I don’t know what you mean. Besides, subtle isn’t my style, not when you want results.’ Archie raised his eyebrows and winked.
THE BEAUTY SHOP Page 19