Pack Up Your Troubles

by Pam Weaver

  Sixteen

  Connie stared out of the window of the train. Her only travelling companion, a middle-aged woman was engrossed in a book. It was a week since she had had a reply from William Garfield and she was already on the way to the hospital. It was a shame Eva still hadn’t fully recovered from that very nasty bout of flu. Much to Sister Abbott’s disgust, Mrs Maxwell told her that Eva was still under the weather because she had a bad chest and wouldn’t be back at work until next week at the earliest.

  Connie hadn’t told the family what she was doing. Ga would have forbidden her to go and her mother would have wanted to go with her. Connie wanted to see her brother first. She had no idea how badly injured he had been and she couldn’t let her mother go unprepared.

  Connie had dressed carefully. Under her winter coat, she wore a grey pinstriped dress with a white peter pan collar. Her dress had maroon piping down the side seam and so she had matched it with maroon shoes and a maroon bag. The bag, which had come from a jumble sale, was a bit ancient but it made an attractive ensemble. Her hair was caught up in curls and she wore a grey beret on the side of her head.

  The English countryside looked beautiful at this time of year. After the terrible winter, the signs of spring were on their way. The snow had been followed by severe floods in some areas, but along the south coast, the weather was much milder than up country. The fields were newly ploughed and the spring lambs frolicked on the downs. The sun glistened on the rivers and already the birds were beginning to nest. Whenever they went through a village or hamlet, Connie saw children playing, ramblers in country lanes and mothers pushing their well wrapped up babies in their coach-built prams. At one railway crossing, three boys on bicycles waited for the train to pass and at another, two children leaned over the crossing gates and waved to the train. Every now and then she would catch sight of something which would bring back a stark reminder that the country had just come through five years of war and misery. It may have been a man with only one leg getting about on crutches, or someone in a wheelchair or a bombed-out building. The scars were ever present.

  She leaned against the headrest and closed her eyes. It was a miracle the letter had reached her. Connie could only suppose that Ga must have intercepted all the others. She had always been adamant that they should have nothing more to do with Kenneth.

  Connie relaxed and let her mind drift back to that day, the day Kenneth left home. She didn’t mind thinking about the stiffness of clean white sheets and the smell of the lavender talc Ga had put on her body afterwards. What she didn’t want to remember was the fact that her arms hurt and that for a time she had been held against her will. Not that she’d had much sympathy.

  ‘Don’t you ever,’ Ga had said angrily and through gritted teeth, ‘ever let a man get you drunk again.’

  Connie’s eyes flew open. At the time, she’d been too scared to say anything but now she realised that it wasn’t her fault. She’d hardly had anything to drink. There must have been something in that cider he’d given her. It made her feel funny almost as soon as she’d tasted it. Kenneth had had some too. In fact he’d had so much he’d passed out but he wasn’t drunk like everyone said.

  She became aware that the woman sitting opposite was giving her a concerned look. ‘You all right, dear?’

  Connie took a deep breath and smiled. ‘Yes, thank you,’ she said.

  ‘You look as if you’ve had a bit of a shock.’

  ‘Really,’ said Connie shaking her head. ‘I’m fine.’

  The woman went back to her book and Connie looked out of the window. She’d never really bothered to analyse what happened that day but Ga had been so wrong, hadn’t she? And because of what she thought had happened, she had hated Kenneth.

  Her mother was different. Kenneth had always been her blue-eyed boy. She didn’t talk about him but Connie knew her heart was broken. She never gave up hope that he would come sailing back into her life again. Every Remembrance Sunday her mother would put a red poppy next to his photograph in her bedroom. Kenneth had always wanted to join the RAF and Connie supposed that when the war came he had done just that. Nobody was too fussy about age back then and she liked to think of him over the skies, protecting the country. It was a bit scary when the Battle of Britain was raging but seeing as how they had never been informed that he had been shot down or anything like that, Connie had always supposed he had survived the war intact.

