The Mechanic & the MD

by Linda Shenton-Matchett

  The man sat behind the desk, fingers steepled and placed under his chin, a smug smile on his face. He almost seemed triumphant that he’d ferreted out the so-called situation.

  She rubbed her throbbing forehead. “Why will you not believe us, Director Braverman? You’re taking the word of one man without doing any sort of investigation. Have you spoken with my supervisor or my colleagues? How about people who were at the pub that evening? I deserve an opportunity to clear my name.”

  He rose. “How do you know that I’ve not done my homework?”

  Heart pounding, Doris licked her lips. “Because you would have discovered the man is lying, and that I’m not the kind of woman you seem to think I am.”

  “Look, sweetheart—”

  “Sweetheart—”

  Holding up his hand, he shook his head. “It’s enough that we have the nurses here, but women don’t belong in a war zone, especially in the motor corps. So, you didn’t do what he said, but you were out all night with Dr. McCann, which doesn’t look good. I won’t have a black mark on the name of this hospital.”

  “You can’t fire me.”

  “But I can tell the Red Cross I don’t want you for the reasons we’ve discussed. They can take care of letting you go.”

  “Fine. I’ll resign. Will that make you happy?” Her lips trembled, and she pressed them together. She couldn’t let this despicable man know how he affected her. He obviously considered women beneath him. A crying woman would only confirm his opinion.

  He shrugged. “Wonderful. Takes the problem off my desk.”

  “You unfeeling jerk.” Ron growled. “How did the army let you get into a position of leadership?”

  “Careful, McCann. I don’t want to have to bring you up on charges.”

  Doris laid her hand on his arm, his warmth sending tingles through her palm. Her skin tingled as she silently pled him to rein in his temper. Shouting at the director wouldn’t solve the problem. In fact, the conversation couldn’t get much worse. If she went away quietly, Ron’s reputation had a chance to recover, and with any luck, the lies about her behavior wouldn’t follow her.

  How had her life turned from joyful and exciting to dismal in an instant? Being wrongly accused wasn’t fair. If she couldn’t find another organization to take her, she’d return home in disgrace. And to add insult to injury, she’d have to pay her own way. The Red Cross certainly wouldn’t pay her fare once they heard the lies or she resigned.

  I’m with you, My child. All will be well.

  She blinked and looked at Ron. He was still glaring at Director Braverman, so he’d not heard the voice. Jesus himself had been falsely accused. She shouldn’t expect different treatment. Pride and sorrow warred with the peace that was trying to wrap itself around her heart. She’d find somewhere to stay then pray long and hard about what to do next. The situation was in God’s hands, so the outcome would be for His glory. The lack of control was a hard pill to swallow, but she’d been operating on her own for too long. Time to nestle close to her heavenly Father.

  Ron would get over her, and with lots of time, perhaps she might be able to forget him.

  j

  “We could get married.” Ron blurted out the words in the deafening silence that had blanketed the room since he’d started his staring contest with the director.

  “What?”

  “What?”

  He glanced between Doris and Director Braverman. Both gaped at him, eyes wide, and faces etched in shock. Before he could change his mind, he dropped to one knee and took Doris’s hands in his. “This isn’t how I planned to ask you, but will you marry me? You’d make me the happiest man on earth if you’ll say yes.”

  He held his breath as myriad emotions fought for supremacy on her face. Uncertainty, anxiety, disappointment, and another emotion he couldn’t read, played across her expression.

  Finally, when he could stand it no longer, she squeezed his fingers and shook her head. “No. I’m sorry, Ron. I can’t marry you.” A single tear trickled down her cheek, and she swiped it away. “I’m sorry.” Barely above a whisper, her voice battered his ears as if she’d shouted her answer.

  “I’m sorry, too, Doris. I thought you had feelings for me.” His heart shattered, and he staggered to his feet. He’d pick up the pieces later and lock them in a box so that no woman could ever have access. “But I will pursue this matter on your behalf if you’d like.” His own voice sounded mechanical, no…clinical, as it should be.

