Billy sighed, and exchanged glances with his wife. “Yep, he’s at home. And that’s where he’ll stay if I’ve got anything to do with it.”
“Billy—he only—” said Doreen.
Billy shook his head. “Nothing like having a sixteen-year-old know-all in the house, is there? He’s gone and signed up to be a mechanic for the air force. Says it’s not dangerous, that he’ll be working on the aeroplanes, not in them. Well, that’s all very well, but they could just as well send him up, in time.”
Doreen looked at Maisie and raised her eyebrows. Maisie realized, then, that the woman who had previously suffered such debilitating mental illness was now calm, and was likely the one keeping a level head.
“What do you think, Doreen?”
The woman linked her arm through her husband’s, as if to chivvy him into a better mood. “We’ve got young Billy over there in France, so it’s easy to think Bobby should wait, just a bit, before he goes in for anything to do with the army or air force or whatever. But one thing occurred to me—because we always call them ‘young Billy’ or ‘young Bobby’ it’s too easy to forget they’re men. They know what they want, and I don’t think we should hold Bobby back. Not if this is what he’s got a knack for—we can’t expect him to want to work in that garage down the road forever, can we? And it’s a good opportunity for him to get a proper profession with real prospects, isn’t it?”
“It’s a difficult situation, especially as Bobby needs your consent,” said Maisie, drawing her attention from Doreen to Billy. “I know he’s named after your brother, and you thought the world of him.”
“Two peas in a pod, me and our Bobby,” said Billy.
Maisie watched as Doreen bit her lip and turned away, then at once swung round again, her cheeks flushed. “And you haven’t forgiven the fact that he died too young fighting over there, have you? But your son—our son—is not your brother. The way I see it, you have a choice. You can either acknowledge him and the fact that this is what he wants. It’s something he has a talent for, and he landed this opportunity with no help from anyone—and that’s no mean feat, Billy. No mean feat on the part of our Bobby. Or you can withhold consent, which means you can do something you were powerless to do with your brother, his namesake—and that is to stop him.” She had kept her voice low, but every word carried the weight of her frustration with her husband. “The truth is you could never have stopped your brother, because he knew what he wanted, and he wanted to prove himself to be a man worthy of his country’s respect. Bobby is old enough to go to this air force college, to learn a new trade and then to take up a new job. And if you’re trying to save him, my love—just you remember how Sandra’s Eric died. Poor girl lost her first husband when he was working on an engine in a small garage. There’s no accounting for fate’s timing. No accounting at all.”
Billy was silent, staring at his wife. “I’d forgotten about Eric,” said Billy, distracted.
Maisie stepped forward as the queue moved. She made no comment that might come between man and wife. They had almost reached the entrance to Westminster Abbey when she heard Billy break the silence with Doreen. “Anyway, I’ll think about it.” She looked around at the same time as Doreen leaned toward Billy for him to put his arm around her shoulders.
“Right,” said Maisie. “We’re almost at the door. I have to go in that direction now—Lady Rowan has saved a seat for me. I’ll see you tomorrow, Billy. In fact, I can take you all down to Hampshire, because that’s where I’m planning to go.”
“Oh, Margaret Rose and I are staying—we’re not going to the country,” said Doreen.
“And that’s another nice bag of worms opened up, just as we’re about to go into a church!” said Billy. “Mind you, if there’s an invasion, it might be better for my girls to be closer to London.”
Maisie looked from one to the other. “Well, the offer’s there—I can take you all, if you wish. Anyway, Billy, we must speak tomorrow morning at the office in any case. About Archie Coombes.”
“Oh yes, Archie Coombes. He’s a different kettle of fish, no two ways about it. I’ve a few things to report on that young man.”
