Bluebirds (76 page)

‘Squadron Leader Somerville? Last bed on the left. You can have ten minutes, but please don't tire him unnecessarily. He had an operation yesterday.'

She took a deep breath and walked down the length of the ward. It was no more than a hut – just like the RAF ones – with walls painted a depressing dark green and cream, but she had never seen a hospital ward that had a piano, or a barrel of beer where a dressing-gowned
mummy in a wheelchair was drawing himself a pint. A wireless was playing loudly here, too, and there were vases of flowers on every table – their scent fighting a losing battle with the hospital smells. And these beds contained more white-bandaged figures, and, even more gruesome, others without bandages so that she could see the hideously disfigured faces – the raw red flesh, the flaps of skin hanging loose, the swollen, misshapen features, holes where there should have been noses, slits where there should have been eyes . . . A letter-box opening gaped and twisted in her direction and she realized that it was what was left of a mouth and that its owner was trying manfully to smile at her. She smiled back, swallowed hard, and walked on.

Johnnie was lying against the pillows and his hands were two fat white cocoons resting on the covers before him. When he turned his head slowly towards her she saw that only one side of his face was bandaged and that he still had two eyes, a nose and a mouth. The relief was so great that she nearly laughed aloud.

‘Good Christ, Anne! What the hell are you doing here?'

‘Keeping my promise. Visiting you. Remember? God knows why.' She held out a bunch of asters. ‘I've brought you these.'

She hoped he wouldn't notice that her hand was shaking. In fact, she seemed to be shaking all over. Nausea, horror, shock, disgust, pity, dread and then, finally, the intense relief had all chased each other through her in the past few minutes and left her close to collapse.

‘A bottle of whisky would have been better.'

‘You'll have to make do with flowers instead. Your nanny would have told you to mind your manners and be grateful for what you're given.'

‘I don't like to tell you the answer I'd give her at the moment. Sit down. No, not on that chair. Here, on the bed.'

‘What about that ward sister? Won't she mind?'

‘Sod her.'

She perched on the edge of the bed. ‘How are you, then?'

‘How do I look?'

‘Actually, not so bad. I was afraid you might be a lot worse.'

‘Well, I'm absolutely and totally bloody. Fed up to the back teeth.'

She pointed to the two white cocoons. ‘Do they hurt?'

‘Don't ask bloody silly questions, Anne. Of course they do. Like hell. They never stop hurting.'

‘Sorry. What happened?'

He leaned back on the pillow. ‘Some blasted Jerry got me. I managed to make it back but the kite was too shot up to do a decent landing and it went up in flames . . . I should have baled out if I'd had any sense, but the Channel didn't look particularly inviting. Still, as you can see if you look around you, I'm one of the luckier ones.'

‘Yes, you are.
Very
lucky. I'd already noticed.'

He gave a snort of laughter. ‘I might have known you wouldn't have come to wipe my fevered brow and whisper gentle womanly comforts in my ear.'

‘Well, compared with some of the others you look pretty OK to me.'

‘Thank you,' he said with sarcasm. ‘A trifle blemished, of course, but the quacks tell me they'll be able to patch up my face in time. There's some wizard here who works miracles.'

‘Well, you were too good-looking for your own good. Vanity's your middle name.'

‘It's Charles, actually. Anne, you're just the sort of visitor they don't encourage. You're supposed to be bolstering my ego, not deflating it.'

‘Do you want me to go?'

‘No, you can stay and make yourself useful and light me a cigarette. There are some in the drawer there.'

She found a packet of Players and a lighter in the bedside cabinet drawer, lit one and placed it between his lips.

He drew on it and looked up at her quizzically. ‘Thanks. As a matter of fact, I don't really give a damn about the face. The hands are another matter, though. One rather needs them to fly with.' He lifted the cocoons. ‘And the last time I saw these they looked like two very overcooked bits of steak. No gloves, you see. Bloody stupid.'

‘The sister said you had an operation yesterday.'

‘
Yet
another, she should have said. And more to come. Still, they seem to think they'll be able to make them work – eventually.'

