Chapter 25

The Aftermath

A dark cloud hung over the ward. The latest figures revealed one hundred and three people lay dead while more than two hundred lay seriously injured. Mac had spent the last few days by Stella’s bedside. She had a concussion and dizziness, but other than that she was fine.

Bea kept bursting into tears. She flicked out a crisp white sheet, which billowed up in the air like a sail, and waited for Lily to grab the other side before tucking it in. Mac listened as Bea poured out her heart. Her best friend had been killed, along with her younger sister when the Whitehall was hit. Bea had gone along to support Sarah’s mother last night, who had to identify the bodies. Two daughters were killed in an instant in that decisive moment when a Luftwaffe pilot jettisoned his bombs. Rather than destroy military targets, he’d opted for helpless, innocent civilians and children. There were plenty of open spaces around, and he had to choose this town.

‘You should have seen it. Utter devastation, everywhere. It’s a miracle anyone came out alive. Dead people lay in the middle of London Road, sprawled out, all dirty and bloodied. After we’d been to the garage, I stood and watched as they brought more people out of the Whitehall. And the children, limp like rag dolls, with dusty, bloodied faces and I thought this can’t be happening.’ Her face crumpled as she sobbed into her hanky.

‘Come on, Bea,’ Pete said in a gentle voice. ‘There’s nothing you could have done. Christ knows why the pilot didn’t just dump the bombs in the Channel. That’s what we do.’

‘Yeah, except he had other ideas,’ Mac said.

She sniffed and dried her eyes. ‘I expect there’s barely a soul in this town who didn’t lose someone or knows someone who did. I know we’re close to London, but up until now we’ve been lucky.’

‘Here, get this down you.’ Pete offered her a nip of whisky.

‘Lord help us. Where did you have that hidden? Sister Jamieson will have your guts for garters. Beer’s one thing, but spirits.’ She glanced around the ward, but Sister was nowhere to be seen. Taking the glass, she downed the whisky in a single gulp. Her eyes widened, and she coughed.

‘That’s the spirit.’ Pete smiled. It was a warm, heartfelt smile, one that seemed to linger as they both gazed at each other. He offered her a clean handkerchief, and as she took it, their hands brushed.

‘Thanks.’ She dabbed her eyes before moving on to the next bed.

Mac strode across to the window and gazed out at the town, watching as smouldering black smoke rose and swirled up into the blue. To think that Stella had been caught up in that.

‘So, Pete, what’s the deal with you and Nurse Bea?’

‘I don’t have the faintest idea what you’re talking about. Pete cleared his throat, and a faint pink tinge coloured his cheeks.

‘Well, are you asking her to the dance or not?’ Mac took out a packet of John Player’s and offered him a cigarette before taking one for himself.

Pete gazed wistfully at Bea. She was standing on the other side of the ward, and their eyes met. Her mouth curved up into a sweet smile. ‘I may just do that.’

***

After four days in the hospital, Stella was discharged, and Mac called a cab and went with her to the station. ‘I hate leaving you, honey. I wish I could take you home,’ he said, folding her in his arms as the train steamed into view. The thought of parting from her weighed heavily on him, and he didn’t want to let her go.

‘I’ll be fine, honestly. If only these dizzy spells would clear up,’ she said with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

‘Yeah, well I’ll call you tonight just to make sure you get home safe.’ He pressed his lips to hers and pulled her close, savouring the warmth of her embrace. ‘I’ll miss you,’ he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. He grabbed her bag and held open the carriage door as she climbed up into the train, passing it to her.

‘I’ll miss you too.’ She stood by the open window as Mac took her hand in his. The guard blew his whistle, and the train hissed to life, pulling out of the station.

‘Look after yourself, Mac.’ She leaned out and kissed him on the mouth, her lips lingering as if to imprint the memory.

