Women on the Home Front (57 page)

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.

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 the 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.'

Roger righted the chair and Kenneth sank into it, his head in his hands. His shoulders were shaking.

‘Shhh,' Connie soothed. ‘It's all right, Kenny.'

The rest of the men melted away. They'd seen reunions like this before. Some of them had even had their own. They were painful, but once everyone got over the terrible shock, they were usually therapeutic.

Someone tapped Roger on the shoulder. ‘Fancy a drink, mate?'

‘I thought he'd agreed to her coming,' Roger accused.

The scarred man looked a little sheepish. ‘He'll be fine in a minute. You look as if you need a stiff one and this place is famous for its grogging parties.' His benefactor was about twenty-three with a deeply scarred face. His eyebrows were missing and his hairline began somewhere near the crown of his head. ‘So, what's your poison?'

Roger followed the others indoors.

Connie was crouched down in front of Kenneth, with one hand on his knee and the other on his arm. ‘I'm here now, Kenny,' she said softly. ‘I'm here.'

Eventually he regained control of his emotions and lifted his head. Connie stood, bending over him with her arms around his shoulders, her forehead to his forehead.

‘Oh, Connie,' he wept, ‘I'm sorry, I'm so sorry.'

It took a while before either of them could talk. She drew a chair close to him and put her hands over his poor scarred hand and the stump. She kissed his cheek and smiled up at him as if he were the same handsome brother who had left home all those years ago. To her, he was. To her he might be damaged but he was her perfect brother, her Kenny, and she had him back at last.

A nurse put a tea tray on the table beside them. Connie looked up and mouthed a thank you.

‘Is there anything else I can get you?' she asked.

Connie shook her head. Kenneth tried to get something out of his pocket and the nurse anticipated his movement. Pulling out a neatly folded handkerchief, she shook it and handed it to him. ‘Do you want me to ask someone to come and look at your pedicle?'

It was only then that Connie really looked at the long trunk-like skin hanging from his nose. She guessed crying must make it feel uncomfortable.

‘You do it,' Kenneth told the nurse, and while the nurse busied herself cleaning him up, Connie turned her attention to the tea. There were three cups and saucers on the tray but Roger had disappeared. She could hear the sound of laughter coming from inside. No need to worry about him. He was obviously all right.

‘How did you find me?' said Kenneth when the nurse had gone. ‘Did Mum ask you to come?'

Connie shook her head. It took a while to explain that most likely Ga had prevented their mother from knowing where Kenneth was. ‘You know we've moved to Goring-by-Sea?' she said.