Bright looked up from her typewriter. “Go on—tell me what he’s done, miserable sod. I bet he’s done something—did you just find out he’s married? Told you lies, did he?”
“No, not quite. I’m a friend of Joe Coombes’ family, and—”
The girl’s eyes filled with tears. “Oh poor Joe. We all thought a lot of Joe—he was lovely. Not like some of them, when they come up to get their wages. Anyone would think I was only here for them to make fun of, and they all think they’re so comical with their jokes everyone’s heard before.”
“I’d better go in,” said Maisie.
She approached the door to Mike Yates’ office and knocked on the glass. “Good morning—Mr. Yates?”
“And who’s wanting him?” said Yates, looking up from a stack of papers on his desk.
“My name is Maisie Dobbs,” said Maisie, deciding to give him her full affiliation. “I am a psychologist and investigator, and I am also a friend of Mr. and Mrs. Philip Coombes, the parents of Joseph Coombes, now deceased, but latterly in your employ.”
Yates’ nut-brown eyes met Maisie’s. He took a pencil from behind his ear, as if he were about to make a note on the top sheet of paper in front of him, but thought better of it and instead tapped the pencil against the fingers of the opposite hand. “Yeah, I’d heard someone had been round to talk about Joe—bloke with a limp. Know him?”
“Yes, that’s Mr. Beale. He works for me.”
“Works for you? Well, well, well—man working for a woman. New one on me. Take a seat, Miss Dobbs—you can ask me all the questions you want to ask about Joe. Silly boy, skylarking around near a railway line, not able to hold his drink and standing on top of a wall like that.” He shook his head. “If he’d just had a bit of brain in his noddle, he would have seen that coming.”
“How did you find out how Joe died?”
“Freddie Mayes telephoned in—he’d found out from the police, then they came here.”
“I see.” Maisie sighed. “I wonder, Mr. Yates, what evidence do you have that Joe had been drinking?”
“Freddie told me—I had to ask him and Len, on account of the accident, and of course the police have been around. Said it was open and shut—death by misadventure and all that. But still, I’ll be going to see the family—probably tomorrow. Wanted to give them a bit more chance to get over the shock before I turned up. I’ve got Joe’s last pay packet, and a bit extra as a consideration for the family, to see them all right. Mind you, that’s if Dopey out there can pull herself together to get it all ready for me.” He looked past Maisie to Charlotte Bright, and then back again. “Auxiliary Territorial Service? That one? They’ll chuck her out after a week of her painting her nails in the dark when she’s supposed to be operating a searchlight—you mark my words.”
Maisie thought it best to ignore the comment. “It’s very good of you to visit Joe’s people, to help them out. They’ll need it for the funeral.”
“Not many firms would do it, but we like to take care of our own here at Yates. Now then, what can I do for you?”
“Mr. Yates, I am curious to know if Joe was the only one of your men to experience headaches and other symptoms, likely associated with the emulsion they’ve been using—the fire retardant, and—”
“How do you know about all that?” asked Yates.
Maisie gave a half-smile. “I think it’s fairly common knowledge that your crews who are currently in Hampshire were working with a type of paint that prevents fire when air force buildings are under attack from the enemy.”
Yates shook his head. “Not one of them can keep a thing to themselves, that lot.”
“Were they supposed to?”
“Were they heck? I told every one of them—if anyone asks, you’re just giving the buildings a lick of paint. Making everything nice for when old Adolf waltzes right in.”
Maisie sighed, wondering how she might continue the conversation and perhaps tease more information out of Yates. “You can’t stop lads talking about their work or anything else when they’re away from home.” She held Yates’ gaze. “Do you know what’s in that emulsion, Mr. Yates? Do you know if it’s been tested properly?”
Mike Yates walked away from his desk toward a window. He stared down at the yard below, and after a minute had passed—an uncomfortable interlude during which Maisie thought she should have perhaps not pressed her point—Yates turned back to answer the question.
“I don’t know if it’s been tested at all. I was asked about the job, and I got it. You don’t turn down a government contract like that, and I know my blokes would agree—they’ve all got to put roofs over their heads and food on the table. If they get a headache, they can take an aspirin powder for their trouble.”
“So the contract just came to you, you didn’t have to bid for it.”
“Sometimes it works like that. Sometimes you bid against other firms, and sometimes you’re just asked to give an estimate and you’re in. That was how this one was done—I was in.”
“You must know some important people, Mr. Yates.”
Yates’ eyes appeared to narrow, as if the aperture through which he viewed her had been altered. “What’s it to you, Miss Dobbs?”
Maisie leaned forward, not allowing herself to be intimidated by Yates, and this time casting several more cards on the table. “Here’s what it is to me, Mr. Yates. Joe Coombes was a happy-go-lucky lad—I’ve seen him grow from a young boy into a thoughtful young man. Still green, admittedly, but a diamond all the same. And doing this job changed him—and not simply because he’d had a taste of being one of the older lads. I know this work had a profound physical impact upon him—but I know something else, too. Joe was worried sick. He was fed up with doing what he was doing and I don’t think the painting was the ‘doing’ that he hated. There was something else, and I am bound and determined to find out what it was. If nothing else, so his parents can be at peace—if that’s possible.”