  The journey took less than an hour. From the station she had to find her way to Holtye Road and the Queen Victoria Hospital. East Grinstead was famed for two things, one which was horrific and the other brought a ray of hope to the victims of war. On a Friday evening in July 1943, a German bomber had targeted the Whitehall Cinema. It was early evening and schoolchildren were enjoying a Hopalong Cassidy film when the bombs fell. As well as the cinema, several shops were hit and then the plane returned to machine gun survivors. In total, 108 were killed and 235 people were injured, a large number of them being the children in the cinema. The whole town, indeed the whole country was devastated by the pictures of helpless fathers searching the rubble for their lost boys and girls. Everyone in East Grinstead knew someone who had been affected by the terrible loss of life.

  The other reason why East Grinstead was on the map was because of the pioneering work being done at the East Grinstead burns unit, the place where Connie was heading. After the Battle of Britain, hospital wards were littered with young men in their early twenties who, in their heroic efforts to save the country, had suffered horrific burns. Modern medicine meant that they survived their ordeal but the consequences were unimaginable.

  The building itself turned out to be two storeys and long. It had a round tower at one end and was set in green lawns. Roger was waiting by the double doors and shook her hand warmly as they met. His hair was slicked back and he looked smart in a dark blue suit, white shirt and grey tie. She’d noticed his eyes before but today they looked particularly kind and friendly making her feel much more relaxed now that he was here. Connie was shown into a small visitors’ room and after a short wait, a well-dressed man with an open face and enigmatic smile entered the room. He introduced himself as Mr Archibald McIndoe. He had a clean shaven face and wore round glasses. He was tall with thinning hair and looked for all the world like a college lecturer.

  He shook her hand. ‘Have you seen your brother since his accident?’ He had the faintest trace of an accent but Connie couldn’t quite place it. Australian or South African? She shook her head.

  ‘Then I think you must brace yourself for a shock, Miss Dixon,’ he said indicating that they should all sit down. ‘We are keen that our boys come to terms with what’s happened to them but until they do, we do our best to help them feel as comfortable as possible. Do you understand?’

  Connie nodded but she wasn’t really sure that she did understand.

  ‘It is important that you try to behave as normally as possible,’ the doctor went on. ‘Please don’t register your shock or surprise when you see him.’

  Connie’s heartbeat quickened. What was he saying? What exactly was wrong with Kenneth?

  ‘Has he been badly affected, sir?’ Roger asked.

  ‘Flying Officer Dixon was trapped in his aircraft when it caught fire,’ the doctor continued. ‘He had extensive burns to his face and arm.’ He paused. ‘I’m afraid you may not recognise him.’

  Connie felt sick. Oh Kenneth … Roger reached for her hands resting on her lap and squeezed them.

  ‘Are you all right, Miss Dixon?’ Mr McIndoe asked not unkindly.

  ‘I’m fine,’ Connie smiled.

  ‘The men here have already had several skin grafts,’ Mr McIndoe continued. ‘Flying Officer Dixon, we call him Dickie, has had a few more than most. He’s been here over a year and we’ve already given him new eyelids and new cheekbones. We now have to restructure his nose. I understand you are a nurse, Miss Dixon.’

  Connie nodded. ‘I’m training to be a nurse.’

  Mr McIndoe
looked at her thoughtfully. ‘Your brother has got what we call a walking stalk skin flap on his nose.’

  Connie looked puzzled.

  ‘It’s skin and soft tissue which we have formed into a tubular pedicle,’ said Mr McIndoe waving his hands from his nose to his chest. ‘It’s joined to two parts of his body, his nose and his chest, so that it retains the blood supply from the source, his chest, until it’s fully taken. I’m afraid he looks as if he’s got an elephant’s trunk at the moment.’

  There was a pregnant silence and then Roger asked, ‘Is that all that needs to be done?’

  Mr McIndoe shook his head. ‘It’s his hands that are the problem. I’m afraid it’s going to take a few more operations before he can use them again.’

  Connie was numb with shock. She had guessed it must be bad but she had never expected anything as bad as this.