‘Love you, honey. Take care,’ he said, his heart aching with each word. He walked briskly along the platform, holding her hand for as long as he could until the train stole her away in a haze of swirling smoke, tearing her hand from his, surrendering him to a chasm of desolation. Exhaling a sigh, he turned away and ambled back towards the town, lowering his gaze. The last thing he wanted to be right now was sociable. The thought of facing the days ahead without her by his side filled him with a profound sense of emptiness and there was another unsettling niggle. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was losing her to something deeper, something he couldn’t yet name.

***

Mac lay on top of his bed, waiting for Bea to remove the dressings from his hands. The last operation had been successful, and the skin grafts had taken well.

‘You were so lucky. They’re so much better than when you first arrived. At least, everything works.’ She grinned, putting the forceps down into the kidney dish on the dressing trolley. ‘So, are you looking forward to the party?’

‘Sure am.’ He could hardly wait to be with Stella again. She was staying overnight, and he wondered if he could persuade her to go away for the weekend. His eyes lingered over the back of his hands, now a patchwork quilt of scars. ‘How long does it take for scars to fade?’

‘Oh, everyone’s different. Give it time. It’s a healer, you know.’ She said it with a distant look in her eyes, and somehow Mac didn’t believe her. She bustled away with her trolley, wheels screeching as metal instruments rattled in kidney dishes.

‘Mac, I’m off to the Rose and Crown with Doug. Fancy a pint?’ Pete shut the book he’d been reading with a thump.

‘Sure.’ Mac held his hands up in front of him. His fingers were straight, and warmth radiated throughout his body. Squeezing the life of that small therapy ball had paid off. The Maestro had done a swell job, real neat. Off-key piano notes fractured the silence. The guys laughed, and one of them threw a piece of apple at the unsuspecting pianist, which bounced off the back of his head.

The walk into town was a sombre affair as they strolled along, golden sunlight streaming through the trees, dappling the pavement. They passed people on the street and were met by faces filled with despair or blank stares with an occasional half-smile.

‘I reckon Bea’s right. There’s probably not a single soul untouched by the bombing.’ Pete sighed, running a hand through his thick, brown hair.

Mac’s stomach tightened. It had filled him with a rage worse than any fire. ‘Yeah, I reckon he had a score to settle.’ It was a low blow. What kind of man did that? He sighed. Maybe one who had lost his own family in Germany.

The combined bomber offensive saw the RAF flying missions at night while USAAF flew daily. Operation Gomorrah began in June, and the Brits and the Americans had battered Hamburg day and night for an entire week. Tens of thousands had been reported dead and half a city levelled. It was one hell of a way to win a war. Mac pictured the scene from the air above. Fires, smoke, and total devastation. Thousands of tonnes of bombs unleashed on the unsuspecting city. The heat from the flames would have been intense enough to melt anyone near and burn them up in an instant. A shiver zipped through him, and his mouth ran dry. The enemy would never cease, and he’d seen how far they were prepared to go. The consequences of not fighting were too great, and he had to push his conscience aside and close down mentally for the journey that lay ahead. His father always said war was dirty. There was no victory without suffering.

As they headed towards the Rose and Crown, they passed a jewellers, and something in the window caught Mac’s eye. ‘You guys go on ahead. I’ll catch you up.’ He paused before opening the door and took a deep breath as he glanced at his hand. Maybe he should have worn gloves. Too late now. His body stiffened, and he swallowed. The doc always said to look people in the eye. The shop bell tinkled above the door as he strode in, and a middle-aged man buttoned up the jacket of his navy flannel suit as he stepped forward. ‘Can I help you, sir?’ His face creased into a warm smile as he looked Mac in the eye.

Mac smiled, and the tension ebbed away. ‘Yeah, can you show me that locket, please?’ He pointed to a gold heart-shaped pendant.

‘Ah, yes.’ The assistant brought out the tray. ‘An excellent choice, sir. Solid gold, eighteen carats.’ He placed the red velvet tray on top of the glass counter.

