‘I told you how it is. Nothing’s changed.’ Mac glanced over his shoulder. She was dancing now with Dickie, and he huffed out a breath and lowered his gaze to the floor.
‘Hasn’t it? That’s a shame. I think she’s good for you.’ Archie sat down in the chair.
There was a definite jovial tone to his voice, and Mac swore he was enjoying this.
‘Right, let’s see what you can do with this.’ He passed him the small, exercise ball, which Mac held in each hand in turn. His grip was almost back to normal on the right, and somewhat reduced on the left, but there was evidence of improvement over the last week, Mac was sure of it. He winced as he squeezed the ball, and he opened and closed his fingers and then demonstrated the pincer grip. The more he worked, the more his hands ached and throbbed, but he gritted his teeth and continued.
‘Okay, now squeeze my hands.’ Archie held them out for Mac to grip. ‘Steady on,’ he chuckled, his face turning puce. ‘You’ve got some strength there. Well, I’m impressed, and I can tell you now I wasn’t sure you would do this well, so, good work. Keep practising with the ball and stretching out the fingers. Excellent improvement. The more therapy you do, the better the results.’
‘Thanks, Maestro, will do. I’ll squeeze the hell out of this thing if it gets me back in the air.’ He glanced at Stella. Still dancing, and laughing. The way Dickie held her so close sent a torrent of rage coursing through his veins. His hand on her back had better not slip any lower.
Archie’s face creased into a faint smile as he shook his head. ‘Have you told Stella your plans?’
‘Not in so many words. Trust me, doc, she’s better off without me. If anything happens, well, I couldn’t forgive myself.’ Mac looked over his shoulder and finally caught her eye. She flashed that warm, sweet smile of hers and the blood fizzed through his veins.
Archie pursed his lips. ‘Well, there’s not much keeping you here for now, but I don’t want to send you back to your base just yet. I’ll need to see you in another week, and you might need one more operation. Will you agree to a short stay at Dutton Homestall? The place belongs to a good friend of mine who allows us to use it as a convalescent home. It might be a refreshing change and a rest for you. Besides, it’ll do you good to escape for a while.’
‘Sure, if you think so doc.’ Mac nodded. So Archie thought he might have a chance to get back in the air? At least he could get away from here. He glanced at Stella.
‘I wouldn’t worry about Dickie. He’s not her type.’ Archie was about to walk away, and he hesitated. ‘Just one more thing. A friend is throwing a party for us in town – it’s next month, the end of July. Everyone who’s well enough can go.’
‘Sure, sounds great.’
Archie’s eyes twinkled as he grinned. ‘And feel free to bring a certain pretty blonde along.’ He turned and walked away with a shrug of his shoulders.
For all his charm, his dancing eyes and his boyish grin, Archie held a commanding presence, and there was no doubt of who was in charge here. And British humour was one thing, but his New Zealand style was something else. Mac could see what he was trying to do, but he was wasting his time. The trouble was, she sure was the prettiest girl he’d ever seen. How was he going to get her out of his head?
Dutton Homestall resided between East Grinstead and the Ashdown Forest in twenty-eight acres of grounds. Blackie had offered to drive Mac as there were a couple of airmen staying there who he wished to see. As they turned into the drive, Mac whistled in surprise. Mature trees flanked the road and just around the next corner, the drive gave way to gravel bordered by neatly manicured lawns, and the house sprung into view.
‘It’s a grand sight, a Tudor mansion,’ Blackie said. ‘Belonged to Lord Tommy Dewar, the whisky distiller from Scotland, but when he died his nephew inherited the place. They mainly stay in London, but this was their weekend retreat until war broke out. All right for some, eh?’ Blackie raised his eyebrows.
‘What a place! Man, this sure beats the ward. I’m starting to feel like I’m on vacation.’
‘Wait until you see inside. Actually, you’ll meet a few faces you know. Now, the rules are simple. Treat the place with respect. No returning late at night wasted, as you Americans say, and no foul language inside the house. All bad behaviour is reported back, and the Maestro will come down on you like a tonne of bricks. Other than that, you’re free to do as you please.’ Blackie clambered out of the car.
