Chapter 19

Divine Intervention

A rchie 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 set, 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 bally stuff did more harm than good, and it 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. Symmetrical, round eyes with long lashes, a 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 at 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.

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, while it also helped to reduce the scar tissue. Of course, the boys frequently complained about having to put up with red stamps for eyes, yet 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. 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, although 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 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. Unfortunately, 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 frowned and poured himself a brandy. ‘It means surgery, and whoever does it will have to do a bally 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? You’re serious? You actually 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 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, although 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 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. 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 your 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 from the one Archie had first met a few weeks 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.