Men with Broken Faces

Eleanor walked up the steps to Frognal House, a former Jacobean Mansion situated on the southwest grounds of the Queen’s Hospital. She double-checked the address from her agent, Philippe, still confused as to why he would send her here. Eleanor thought she might be going to a gallery or studio and thought the doctor might be an art collector wanting to show examples of his artistic preferences. She never thought she would have any business at a hospital. She surveyed the hallways of the charming administration building, transformed into something more practical than its former self with shiny, polished floors, dull walls, and strong medicinal smells.

Eleanor caught the eye of a wounded soldier waiting in one of the carpeted hallways, a tall man leaning against a wall with crutches wedged underneath his arms. The soldier’s right leg was amputated almost to his hip, and he wore a blank, callous look that caused Eleanor to look away. She looked at the floor as she continued to search for a visitor’s office, but she could still feel the soldier’s stare on the back of her head as she walked down the hall. She had noticed a number of other BEF patients, too, as she drove up past the horseshoe entrance by motor car. The driver aborted this initial entrance and found another access road further down the grounds that took her to the front door of Frognal House.

She was relieved when a nurse finally came out of an office into the main hallway. Eleanor called out and the nurse turned and walked towards her. She was an older woman, plump and pleasant looking with a rosy face. The nurse swung her arms like a rugby player, toting a clipboard and pitcher of water.

“Can I help you, Luv?” she said.

“Yes, I’m Eleanor James. Philippe Beauteu sent me to speak to Dr. Andrew Stephenson.”

“That’s right. I’m Nurse Elizabeth Winter. You can call me Liz, if you like.” She winked. The smile illuminated her face.

“Thank you. I was actually beginning to feel overwhelmed by some of the soldiers. They seem so … so forlorn.”

“No, dear, they’ve just been through a lot, and they have a lot on their minds. It’s one thing to be wounded at the front, but quite another to think about what they will do with their lives after they leave this place. Trust me, they won’t bite, and most are quite friendly once you get to know them. I assume you’ll be staying here for a while with us?”

“Truthfully, I’m not exactly sure why I’m here, Liz. Philippe advised me to show up.”

“Well, I’m sure Dr. Stephenson will brief you on all that. Why don’t you come down to his office? He’s just finishing up a surgery and shouldn’t be much longer.”

They walked down the hallway together. The sound of their shoes echoed off the walls of the ward. Eleanor observed the flower arrangements dotting the tables, likely in a feeble attempt to create a warmer ambiance. There were a few paintings and photos hanging on the walls but nothing that would indicate any type of gallery was intended for the hospital. She smelled the sharp odors of alcohol, ether, and iodine as she moved deeper into the heart of the building. They passed a couple more soldiers, who greeted Nurse Winter, then offered a cordial nod to Eleanor. At the end of the hall she noticed several offices; Elizabeth opened the second-to-last door.

“You can have a seat there, Eleanor.” She pointed to a single wooden chair in front of a large desk. Dr. Stephenson’s office was very neat, with stacks of papers lined up in orderly piles on the desktop. Along the wall were diplomas and a flag of England. There were a few indications of color and desire for variety in the office: a large brass pot on the floor beside the desk with several reeds leaning in it, a wooden nameplate on the desk with a red apple resting beside a bent ashtray. Along the wall there were a couple of bookshelves, their volumes arranged on each shelf from tallest to shortest.

How utterly stagnant, Eleanor thought.

“Would you like some tea while you wait?” She poured water into the two glasses.

“No, water is fine.”

Eleanor remained standing until Elizabeth had left the room, then walked over to the window. She went back to her art bag and pulled out a small black notebook she used as a sketchpad and a pencil, then walked back to the window.

There was a wide wooden sill, so she sat down and looked out over the grounds of the hospital. The large trees and well-groomed grass along the hills of the yard were too tempting, and she began sketching. Eleanor became lost in the view, rolling her pencil across the page with confident, flowing strokes. Before long, she had an outline of her picture and began filling in the details. She drew the numerous benches that dotted the grounds, careful about the way the sun cast shadows in the pre-noon sky, so she did not overemphasize their length. She often corrected the view to better suit the picture, adding details not present while removing others that took away from the scene.

She was careful not to include the dozen or so soldiers that were roaming the area. Eleanor sighed and tried to forget about them. She didn’t fully understand why she so resented their presence, but like previous reminders of the war, the images disturbed her. The wounded were an abundant commodity in England, as they had been back in France.

She stopped to chew on her pencil when she noticed a nurse accompanying a soldier. Eleanor felt a momentary pity for the soldier, but she soon forgot about him as she continued to sketch the tree he was leaning against. Eleanor strengthened her strokes, making the tree seem more of a focal point of the picture, while the soldier disappeared entirely from the sketch, swallowed by her focus. She omitted the other patients from the sketch as they waved at the shaking man while passing by. In Eleanor’s mind, they weren’t there at all.