  ‘As a matter of fact, he’s out there on the terrace,’ the doctor went on. ‘You can see him from here and I should like you to do that. I warn you again, it may be a shock. Once you have recovered yourself, I will take you to see him. I hope you will find it in yourself to treat him as if he is perfectly normal. Although in the early days we tried our best to persuade him otherwise, we had to respect his wish not to inform his family. It’s taken him a long time to pluck up the courage to agree to see you.’

  ‘Does he know I’m coming today?’ Connie asked.

  ‘I have to confess I was annoyed when his friends told me what they had done,’ he said. ‘But Dickie has come round to the idea. You must know that we wrote first to your mother but she chose not to reply.’

  Connie rose to her feet and walked unsteadily to the window. ‘I’m sure if my mother had known Kenneth was here,’ she said, ‘she would have been on the very first train. I think my great aunt, for reasons best known to herself, must have intercepted the letters.’

  Roger came to stand with her. There were several men on the terrace. Some were playing cards, one had his arm in some sort of brace which held it extended outwards and another was apparently practising some lines from a play.

  ‘The men have come on in leaps and bounds since we formed The Guinea Pig Club,’ Mr McIndoe continued and he came to join them at the window. ‘Of course when the war ended they stopped taking on members but it helps them no end to feel that what we do here is of great help to others.’

  ‘I can’t see my brother,’ she said eventually.

  Also as soon as she said it, a Lancaster bomber rumbled overhead in the sky and the man with his back to the window turned around and looked up. Connie gasped in horror and stepped back from the window. Her eyes immediately filled with tears. Half of his face was a mass of livid scars. His left eye drooped and part of his nose was an odd shape. The doctor was right. He did look as if he had a long skinny elephant’s trunk. The hair on the left side of his face stood up in untidy tufts. Now that he had moved, she could see the hand that held his cards was also damaged. The fingers were no more than stumps although the other hand, his left, was not nearly so deformed. His card playing companion said something and Kenneth turned back to the table. Laying down his cards he laughed heartily. Clearly, he had won the game.

  Connie reached for Roger’s hand and he held her tightly.

  The doctor glanced at Connie who was wiping her eyes. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said stiffly, her voice thick with emotion. ‘Just give me a minute, will you?’

  Roger produced a clean white handkerchief.

  ‘It’s a perfectly normal reaction,’ said Mr McIndoe. ‘I’ll arrange for you to have some tea.’

  Connie sniffed. ‘No, no. I’ll be fine. In fact, I should like to take tea with my brother if that’s all right? After all, that’s what I came for. Is there somewhere I could powder my nose?’

  Alone in the ladies room, Connie allowed herself a short cry and then splashed her face with water. ‘Pull yourself together,’ she told her reflection. She was a professional. A nurse. She dealt with this sort of thing every day, but, oh dear, it was so very different being on the other side of the fence. This was agony … her chest hurt and her eyes were stinging with unshed tears. She shivered involuntarily. On the wards, she could be sympathetic but remain detached. She had a reputation for being a gentle and considerate nurse, someone people could talk to, but this was different. This was her brother. Her Kenneth. Connie took a deep breath, several in fact. After that, she powdered her nose and put on some lipstick. Her last move was to rearrange a curl or two and then taking one last look at herself in the mirror, she practised a bright smile and then she knew she was ready.

  Seventeen

  The police were outside the Frenchie’s workshop. Had he seen them before he came down the little lane, Isaac would have ridden straight past the entrance and gone back to his caravan still parked behind the hedge in Titnore Lane, but one of them had spotted him. Isaac had never liked the police but if he made a run for it now, whatever they’d come for, they’d decide it was him. He’d have to take a chance.