Mac gazed at the heart and pictured Stella wearing it. When the assistant handed it to him, he opened it up. It wasn’t large, but it would still hold a portrait image. She’d love it. ‘I’ll take it, thanks.’ He turned his gaze to the window. ‘Actually, there’s something else that caught my eye.’

‘Oh, of course. Perhaps if sir could point it out, please?’ He stepped out from behind the counter and followed Mac to the window.

Fifteen minutes later, Mac re-emerged with two small, black velvet boxes. The price should have shocked him, but since his hospital stay, he’d saved a considerable sum. Besides, it was for Stella, so it was money well spent. He hoped he could persuade her to go away for the weekend. Pete had given him the details of a swell guest house and he’d already booked separate rooms. He smiled, still unable to believe she was finally his girl.

He caught up with the guys who were up ahead, having a smoke.

‘You took your time. Buying up the store?’ Pete laughed.

‘Sorry, fellas, I spotted a little something else while I was there.’

‘Yes, we all know you Yanks are overpaid.’ Pete chuckled, slapping Mac on the back.

‘Yeah, well they had to give us a sweetener for coming over here and flying these fool crazy missions. I don’t know about you, but I need a drink.’ Mac placed his hand in his tunic pocket, brushed it over the smallest box, and smiled. He’d surprise her with that one at the party.

‘Here we are, lads.’ Pete looked up at the sign on the front. ‘The watering hole at last.’

Mac swung the door open, and a haze of food, beer, and cigarette smoke drifted out into the air and coaxed them inside.

Pete led the way to the bar. ‘Hello, landlord. Three pints of your best bitter please,’ he requested, smiling at the burly balding barman with a ruddy face. ‘Oh, and er, can I have a straw with that please?’

The young barmaid smiled as she glanced at all three of them; her eyes lowered from Mac’s as she perused his face, and he promptly turned away from the bar. He didn’t want people gawping, and he didn’t want to be different. He heaved out a breath, figuring they had to look at least once. At least he still had all his fingers and thumbs, and they worked. Doug hadn’t been so lucky. He almost escaped the flames but stopped to rescue his injured radio operator before bailing out. Now he had to learn to use hands without fingers, although he still had thumbs. As the landlord placed their drinks on the bar, Pete popped the straw into a pint and Doug reached out with both hands, childlike, to gather up the glass.

‘Enjoy your pints, lads. If you want any food, just let me know.’ The landlord smiled at Doug, who hugged his pint glass to his chest with a strained look of concentration etched on his face.

‘Thanks,’ Doug said. They found a table next to the window, which overlooked the main street. The pub was quiet with only several people, but as Mac looked around, he couldn’t help noticing they were attracting attention, although none of it hostile. Locals nodded and smiled. Ill at ease, Mac stared down at his glass and sipped his beer, convinced that all eyes were on him. Heat flashed up his neck and into his face. Before the accident, people had looked at him in the usual way, or girls stared in a flirtatious way. Now, he was different. An oddity. They all were, and they stood out from the crowd. Even now when he looked in the mirror to shave or caught sight of his reflection in a shop window, his heart sank, and he wondered if he’d ever adapt to being different. Bea had said time was a healer. He sucked in a breath and raised his chin.

Doug sipped his beer through the straw. ‘Thank God my nose worked out okay.’ He was relieved to be rid of his dangling pedicle. His face was a mass of scar tissue with new droopy eyelids revealing hooded eyes, and he had to raise his chin to see properly.

Pete glanced at it. ‘Good for you. Mine took two attempts. The first one dropped off and narrowly missed a drowning in my mug of tea.’

Mac and Doug glanced at one another and roared with laughter.

‘It wasn’t funny at the time, I can assure you, and Archie wasn’t happy about it either. I’ve been plagued with rotten luck.’

Mac flicked a gaze at Pete’s hands. Although not as severely burned as Doug’s, he’d lost three fingers, and he always wore his tan leather gloves when out in public, even on a warm, summer’s day.