Mac turned his face up to endless blue, soaking up the sun’s rays which pricked his scars. The nurse had finally removed his facial dressings yesterday. He’d dreaded it, and had felt naked at first, yet strangely free. It was the first step to the rest of his life, and he had to embrace it.
The sweet scent of fresh-cut grass hung heavy in the air, drifting in the warm breeze. Mac grabbed his bag from the back of the car and almost dropped it as a sharp pain radiated through his hand, but he adjusted his grip and followed Blackie inside.
‘G’day, Mac. I see they’ve finally kicked you out.’ Dickie slapped him on the back.
‘It looks that way.’
‘I’ll leave you boys to it. Enjoy yourself.’
‘Yeah, sure will, and thanks again for the ride.’ Mac gazed around. The hall was dark with oak panelling, but refreshingly cool with a stone-flagged floor. Dickie gave him the grand tour, including the dorm where a number of beds lay in regimented rows, the bathrooms, and the dining room where they all gathered for meals. As they passed another room, Mac spotted a group of guys standing by a bar while another played the piano. The stale odour of cigarette smoke was thick and mingled with beer.
‘Just the other month the Boss arranged for Clark Gable to drop by. He stayed here as well, imagine that? Apparently, he gave a lecture about his own plastic surgery on his ears, without which he’d never have had a Hollywood career. The boys said it was hilarious, a riot.’
Dickie looked vibrant, and his face glowed. The change had obviously been beneficial for him. ‘Just one other thing you should know.’ He took out a cigarette and gestured with the pack. ‘We’re not the only ones staying here. The place is brimming with bats. It’s all right during the day when the furry buggers are sleeping, but at night, watch out. I don’t know where they come from, but they whizz along these corridors with more flying prowess than a fighter pilot. They scare the shit out of some of the lads.’ He grinned. ‘Honestly, I swear they’d rather face Jerry.’
Later, alone in the bathroom, Mac stepped closer to the mirror on the wall and studied his face. The skin on his right cheek looked smoother. The doc had done a great job, but the joins were ugly. Archie said the redness would fade in time, but Mac’s gaze sailed over the patchwork of scars and varying skin tones and he wasn’t convinced. A flap of skin from the underside of his arm now thrived, stretched taut across his cheek. Maybe some Montana sun would fix him up – if he ever made it back.
He swallowed. The mirror revealed his alter ego. His skin grew clammy, and his chest tightened. As he focused on the abnormal side, he barely recognised the person staring back – and he didn’t like him much either. That guy had pushed Stella away. He gazed into the dark, narrow eyes of the monster who consumed him, while dreading the future and a lifetime of horrific stares and pointing fingers. Some of the guys had far worse injuries than him, and he knew he’d been lucky, but it wasn’t enough.
Birdie’s death would be on his conscience forever, ingrained into his soul, worn in his scars. Fear rooted and grew faster than anything he knew and right now it was paralysing. A lump swelled in his throat. The number of times the scene had unfolded in his mind – maybe if he’d altered course at the right moment that cannon fire would have missed. He rubbed his jaw and longed to drown out the thoughts, the images. He had to fly again, to absolve himself. It was the only way. He clenched his fist as best he could and gritted his teeth as a searing, burning pain jabbed his hand. Damn it all.
That wasn’t him in the glass, and this wasn’t happening. He turne
d away, stomped back to his bed and sank down, holding his head in his hands. His chest heaved and tears slid silently down his face. A familiar odour rushed into his nostrils and stirred the threat of nausea in his stomach. Would it ever leave? Day after day, night after night, the stench of charred, roasted pork had leached out into the air they all breathed, ingraining its festering, rank mark. A weight constricted his chest, and he gasped, sucking in ragged breaths.
Stella. He might not be able to make it with her, but he damn well couldn’t make it without her.
Chapter Twenty-One
Red Badge of Courage, June 1943
‘Hello. I’m here at Mr McIndoe’s invitation – Miss Charlton.’ Stella smiled. It was refreshingly cool in the oak-panelled hall of Dutton Homestall. She snapped her compact shut, her lipstick applied. The magazines called it the red badge of courage, and right now she had to agree. On dark days, it was necessary to paint on a smile.