  Isaac had enjoyed the winter months. For the first time in his life he felt he had a purpose. He’d stayed because his father had wanted to stay. The old man had become nostalgic in his old age. He wasn’t well either. The rest of the family had moved on but Isaac had decided to take up the Frenchie’s offer to learn about motors. Actually, it wasn’t the Frenchie who taught him. An ex-soldier from REME was in one end of the workshop helping ex-servicemen get on their feet and the Frenchie had persuaded the bloke to take Isaac on as well. Isaac had had little formal schooling but young as he was, he had a sound business head on his shoulders. Since the end of the war, there were a lot of ex-service vehicles available. Plenty of people were buying and he had a shrewd idea that before long, once things started to pick up, everybody would want their own car. Reuben had worked in the fields, his uncle was a dealer in scrap metal, and his brother-in-law was good with wood so Isaac decided to become a mechanic. To his surprise, he found he enjoyed it. That was a bonus.

  The freezing cold weather had put a bit of a dampener on things. He had no income and had to rely on his wits for a few weeks, trapping the odd pheasant and fishing in the river Rife, but he avoided anything illegal and stuck with it, knowing that it wouldn’t be long before they could get back to fixing motors.

  Isaac parked his bike against the wall and sauntered into the garage whistling a tune. Perhaps the police car had come in for repairs. The Frenchie and the two burly policemen turned towards him and Isaac’s whistle died on his lips. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Someone has complained,’ said the Frenchie.

  ‘Complained? About what?’

  ‘There have been some thefts,’ said the copper with the sergeant’s stripes. All three of them stared at him hard.

  ‘This is Sergeant Palmer,’ said the Frenchie. ‘He wants to ask you some questions.’

  ‘Why me?’ Isaac protested.

  ‘Oh, I know all about you lot,’ said the sergeant with a sneer, ‘so don’t you go getting on your high horse, my lad.’

  Isaac felt a rage creeping up into his chest. For the first time in his life he’d done nothing wrong but he knew what was coming. He was the gypsy. The man of ‘no fixed abode’. If somebody was thieving, it had to be him. His eyes narrowed. It wouldn’t matter what he said, they’d pin it on him anyway. He made a split decision, one he would forever regret. Turning on his heel, he legged it. He didn’t get far. The copper he’d seen just outside the door stuck his foot out and Isaac went flying.

  ‘Looks like we’ve found our culprit,’ said the sergeant with a satisfied smirk.

  The Frenchie shook his head. ‘No, no. I cannot believe it. He wouldn’t …’

  ‘When you’ve been in the job as long as I have,’ interrupted the sergeant, ‘you get a nose for this sort of thing.’

  The police officers had dragged Isaac to his feet and cuffed him. ‘It wasn’t me,’ he cried helplessly. ‘I ain’t done nothing.’

  The Frenchie watched him being bundled into th
e police car and turned back into the garage. Isaac had been at the workshop every day helping out and learning whatever he could about motors. They slipped Isaac the odd pound or two and gave him a pie at lunchtime but there wasn’t enough money coming in to pay him a wage. True, Isaac had helped them with the old folks when the weather was really bad, but stealing from them? Eugène couldn’t believe it. But what had happened to Isaac wasn’t the end of his troubles. Because he had few customers, the mechanic who shared part of his workshop couldn’t pay his share of the rent. The terrible weather had meant that Eugène was losing money hand over fist and he couldn’t keep going much longer. Nobody was buying luxuries like Simeon’s carvings or his own paintings and the bicycle repairs he usually did completely dried up because of the bad weather. He’d got a few odd jobs but even though he was engaged to his daughter, Councillor Hampton was already breathing down his neck for a good return on his investment. Mavis didn’t seem to care that he had no money. She spent it anyway. Eugène had ploughed everything he’d got into the workshop. He had built up a sizeable bit of goodwill by helping the locals in the snow, but now the thefts had left an unwelcome blight on his good deeds. All that mattered now was racking up some more business. Pity about Isaac. The boy could have made his way in life. He was a damned good mechanic, a natural. Then it occurred to him that the police would be searching Isaac’s caravan before the day was out. The boy’s father didn’t look too good the last time he saw him and would be needing a hot meal. He’d better get up there and check on things.

  ‘Hello, Kenneth.’

  As he heard Connie’s soft greeting, Kenneth leapt to his feet knocking his chair over in the process. ‘What are you doing here?’ He had flung his arm across his face. ‘No, I don’t want you here. Go away, Connie. Leave me alone.’