  “No, I’ll submit my resignation and prayerfully consider my options. I’m doing this for you, Ron. We can’t get married because of misplaced appearances or because it seems that we have to wed.”

  “But that’s not why I’m asking.”

  “Yes, it is. You said it yourself. This isn’t how you planned to ask me, yet you did.” She leaned forward and kissed his cheek, a brief touch, almost as if butterfly wings had brushed his skin. “Someday you’ll see this is for the best. Or if you still care after this awful war is over, you can look me up. Come see me, and if your feelings are still as you say…well, we’ll see.”

  “But—”

  She pressed her fingers to his lips. “Not another word. I’ll be praying for you. I hope you’ll do the same for me.” She marched to the door and grabbed the handle. Without turning, she said, “And I’ll be praying for you too, Director Braverman.” She turned the knob and slipped into the hallway, closing the door with a soft snick.

  Ron whirled toward the director, who’d remained silent through the entire exchange with Doris. His face held a mixture of awe and confusion. He met Ron’s eyes and dropped into his seat. Picking up his pen, he grabbed a sheet of paper and began to write. “You’re dismissed, Dr. McCann. I consider this matter closed, so let’s hear no more about it. Miss Kernigan, the receptionist, will give you information about your lodging. Report to the second floor, and one of the nurses can familiarize you with the shift schedule and give you a tour. You’ll shadow Dr. Leland for the first half of the night shift, then you’ll be off duty until oh-seven-hundred tomorrow. Clear?”

  “Crystal.” Ron didn’t bother with a salute. He strode out of the office. Doris’s voice in his head cautioned him against slamming the door, so he left it open, unsure of his ability to tamp down his anger at the injustice he’d witnessed.

  He gaze whipped back and forth in the corridor, then over the railing and into the foyer. No sign of Doris. She’d wasted no time in vacating the building. Where had she gone? Should he search for her? Why did she reject him? Had he really misread her feelings?

  With heavy feet, he trudged downstairs to begin his new assignment, one that no longer held the enticement it did mere hours ago.

  An officer in dress uniform trotted up the stairs toward him. The soldier seemed familiar. Where had he seen him? Perhaps he resembled someone in his past.

  Then the man smiled, an oily smirk that took Ron back to the night he rescued Doris. Lieutenant Halifax. Stationed here.

  God, keep me from punching this guy in the nose.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Doris slung her satchel over her shoulder and trudged through the gate at the 1st General Hospital compound. After fleeing Frogmore Hospital, she’d walked the streets for hours praying and considering her options. Exhausted and physically spent, she knew how Jacob of the Old Testament felt after wrestling with God. The Lord hadn’t dislocated her hip, but her muscles ached as if she’d stacked ten cords of wood. Stomach growling with hunger, she found shelter in a small church that gave her a plain but filling dinner and a place to sleep. Most of the inhabitants had been displaced by bombs, their vacant, staring eyes indicative of the shock that still enveloped them.

  The morning dawned fair and bright, so she gave the priest a few of her coins as a thank you then used the last of her money and ration stamps to purchase a couple of outfits and some toiletries. Without enough money to pick up new shoes, she was stuck with her scuffed oxfords that had s
een better days. Perhaps a trip to the cobbler was in order, and she could get the soles replaced. She frowned. The repair might not be necessary if she was sent home.

  She took a deep breath and surveyed the endless rows of buildings. Corrugated metal roofs covered the walkways that connected the structures. Electrical and telephone wires were strung on a line of poles that stretched farther than she could see. How many hundreds of servicemen could the facility hold? Too many to count probably.

  A square brick edifice with several jeeps parked out front stood to the right of the gate. Above the double doors hung a sign: All Visitors Must Check In Here. Doris licked her lips and patted her hair, finally clean and tangle-free. She shook her head to clear the memory of the bombing and subsequent hike, but an image of Ron’s face refused to leave. How long before he no longer clung to her heart like an insect to a windshield?