Maisie opened the French doors that led into the walled garden from the sitting room, and went into the kitchen to put away the few grocery items she had brought back from Chelstone. She placed a bottle of milk in her new refrigerator, a half loaf into an enamel bread bin on the table, and poured a quarter pound of Brooke Bond tea into the caddy. Slipping off her pale blue summer jacket, she hung it over the back of the chair, filled the kettle with water and put it on the stove. Standing by the stove, staring at the flame licking up around the kettle, Maisie began to formulate a plan for the following day. Teddy Wickham—she wanted to talk to the young man who had decreed that Joe Coombes was on “top form.” And she wanted to see the place where the lad’s body had been found—there had been no time to pay a visit when she had been brought to Hampshire to identify the body. She would have to speak to Detective Inspector Murphy to gain access to the area, but she had found him to be an approachable man, so did not envisage a problem with her request.
She made a pot of tea, poured a cup and set it on a small wooden tray along with a slice of bread and jam she had prepared while waiting for the kettle to boil, then went into the garden, switching on the wireless as she passed.
Maisie had become quite used to the barrage balloons bobbing in breezes high above, as if London had been prepared for a party, not a war. But the balloons were there to deflect an attack by enemy aircraft, not to entertain. Men and women in the anti-aircraft batteries would be scanning the skies, alert for radio messages signaling imminent attack. She had almost forgotten how it might be to see the underground stations without sandbagging to protect them. And as far as keeping her gas mask with her—like many of the capital’s populace, she could not quite remember where she had last put it, and made a mental note to look in the dining room cabinet.
The drive from Chelstone, the service at the abbey, along with the bobbing barrage balloons, seemed to have a soporific effect. It was from a dozy afternoon slumber that Maisie was woken by the telephone. She was rising from the chair when it stopped, so she sat down again, thinking it could not have been very important. A chill in the air wrapped itself around her arms, and she was aware that an announcement had interrupted music on the wireless, which had been beset by poor reception.
“. . . owners of pleasure craft, able-bodied men with an understanding of navigation and offshore boating experience are asked to report to their local police station . . . those approved will . . . from Ramsgate . . . to France.”
The announcer added that the same message had been broadcast several times that day. She shivered and looked at her watch as the wireless crackled and music continued; it was almost six o’clock in the evening. She had just picked up the tray when the telephone began ringing again, but this time she moved quickly to pick up the call. She was about to recite the number when she heard her stepmother’s voice.
“Maisie, is that you?”
“Yes—Brenda? Brenda, what is it? Is it Anna? Dad? Is everyone all right?”
“Yes, yes—your father’s well and Anna’s all right too. It’s Tim.”
“Tim? What’s happened?”
“He’s not come home?”
“Brenda, what do you mean, he’s not come home? Where did he go?”
“It was after you left this morning—he came in from the conservatory just as you drove out of the gates, so must have been about seven. He said that he was going off to see a friend of his who lives in Rye. I think it was Rye. Or perhaps he said he was meeting him in Rye. Oh dear . . .” Brenda’s voice became faint, as if she were trying to remember exact details of the conversation. “Anyway, he said they were going hiking across the Romney Marshes. I asked him how he was going to get there, and he said it was all right, he’d looked up the trains and he would get a bus part of the way, if necessary. I told him I thought he should let his mothe
r know, but he just said, ‘Oh, it’s all right, Mrs. Dobbs—she knows I’m going to see Gordon.’ He was in such a rush to get on his way, it was all I could do to make him wait while I packed up a sandwich box for him, and made him take a bottle of ginger beer. If he’s doing all that walking, he would need something inside him, growing lad like that.”
“Priscilla didn’t tell me anything about Tim going to see his friend Gordon while he was with us,” said Maisie. “And neither, for that matter, did Tim.”
“That’s as may be, but he’s gone, and I told him quite clearly that he had to be back by four o’clock, or it wasn’t fair to you, as you’re responsible for him.” She sighed—but Maisie could hear it was an angry sigh, a sigh of frustration. “I don’t think he liked it—being told that, but he said he would be back on the train that gets into Tonbridge at twenty past three, so he would be back at Chelstone in good time. He left about half past seven, marching off with his knapsack. And he’s not back.”