‘Oh yes, Miss Charlton. We’ve been expecting you.’ The VAD nurse stepped out from behind the desk in the hall. ‘Everyone’s out on the terrace. Come this way.’
Stella assumed Mac would be here too, and she sucked in a deep breath and released it slowly as she wondered how much more of this she could take. So far around Mac, she’d managed to keep up a pretence while her crushed heart and soul ached for his love, and she didn’t know how much more she could take. It was madness coming all this way on what would appear to be a fool’s errand, but then she had been helping out, and it gave her such a boost to see the boys and to be able to help them. Her reward was seeing their faces light up with a smile – or, in some cases, their eyes – and it had nursed her bruised heart these past weeks.
Mac hadn’t given her any indication of wanting her back and being so close to him and yet so far apart was bloody frustrating. Golden light and voices tumbled in through an open doorway ahead, and Stella forced a smile despite the heaviness in her heart. Nerves simmered, and she clutched her stomach as if she could pin them down before stepping outside to a sea of servicemen and civilians, milling around on the terrace.
‘Stella, you made it.’ Archie strode over to greet her, his eyes twinkling as his face creased into a broad grin. He had a pint glass in his hand. Tables laden with plates of sandwiches and cakes adorned the terrace. ‘Come and meet some of the boys and I’ll get you a drink.’ He took her arm and steered her towards a group of young airmen. ‘Gentlemen, this is the young lady I’ve been telling you about. Stella. She’s been an asset to our merry ward.’
As they greeted her one by one, her eyes picked out the USAAF uniform directly in front of her and her heart leapt as she was reminded of the first time she and Mac had met. He stood with his back to her, tall and broad and the smooth tone of his voice sent a tingle coursing through her veins.
‘It’s jolly nice to meet you, Stella.’ A young RAF officer held out his hand, jerking her back into the present.
Mac spun around, and the breath caught in her throat. It was the burned side of his face that appeared first, and for a second she thought it must be someone else until he faced her fully and she saw him as if for the very first time. The skin stretched taut across his right cheek, coloured like red wine, bleeding into paler skin below his eye, puckering around the outer edge, crinkling now as he smiled. She held in a breath, and she knew she was staring, but she couldn’t speak. A faint pink tinge crept into his left cheek, and his smile faded. His beautiful face . . . but Archie was right – it could have been so much worse. Entranced by Mac’s deep blue eyes, she failed to take the RAF officer’s proffered hand.
‘Stella, I didn’t know you were coming today.’ Mac took a step towards her. He was as handsome as ever, and she longed to reach out and touch him, but he wouldn’t like that. Just as words formed in her mind, a hand took her arm gently.
‘Stella, Dickie tells me you have a beautiful singing voice. Come and sing for us. I’m afraid we’ve been let down today as our singer has cancelled. I had no idea we had a songbird in our midst.’ As Archie led her away, she glanced over her shoulder at Mac, and he grinned back. Her heart swelled. It was something, at least.
‘I’m not that good a singer, Archie, really I’m not.’
‘Oh, she’s a natural, Maestro. Just wait till you hear. Come on, Stella. You’ll be ace.’ Dickie beamed, holding a sheet of music in his hand. ‘We’re just through here.’
She followed him through French doors to where the piano stood, then she turned and gazed out at a sea of expectant faces on the terrace as a crowd gathered, prompted by Archie. Among them stood Mac, his intense eyes upon her. Stella tore her gaze away and took a deep breath. ‘I can’t do it.’ She swallowed; her palms were moist with sweat.
Dickie placed his hands on her shoulders and looked her in the eye. ‘Come on, you’ll be great, I promise. Just pretend there’s nobody there. It’s just you and me.’ He nodded, a reassuring smile etched on his lips, then he thrust a crystal glass in her hand. ‘Dutch courage.’ He chuckled. ‘Go on then, down the hatch.’ He ran a hand through his cropped, sandy blond hair with its side parting.
Stella took a sip. It was fiery and coated her tongue in malt, and she wrinkled up her nose and blew out a breath. ‘I never drink whisky.’ She coughed, and Dickie laughed.
He began playing the keys. ‘Recognise it?’
She nodded.
‘Know the words?’