  “Enough dillydallying, girl. Get this over and done with, then you can move on to the next chapter of your life.” Doris smoothed her skirt and marched through the entrance. A blonde woman about her age sat behind the desk. She looked up as Doris entered and smiled. “Welcome. How may I help you?”

  “I’m with the Red Cross Motor Corps, and I…uh…need to see whomever is in charge here. I realize I haven’t made an appointment, but I’m willing to wait as long as necessary.”

  Footsteps sounded, and a short, buxom woman with dark hair hurried into the lobby.

  The receptionist raised her hand. “Oh, there she is now. Mrs. Wilkinson, this gal needs to see you. She’s from….” She turned to Doris, a quizzical expression on her face.

  Doris stepped toward Mrs. Wilkinson, hand outstretched. “I’m Doris Strealer, recently of Heritage Hall Hospital. I need to discuss a delicate matter. That is, if you’re available. I apologize for not telephoning before arriving.”

  Mrs. Wilkinson shook Doris’s hand. “No worries, dearie. Life moves fast here. Appointments often fall by the wayside. I’m free at the moment, so let’s step into my office.” She glanced at the receptionist. “Pearl, be a love and bring us some tea and sandwiches.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Right this way.” She led Doris into a tiny room with a table surrounded by chairs. Bookshelves and filing cabinets lined the walls. Stacks of paper covered most of the surfaces. “Please pardon the mess. I recently lost my assistant, and her replacement hasn’t arrived yet. The poor woman may be sorry when she sees what she’s gotten herself into, eh?” Mrs. Wilkinson laughed, a braying sound that reminded Doris of the mule on her grandfather’s farm. The woman gestured to the vacant chairs and lowered her girth onto the closest one that creaked in protest.

  Doris sat and clutched her satchel on her lap. “Thank you for seeing me, ma’am.”

  “Relax, dearie. Put your bag on the floor. We’ll have a chin-wag, as the Brits like to say, until the food arrives, then after we’ve eaten, we’ll address your situation. Serious discussions are best had on a full stomach, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Uh…sure.”

  “Now, tell me all about yourself while we wait for Pearl. Where are you from, and why did you select the Red Cross as your way to serve our boys?”

  “A village in New Hampshire near the mountains.” A wave of homesickness swept over Doris. Would she live to see the wooded peaks of the White Mountains? She blinked and swallowed the lump that had formed in her throat then continued to give the kind woman her background information.

  Partway through Doris’s monologue, Pearl tiptoed in carrying a tray that held a teapot, two teacups, and a plate piled with sandwiches that she set on the table. Doris began to salivate, and her stomach gurgled.

  Mrs. Wilkinson grinned. “Excellent. I like to see girls with a healthy appetite. Eat up.”

  Twenty minutes later, fully sated, Doris sighed and folded her hands. “Thank you. I didn’t realize how hungry I was until the food arrived. You’ve been most generous with your supplies and your time.”

  “I must be honest, dearie, you had a haunted look in your eyes when you arrived and now not as much. My mama taught me to feed the body then the soul. We’ve done the first, now it’s time for the second.” She patted Doris’s arm. “Tell me everything, then we’ll take it to the Lord.”

  Doris startled. “You’re a believer?”

  “Yes, and it seems you are, too.”

  “Yes, ma’am, but I’m struggling to hold on to my faith. These last few days have been terrible.” She outlined the events, beginning with the incident when she first saw Ron. Words poured out and occasional tears, but she soldiered on.

  Mrs. Wilkinson remained mute except for a periodic sigh or encouraging murmur.

  Drained yet filled with inexplicable peace, Doris fell silent. This must be what it felt like to share a burden, something she’d never been comfortable doing.

  “Well, that is quite a story, but nothing that happens to us is too big for our heavenly Father. He knew about this situation before it occurred, and He knows about your future. So, let’s go to Him and ask for wisdom, okay?”