Maisie laced the telephone cable around her fingers. Tim had been pushing against boundaries for a while, but he had never crossed a line with her. Yet she knew he had been shocked at seeing young men not so much older than him coming back from France. And Tim was a bright lad—he would have taken account of the steady escalation of news regarding the German advance and the precarious position of the army. A deep collective sense of emergency was being felt by the British people; the plight of “our boys” was a national tragedy in the making—the news reports were full of it. And Tim could have overheard his father discussing the situation; after all, in his position with the Ministry of Information, Douglas was privy to reports from military intelligence.
“Brenda—did Tim make any telephone calls that I don’t know about? He’s usually very polite and will ask permission even to place a call to his mother.”
“Not as far as I know, but—”
“But what?”
“Well, it was when you were tucking in Anna last night and reading her a story—before you sat down to a late supper with Tim. You were in with her or a while, because you were putting calamine on her spots, and bathing her eyes—those poor eyes, so sticky with this measles—and Tim said he was just going out for a walk across the field. He took Jook with him. Now, you know as well as I do, that when you go over the stile at the other end of Top Field, you’re at the crossroads, and there’s the telephone kiosk, right next to the bus stop.”
“The bus that goes to Tenterden, where you can change for Rye.”
“Oh dear,” said Brenda. “Where do you think he’s gone?”
Maisie felt her heart beating almost to her neck. “It’s what he’s done as much as where he’s gone.”
“But where? He’s only a lad,” said Brenda.
“Now, you mustn’t worry, Brenda. I’ll get him back—I think I know where he is. You look after Anna for me—and tell her Tim will be home soon.”
“Your voice, Maisie—I can hear it—you’re frightened.”
“It’s all right, Brenda—we’ll find him, one way or another. Now, I must go. I must speak to his mother.”
“Maisie, what joy—you’re back! Of course I knew because—” Priscilla was holding a cocktail in one hand as she opened the front door. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“Let’s go in, Priscilla—is Douglas at home?”
“It’s Sunday evening—where else would he be but his study?”
“Call him, Priscilla, please.”
Priscilla ran to the bottom of the staircase and called out, “Douglas! Douglas? Come down—now. It’s important.”
Maisie heard a door open close to the stairs on the first floor, and Douglas Partridge looked over the banister.
“Maisie, lovely to see you—but what’s going on?”
“I must speak to you about Tim,” said Maisie.
In the hall, Maisie recounted Brenda’s concerns that Tim had not arrived home on time.
“Oh, that’s all right, I’m sure he’ll turn up soon,” interrupted Douglas.
Priscilla shook her head. “Go on, Maisie—I can tell you’re worried for good reason. Where do you think he is?”
“With his friend Gordon.”
Priscilla was about to counter, but Douglas interjected. “I know what Maisie’s thinking. Yes, they live in Rye—and yes, they have several boats—as far as I know a rowing boat, one of those slipper boats, a sailing yacht and a motor launch of some kind. Perhaps two. Not sure if they keep them all in Rye though—I mean, the man has a veritable fleet.” He turned to Priscilla. “Hasn’t Tim sailed out of Broadstairs with them? Gordon has older brothers, all in the services now, I believe—and the father has a lot of money to spend on his passion, which is the sea.”
Priscilla looked at Maisie. “Tell me, Maisie. Where is he?”
“I don’t know if you’ve heard the news—I only heard part of the broadcast because my wireless has such bad reception—but there was an announcement, a call for owners of pleasure craft who have boating experience. I don’t know, but following the news lately, I think it’s to assist in the evacuation of the expeditionary force from France. I imagine it’s turned into an all-out push now.” She paused, biting her lip, looking from Douglas to Priscilla. “I doubt just anyone can take a boat and go—the authorities wouldn’t allow it, but . . . but putting two and two together, I think Tim and his friend might have sailed out to find a way to join the flotilla gathering in the Channel. I know very little about this, but . . . but Tim is so desperate to prove himself, he would not think twice about it. And if Gordon’s brothers are all in the services, I’d bet he’s of the same mind.”
Priscilla turned to her husband. “Do we have the telephone number for this boy’s parents? He’s been down there loads of times—I am sure we’ve spoken to his people. In fact, I had a word with his mother ages ago, when Tim started visiting. I’ll find it.”