‘Doesn’t everyone?’
He launched into the music, and Stella began to sing ‘A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square.’ Her voice trembled at first, the notes quivered, and she clenched her fists by her sides as a flash of warmth spread upward from her neck. The chatter died away, and all eyes were upon her, scrutinising. She glanced down at the floor for a second as her heart raced and she told herself there was no one there, and as she raised her chin, she found her focus – Mac. She gazed into his eyes, losing herself in their sapphire depths, as his mouth curved upward into that heart-stopping half-smile as if he believed in her, and the words flowed from her lips, sweet and melodic. When the song ended, and the piano music ceased, people applauded, and the jovial hubbub of voices erupted once again.
‘Stella, that was beautiful. Thank you for stepping in,’ Archie said. ‘Isn’t she wonderful?’
Mac stepped forward. ‘She sure is.’
‘Ah, Dickie, can I have a word?’ Archie steered Dickie away, leaving Stella transfixed by Mac’s twinkling eyes, alone.
‘You were a knockout.’ Mac rubbed the back of his neck. ‘I had no idea you could sing. You’re full of surprises.’
A gentle breeze of cedar wood flowed towards her, and she drank it in. ‘Well, I don’t make a habit of it, especially not in public.’ She grinned and looked around. She longed to tell him that he was still handsome, that his scars made no difference to her, only she wasn’t sure how he’d react.
‘Say, would you like to take a walk?’ He scraped a hand through his hair.
‘All right.’ She followed Mac out into the garden, and he led her around to the side of the house where a bench seat nestled beneath the shade of oak trees. As they sat, she noticed how he left a space between them, and her heart sank.
Mac took out a packet of Lucky Strikes and offered it to her.
‘Thanks.’ She plucked one and leaned in close for a light, and his hand cupped hers, sending a tingle streaking up her arm to her chest. ‘You’re looking well.’
‘I’m okay. The doc’s work is almost done.’
‘That’s good. Do you think they’ll send you home?’
‘I doubt it. I’m going back, Stella. I wanted you to know.’
The air rushed out of her lungs. ‘You mean you’re going to fly?’
‘Yeah, if they’ll have me. I just have to pass the medical.’ He spoke as if it was a mere formality.
‘Mac, you can’t. They won’t pass you.’ Her heartbeat pounded in her ears. He wasn’t fit to fly bombers. She swallowed as she pictured him in the cockpit of a B-17 in a turbulent sky
swarming with the Luftwaffe, and a swell of nausea surged in her gut. She turned away towards the shimmering horizon as tears clouded her vision.
‘The doc says I might make it. I need more tests, and then there’s the therapy, but so far so good.’
Why was he doing this? He could take a desk job. Be safe. She couldn’t bear losing him, even though he wasn’t hers to lose. A tear bobbed on her eyelash before slipping down her cheek, and she gritted her teeth.
‘I just wanted you to know, after all, we were . . . well, I didn’t want you finding out from somebody else.’
Was that all? He just had to tell her his good news as if she’d never been anyone special at all? When had he become so cold? She bit her lip as her shoulders shook and she tried in vain to swallow down the sob. The flying was one thing, but his coolness towards her hurt more than anything and she squeezed her eyes shut.
‘Hey, come on, honey.’ Mac placed his hand on her shoulder.
She turned to face him. ‘I can’t believe you’re doing this. What about everything you said? What about me?’
Mac shook his head and bit his lip. ‘This is exactly what I wanted to avoid. Stella, you know how I feel, but I can’t risk hurting you, or worse.’
‘Never coming back?’ she choked. ‘Is that what you mean?’ She swiped tears away with the back of her hand. ‘You said you loved me, and then you pushed me away.’
‘Oh, come on, honey. Please don’t be like that.’
‘Like what exactly? Like someone who happens to care a lot about you? Well, more fool me.’ She rose, grabbed her bag, and drew in a deep breath. ‘I’m glad you’ve recovered so well, truly I am, but I think you’re making a mistake. Still, it’s your life. Bye, Mac.’
His eyes flashed and she spun on her heels and fled, tears stinging her eyes as she marched off down the drive.
‘Stella, wait.’
THE BEAUTY SHOP Page 20