‘Then there's no need to worry.'

He smiled for the first time. ‘You remind me of my mother when I fell off my bike, aged about five and cut my knee open badly. The bone was showing through, all white and gleaming, and I yelled when she put disinfectant on it because it hurt a lot. She said: “Don't make such a fuss! It's nothing that won't mend perfectly well.” I still bear the scar to this day. I'll show it to you sometime, if you like.'

‘No thanks.'

‘Oh well . . . How are the bomber lot in Norfolk?'

‘Dying.'

‘I imagine they are, the poor bastards. Not a job I've ever envied.'

‘Who would? Can you manage that cigarette?' She leaned forward to rescue it from the corner of his mouth. He looked at her tunic sleeve.

‘It's Section Officer Cunningham, I see. You've gone up in the world.'

‘So have you. I didn't know. Squadron Leader's pretty impressive.'

‘I'm glad I impress you at last.'

‘It's Isobel you need to impress. Weren't you planning to marry her? I thought I'd find her at your bedside, smiling sweetly and attentive to your every need.'

‘She came here once and damned nearly passed out. Can't stand hospitals, apparently, and this particular one has some rather gory sights, as you will have observed. It was all too much for her. I told her not to come again. I'm rather relieved to be rid of her. All that adoring adulation was positively boring. And I never had any intention of marrying her.'

‘You're a complete swine . . . you know that?'

‘You like to think so. Anyway, now you're here
you
can attend to my needs instead. Will you get me some beer from the splendid barrel over there?'

‘Is that there all the time?'

‘Certainly. We're open all hours. And it never runs dry. You'll find a pint mug in the cupboard.'

She went to draw the beer and returned with a brimming mugful.

‘You'll have to give it to me,' he said. ‘I can't hold it with these hands.'

She took the cigarette away from his lips and stubbed it out, and held the beer for him to drink, then she sat down on the end of the bed again. ‘Say when you want some more.'

The patient in the next bed began to groan and thrash about. His face was completely swathed in bandages with holes left for his nose and mouth and he kept jerking his head from side to side on the pillow. A sour sweet smell came from the bed. Someone turned up the wireless.

‘Bomber boy,' Johnnie said laconically. ‘His Halifax caught fire doing a wheels up – same as me. He was the only one they got out. Not much face left. They gave him a new upper lip the other day and it's gone septic.'

She listened uneasily to the groaning. ‘Can't they do something for him? He sounds in awful pain.'

‘I expect some nurse will come along to give him a shot, if it's time. Otherwise he'll just have to grin and bear it for a while – as it were.'

‘That sounds pretty hard-hearted.'

‘Well, that's the way it is in this ward. If we were
soft-hearted we'd all be wringing our hands the whole time – those of us who have hands to wring. More beer, please.'

She put the mug to his lips again. The groans behind her had become pitiful sobs. In her distress she let some of the beer spill down Johnnie's pyjamas.

‘Steady on, Anne,' he said. ‘Don't go to pieces like Isobel. That's not like you at all.'

A nurse came hurrying down the ward, carrying a kidney dish. She bent over the writhing form in the next bed. After a moment the sobbing stopped.

‘Wonderful stuff morphine,' Johnnie observed.

He was leaning back on the pillows again and looking chalk-white.

‘God,' she said. ‘Your hands don't hurt like that, do they?'

‘I've no idea. We don't have such a thing as a pain thermometer to pass round. At the moment it's rather like being stabbed with red hot skewers.'

She stood up. ‘I'd better go.'

‘You'd better not!'

‘That sister said I could stay only a short time. She was rather fierce about it. Said I wasn't to tire you.'

‘I never get tired of you, Anne.'

‘Don't twist words.'

‘Don't go.' He looked up at her with a bitter smile. ‘Do you know the worst thing about being in this bloody place?'

‘I can guess. Being out of things.'

‘Astute girl. Exactly. It's lying here and hearing fighters go overhead and thinking of the lucky bastards flying them while I'm stuck here in this stinking butcher's shop, missing it all.'

‘You'll be back flying eventually.'