  Doris nodded. She reached for Mrs. Wilkinson's hands and clung to her fingers as if they were a lifeline.

  “Dear Father God, thank You for bringing Doris to me. She is Your child and seeks to do Your will. She is wounded, hurting, and feeling beat up. Unjustly accused, she is at a loss about what to do. The world would suggest a response of vengeance, but we know vengeance only comes from You. It is not our place to exact revenge or paybacks. Please give us Your plan for her, and wrap her in Your loving arms. In Jesus’ name, amen.”

  “Amen.” Doris released Mrs. Wilkinson’s hands and slumped in the chair. “Thank you. I feel a glimmer of hope.”

  “Excellent.” Mrs. Wilkinson beamed then sobered up. “We have limited options, dearie, but I believe we can find a solution that suits. If you are willing to fight the allegations, you should consider seeking the assistance of an attorney, but the culprit is in the armed forces and may receive a lot of sympathy. He also may ship out soon if he hasn’t already, so he’ll be beyond your reach. If you’d like to put the incident behind you and start fresh, I can make some recommendations for organizations who need willing workers. You can choose one that doesn’t cater to servicemen.” She cocked her head. “Not that I don’t want you to remain in the Red Cross, but I would imagine you might like to distance yourself from us.”

  “The temptation is to bring this man up on charges, but I don’t believe that is what God would have me do. Instead, I will try to pray for him to see the error of his ways.”

  “Your decision shows your maturity and your willingness to show others the mercy God has bestowed to you. Do you want to continue serving in England? Do you want to continue working on vehicles or try another avenue?”

  “I’m more comfortable with engines than people, Mrs. Wilkinson. Is there someone in London or the outskirts who can use a war-weary grease monkey?”

  “I’ve got just the ticket.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Sweat trickled between Doris’s shoulder blades as she reached farther into the engine compartment of the black sedan that had been converted to a staff car for one of the higher-ups. The vehicle had seen better days, and it was her responsibility to bring it back to life. She’d already replaced over half the parts and wasn’t close to being finished. Some people might complain about the job. To her, the work was pure heaven. Just her and the hulking metal beast.

  Mrs. Wilkinson had come through and secured her a position with the Mechanized Transport Corps, a British civilian organization for women. Founded in 1939 by one of the country’s well-to-do women, the MTC originally provided its own vehicles and uniforms, but then the Ministry of War Transport got involved. Doris shrugged. As long she was able to work on vehicles in peace and quiet, she didn’t care who ran the place. A week had passed since joining, and she still relished the ratio of a dozen women to one man which mean she didn’t have to worry about romantic entangl
ements.

  Because of her vast experience with cars and her time with the Red Cross, she was allowed to skip through most of the required recruit training that would have taken three weeks. Instead, she’d tested out of everything but the administration portion, so she spent an hour each afternoon in one of the parlor-turned-lecture halls. The twice-daily drills also cut into her work time, but with no other commitments, she made up time by often working into the evening.

  Pockets of MTC squads were scattered all over England. Hers was located on a requisitioned country estate in the northwest suburbs of London, a gorgeous property that stretched for a square mile and consisted of a brick Georgian home that held administrative offices and ancient, well-maintained stone cottages that housed the staff. Four to a room was tight, but her three British roommates had accepted her with warm friendliness, never once questioning why she’d left the Red Cross or chosen the MTC.

  Last night, they dragged her into town to one of the pubs and told everyone inside it was her birthday. When she protested that she wouldn’t turn twenty-nine for another five months, Lucy claimed the war would be over by then, and they wouldn’t have the chance to celebrate. Eva and Janet concurred and kept the ruse going all night, which resulted in free food and drink from several of the other patrons. She’d hastened to set the record straight with each delivery, but no one seemed to mind it wasn’t her real birthday.

  Doris shook her head and smiled. The silliness felt good after the difficulties and near-death experiences during the last few weeks. They were a good group of gals, and she was already closer to them than any of her so-called friends at home.