Priscilla pulled open a drawer in the hall table. She pulled out an address book with gold leaf-edged pages and a burgundy leather cover. It was well worn, and when opened, Maisie could see names and addresses crossed out and rewritten.
“Here it is. The Sandersons. The mother’s name is Beatrice—that’s it, Bea Sanderson.” She reached for the telephone receiver and dialed, turning to look at Douglas and Maisie as she waited for the call to be answered. She picked up her almost empty glass and held it out toward Douglas. Her husband took the glass, but did not move. She raised her eyebrows, pursed her lips and turned away. The call was answered. “Ah yes, good evening. Yes—is Mrs. Sanderson at home? This is Mrs. Priscilla Partridge—yes, with a P, like the bird. P-A-R-T—that’s it, you’ve got it. May I speak to Mrs. Sanderson, please?” A pause. “Not at home? When might she and Mr. Sanderson return?” Another pause. “Not until tomorrow? I see. Did Gordon go with them or is he at home?” She looked at Maisie, her eyes wide, color draining from her face. “Yes. Quite. Well, if you’ve put two and two together, you will understand that Tim Partridge is my son, and Gordon is most certainly not a guest in my house.” She turned away again, facing the mirror.
Maisie thought that, in regarding her reflection, Priscilla was keeping her spirit present, keeping her resolve rock solid, so that she would not escape into herself as wave after wave of fear enveloped her.
Priscilla continued. “You must find Mr. and Mrs. Sanderson soonest. I fear both Gordon and Timothy have told lies to be able to do something together—no, I cannot say what that something is before I speak to his parents. And you can’t let me have a number for them? Right. If I do not receive a return call within the half-hour, I will not be here to speak to them.” She turned to her husband, anger and terror mapped across her face, now flushed. She pointed to the empty glass while continuing to speak to the person on the other end of the line. “Please tell them that the boys have embarked upon a rather dangerous adventure. Here’s my number.”
Maisie turned to Douglas. “I think you ought to get her that gin and tonic, Douglas—she is about to start sho
uting, then she’ll break down.”
Priscilla slammed down the telephone receiver just as Douglas began walking toward the drawing room.
“Can’t he bloody see that when I say I need a drink, I need one! My son has gone off on a boat in the middle of the bloody Channel when, for all I know, his brother is in a piece of tin over his head taking his life in his hands trying to stop the German army—”
“Pris—Priscilla! Stop!” said Maisie, standing in front of her friend. “Stop this right now—we have to think clearly, and Douglas had every right to listen to the call because Tim’s his son too—not just yours.”
“But what can I do? How can we stop him?” She began to cough, tears streaming down her face, her eye makeup running across her cheeks. “It’s happening again. My history is repeating itself—I’ll lose them like I lost my brothers in the last war, all three of them. Dead. Where’s Tarquin.” She turned to call up the stairs. “Tarq! Tarquin! Come down now!”
Douglas emerged from the drawing room, a full glass of gin and tonic in his hand. Priscilla’s husband had lost an arm during the last war, and walked with a pronounced limp. He struggled to manage his cane and Priscilla’s drink—but his voice was strong.
“Stop! For God’s sake stop and think, darling! Tarquin is not at home. If you remember, Elinor was here and has taken him out—they’re not due back yet. You can leave a note for them. Now then, first we should find out if we’re completely wrong and Tim has just gone for a sail, or if he’s really made for the French coast. Indeed, he could still be hiking across Romney Marsh.”
“Well, of course he’s gone to France, Douglas—of course he has,” said Priscilla.
“Maisie?” said Douglas, as he handed the fresh cocktail to his wife.
“I’m inclined to agree with Pris.” She sighed. “I know very little about nautical maps, but I have an ordinary map, one that includes the coast. I’ve had a look at it, and I suspect that, if Tim and his friend have indeed answered the call for seagoing craft, they would not have joined the flotilla in Ramsgate—I am sure the authorities have carefully registered boats they wanted to requisition. I imagine Tim and Gordon would have made their way out into the Channel and slipped in with other vessels.”