A voice rose behind her. “It’s beautiful.”

Eleanor jumped at the comment and dropped her pencil, charcoal, and black notebook. “Oh, I’m so sorry. You startled me.”

“Then it is I who should apologize. I should have warned you I was coming.” He bent down and started to pick up the black notebook. There were numerous sketches on each page, and Eleanor watched the doctor study them. “You were very focused on your work.” Eleanor gathered the balance and stood up. The doctor handed her the book.

“Thank you, sir.”

“You must be Miss James.”

“Yes, nice to meet you. I wasn’t sure how long you were going to be so I began to sketch.”

“You have a very bold style, and I admire your attention to detail. May I look at your drawings again?” She handed him the book with the sketch of the hospital grounds. He studied it carefully and then looked up. “You don’t miss a thing, do you? Philippe was brilliant to recommend you.”

“You’re too kind.”

“You did all this while you were waiting here?” She nodded. “Very impressive, Miss James. I can’t wait to see what you can do when you really put your mind to it. My name is Dr. Andrew Stephenson.” He extended his hand. She accepted and shook it. The doctor had a very bold handshake. His slim physique indicated a disciplined lifestyle. His hair was white and receding, and his face, though gentle in expression, was populated by numerous wrinkles. However, laugh lines around the eyes and mouth were lacking, telling Eleanor he was more of a serious man. His eyes were bright blue, seeming to attempt to dissect her as thoroughly as she was studying him.

After a prolonged pause, he spoke first. “You come highly recommended, Miss James. Philippe has put in a stellar endorsement of your work. I have taken the liberty of perusing your studio portfolio from Paris. It is really splendid work. Your attention to detail is divine, if I might say, and I confess, this was the quality that really caught our eye. You’re an American?”

“Yes, the idea of traveling was alluring. My father sold his business and was able to gift me $20,000 for my travel and studies. I wanted to practice in Europe to get a feel for the romance of European culture.”

“You don’t say. I suppose the war put a black eye on that little detail, heh?”

“Oh, yes. There are reminders everywhere you go. Dreadful.”

“Yes,” he said, lowering his voice. “I noticed that attitude on your sketch. You looked right past the reminders. Those wounded soldiers out there—you left them out of your drawing.”

She fidgeted in her chair. “I meant no disrespect by it, sir. The men were just floating in and out of the scene. I thought I would leave them out and focus on your beautiful grounds.”

“Yes, quite. I noticed the acute attention to detail of the crowds in your many paintings along the boulevards of Paris—all the lively cafés dotting the sidewalks, the magnificent colors, the happy children walking hand in hand with their parents as they headed towards the carnivals and restaurants. Yes, beautiful people just floating in and out. You sketched these while crowds were moving in those scenes too, didn’t you?”

Eleanor’s cheeks became warm with embarrassment. “Sir, I’m sorry. Yes, I did.”

The doctor smiled warmly, satisfied with his subtle chastisement. “No apology required, Miss James. Simply an observation—a new kind of trend shared by many in Europe. You’ll have to forgive me if I come across a little protective of what we do here and the men we serve. We’re rather engrossed in our work, as you can well imagine. Our work stares at us everyday. We hope dearly to make a difference for these people. They have served their country, and we owe them a huge debt of gratitude for their sacrifice.”

“Yes, sir,” Eleanor replied, deciding to keep her answers more brief.

“Has Philippe told you why you’re here with us?” Eleanor couldn’t quite decipher his expression, but he suddenly seemed reticent and concerned, his eyebrows furrowed with tension.

“No, he was rather vague on the details.”

“Oh, I see.” He broke eye contact and began to fiddle with his fingers.

Eleanor felt more confused. “I gather you would like some art work for your hospital—to liven it up—add some color in the hallways?”

“Certainly, dear, add some color.” He straightened up in his chair. “Miss James, we are sponsored by a number of different organizations here at the hospital. Sir Charles Kenderdine is treasurer of a committee that funds our work. This sponsorship includes numerous public donations, funding from the Joint War Committee, and even endowments from Her Majesty the Queen, who also had graciously granted the use of her name to christen our facility. There have even been large individual donations from the likes of Sir Heath Harrison, who donated £10,000 to commence construction of the main structures you passed by on your way to Frognal House. For that privilege, we serve the men who reside here and it is for them that we do our work. You’ll be paid a decent wage for your assignment, I can assure you. I know it won’t be the asking price for an artist of your caliber, but we hope you will grant us a certain latitude given the rather sluggish market these days for people in your line of work.”

“Sir, price is secondary. I have to say art is a passion, and I would do it for nothing just to have the opportunity to express myself. It’s what I was made to do.”

His face lit up. “That’s the spirit, girl! Jolly good.”