A middle-aged couple sat close by and cast sour sideways glances at them. The woman whispered something to the man, and he peered round, but when he caught Mac’s eye, he quickly turned away. There was a screech as the woman scraped her chair back, and the couple brushed past Mac as they headed to the door.

‘It shouldn’t be allowed, not in public,’ the woman said, an edge to her voice.

Mac could barely believe what he’d heard. Were they that hideous? His heart began to race, and he felt a flutter in his chest as anger surged. He sprang up, taking care to retain his composure.

‘Excuse me, ma’am. There’s something you should know.’ Aware of the anger in his voice, he took a deep breath and clenched his hand into a fist as he fought to remain calm. ‘We put our lives on the line to save people like you from Hitler’s bombs and were burned in the process. Do you have any idea what it’s like up there? At the very least you could show these boys a little respect, and if you can’t bring yourself to bestow a little Christianity, then it might be best if you said nothing at all. Have a good day.’

Mac sank down on his chair and drained the last of his beer while his friends looked on with stunned expressions. The woman’s cheeks flushed scarlet, and they scuttled out of the pub without another word.

‘Well, that told them, old boy.’ Pete laughed, taking out a silver cigarette case and offering it around.

Mac looked up. ‘Landlord’s coming about, eleven o’clock high.’

‘Here, lads, get those down you.’ He placed a tray on the table with three more pints.

They all stared in surprise, and Mac was taken aback by his generosity. ‘Gee, thanks. We sure appreciate it, don’t we boys?’ He glanced at Pete and Doug, who nodded and muttered their thanks as they reached across the table to grab a glass each.

‘Never mind what that woman said. Take no notice. I don’t know who they are, but they’re not from around here. The majority of us in this town are indebted to you lads, we are, so if anyone bothers you again, you tell me, and I’ll sort the devils out.’ With that, the landlord smiled, tucked the tray under his arm, and returned to the bar.

***

Later that evening, Mac lay in bed amidst the snores and the occasional groans, and the night nurse with her pen scratching line after line in the notes while seated at the wooden desk in the middle of the ward, her lamp casting a golden narrow beam across the paper. He thought about the woman in the pub earlier. Revulsion had lain in her eyes. Jesus, that was a kick in the guts. It was dirty, it was low, and it was . . . The memory reared like a siren as the image flashed in his mind, and Mac clamped his eyes shut and pursed his lips.

He was nine when a few of the older kids from school had dared him to call at Mr Bowers’ place. He lived in an old ramshackle of a house on the edge of town. People said he was a veteran of the Great War, and when he finally returned from the fighting, he broke off his engagement and became a recluse. The boys swore he was some kind of ghoul.

Mac followed the dirt track up to his house as the sun beat down, baking the ground to a dry crust. He could almost taste the dust, and just as he reached up to rap at the door, it swung open with an eerie groan, and he saw him for the first time. Oh yeah, he really saw him. Then he understood. Whenever he’d seen him before, the old guy had looked different, not disfigured, just odd, with a face like porcelain that didn’t move except for his eyes. In that moment, Mac realised he’d been going around town for years wearing a mask.

‘Get outta here, darn fool kids,’ the man hissed. He spat into the dirt right at Mac’s feet. Frothy spit soaked into the earth’s crust, leaving a dark stain, and Mac turned and fled. The boys laughed and jeered at the old man every time they saw him, and it was not until now that he realised the guy probably hadn’t been old at all. He must have only been in his thirties or forties maybe. It seemed he’d had good reason to withdraw from the community and hide away. Gargoyle—that’s what the boys called him.

Tears flooded his eyes, and the breath hitched in his throat. He swallowed. He had become Old Man Bowers, just like most of the guys here and he had to accept it, and he had to atone. God says to love thy neighbour, well, he could do that. He sighed. Reality cut deep. One minute you’re in demand as a serviceman, and the next you’re disfigured and cast out; an abomination. Stella sailed into his mind and infused him with a honeyed glow. She always brought the light.