‘The war'll bloody well be over by then. Some of these chaps have been in here for months. Years even.'

‘Patience is a virtue. Surely your nanny taught you that?'

‘I'm glad you're not sorry for me – like Isobel. I don't think I could have borne that. You'll come again?'

‘It'll be difficult. This is only a forty-eight and I have to get back. The trains always take for ever. Not sure when I'll get a decent amount of leave next . . . and you're miles away. Anyway, you must have masses of visitors.'

‘Not many that I want to see. Are you going to take that beer away with you?'

She had forgotten that she was still holding the mug. ‘Do you want some more?'

He shook his head. ‘You can leave it on the side there. A nurse will come round and minister to me soon.'

‘They're all very pretty.'

‘Specially chosen to cheer us up and make us feel the same handsome, attractive, devil-may-care chaps we once were . . .' He looked at her. ‘You've cheered me up more than any of them, Anne. Thanks for keeping your promise.'

She walked away down the ward between the rows of beds, smiling resolutely at their occupants as she passed them. At the doorway she turned to look back. Johnnie lifted one of the white cocoons in farewell.

It was much quieter than usual in the Fox and Grapes.

‘Where're all the bloody Yanks, then?' the corporal fitter asked the landlord.

‘Lyin' all over Germany, by the sound of it,' was the reply. ‘They lost a whole lot of bombers today. Some big raid . . . Nearly four hundred went and sixty didn't come back. That's the rumour.'

‘Blimey! Maybe that'll teach 'em it's not so bloody easy. Be a bit more peaceful round here, too. Might even be some beer left for us, eh, mate?'

Winnie listened, shocked. Sixty bombers missing . . . Ten crew to each, Virgil had said. That was six hundred men. Some might have parachuted to safety, but most would probably be dead. She had never cared much for the fitter and now she liked him even less for his callous
words. She wanted to tell him just what she thought of him for them, but it would only have started him and the others off again – teasing her about Americans. They'd given her a hard time after she'd gone over to the American corner in the pub that evening.
Where's the nylons, then, Winnie? Didn't know you was after a millionaire, love. You know what they say about girls who go with Americans, Winnie – one Yank and they're off
 . . . She hadn't been down to the Fox and Grapes since, afraid that Virgil Gillies and Buzz and the rest of them would be there and that the same thing would happen again. This evening, though, the RAF lads had made out they were offended she wouldn't join them, and so she'd gone too.

The barmaid had red-rimmed eyes and kept dabbing at them with a handkerchief taken from her bosom. Winnie wondered if she was crying for all the missing Americans, or if she knew which bombers hadn't come back and was crying for one. If she had the nerve and the chance, she might be able to ask her if she knew whether
Sassy Sally
had gone on the raid, and whether she had come

‘You're very quiet, Winnie,' the fitter said nastily. ‘You wondering about your Yank? I reckon he won't be walking in here this evening. You'll just have to make do with us.'

The rabbits were running out from the corn. Winnie, following after the binder round the ten-acre field and stooking the sheaves it dropped, could see them bolting from the circle left standing in the middle where they'd taken refuge as the corn was cut. Old Ebenezer Stannard's two terriers were straining at their leashes and yapping excitedly. He stooped to release them and they streaked after the rabbits. One of them caught up with one near the edge of the field and there was a squealing and a snapping and then the squealing stopped abruptly. Winnie made another stook and then rested for a moment. The island
of corn was growing steadily smaller as Dad went round and round on the Fordson, with Jack sitting on the binder behind. She knew he'd far sooner have been driving Prince and Smiler, but he wouldn't let her do the job – not with other people watching.

She wiped her hand across her forehead and let the breeze cool her down a bit. They were lagging far behind with the sheaves but it couldn't be helped, they were so shorthanded this harvest. Mr Stannard had hurt his back and couldn't come over as he usually did and the labourer he'd sent was even older than Jack. The two boys from the village who were supposed to be helping her with the sheaves were playing about more than they were working. It was lucky she'd had some leave due or Dad wouldn't have managed at all.