Yates stared at Maisie, then looked out of the window again. Seconds later, he turned back, taking his seat once more. He leaned forward, hands clasped on top of the sheaf of papers. “There’s nothing more to tell you, Miss Dobbs. What you’re saying doesn’t make sense to me—you might as well be talking Greek. I sent Joe Coombes off to work with a crew on a job a lot of lads his age would jump at the chance of doing, and he goes soft on me—talking his head off about what he’s doing when he was supposed to keep his trap shut, and then getting himself drunk enough to kill himself. There’s your truth, Miss Dobbs—and I’m sorry I can’t make it easier for you to swallow.”
Maisie came to her feet and held out her hand. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Yates. I am much obliged to you for your candor. I am sure Joe’s parents would love to hear from you—and for you to tell them what a wonderful young apprentice he was.”
Mike Yates ignored the outstretched hand and instead yelled past her. “Oi, Miss Not-So-Bright—if you could drag yourself away from your penny dreadful for a minute, would you see Miss Dobbs down to the yard.”
Maisie turned and left the small office and was joined by Bright, who put down a sheaf of papers and rose from her desk to escort her to the yard below. She did not speak until they were on the stairs.
“Don’t take any notice of him—crabby human being that he is. Cheek of it! I only pick up a book when he hasn’t anything for me to do, and I don’t read stupid stuff either. I’d argue back, but it’s not worth my breath. Him and his flash friends.”
“What flash friends,” asked Maisie. “He doesn’t look the type.”
“They never look the type, according to my mum—these crooks. I reckon it was one of his dodgy friends who got him that contract.”
“Does he mix with people like that?”
Bright shook her head. “He seems the type to me—if you come from where I come from, you know about that sort of thing.” She sighed. “Well, I don’t really know about that sort of thing personally, but my dad does.”
“What doe
s your dad do, that he knows this ‘sort of thing’?” asked Maisie.
“He’s a copper. Sergeant at Carter Street police station.”
“That’s interesting,” said Maisie.
“It probably is, as long as you’re not related to him. Treats me like I’m a criminal half the time. What time are you going out? What time are you coming back? Which bus are you catching? Who are you going with? I like to go out to the dance halls with my friends—we don’t get up to anything wrong, just dancing to the swing bands playing the latest numbers, having a bit of fun. The way my dad talks, the musical world begins and ends with Gracie Fields singing about Walter taking her to the altar!” She sighed. “I know I’ve already told you this, but I can’t wait to get into the ATS, away from all of them.”
Maisie laughed. “Your dad’s like that because he loves you, Charlotte. In his job he’s seen too much, so he’s just worried about you—give him a chance, won’t you?”
“I s’pose you’re right, but it don’t half get on my nerves sometimes, all the questions. Anyway, nice to meet you, Miss Dobbs. And tell Joe’s people I was sorry to hear the news about him. I liked Joe. He was a good sort. Not like that brother of his—”
Maisie touched Charlotte Bright on the arm as she was about to turn away. “How do you know his brother?”
“Came round here once or twice, looking for Joe. Just before this job started, the big contract. I didn’t like the look of him—I mean, he was nice enough, but not like Joe—seemed a bit harder around the edges. Joe was sort of innocent, as if he would still be a bit of a boy when he was eighty. Anyway, I’ve got to rush—the guv’nor will be docking my pay if I’m out here any longer.”
Maisie glanced up at the office window. Mike Yates was looking down at them. She turned away and left the yard, just as a black and green Rover 10 swung through the gates.
“Where’s Martin today?” asked Maisie, a little disappointed to see Sandra at the office without her son.
“Lawrence’s aunt is staying with us, and said she would look after him today, so I’ve had some time to myself. I hate to say it, but it’s quite lovely—but just for a little while.” She laid a hand upon a pile of papers. “I’ve caught up with the letters, and there are three invoices for you to sign before I send them out. And the filing is done too—what does Billy do when I’m not here? There were pages everywhere.” She held up her finger, as if it were a reminder. “Oh, Mrs. Partridge telephoned. No news of Tim was her first comment. I wasn’t going to ask her what she was talking about, but she told me anyway. What does he think he’s doing? At his age? Going off in a boat, over there to where it’s terrible. We’ve been listening to the wireless, and—”
“What did she say?” asked Maisie.
“Just that a coastguard had told her the best thing she could do would be to go home and wait, and not get in the way. She sounded very angry, and very distraught—and who could blame her? So she said she’s coming back, and Billy’s driving them.” Sandra’s voice changed, a smile readily spreading where before there was consternation. “Isn’t it a miracle, about Billy’s son? Who would have imagined that could happen? Anyway, he’s with his mates now, on their way to their barracks, according to Mrs. Partridge, though she says he had some sort of shoulder wound. She told me that Billy had wanted his son to come home with them, but young Billy said he couldn’t. Well, obviously he had to go back to barracks—he’s a soldier, after all. But at least Billy had good news for Doreen.”
Maisie nodded and placed her bag on Billy’s desk as she pulled up a chair to sit down opposite Sandra. There was gentle warmth in their exchange, and Maisie felt a need for that cocoon of belonging, of being with someone she had known for a long time.
“Were there any other telephone calls, Sandra?”
“Just one. From Mr. Klein. Wants you to telephone him back ‘soonest,’” he said. “There’s a slight snag with the Ministry of Health that needs to be addressed. That’s all he said. Is it about—”
“Thank you,” Maisie interrupted. “I’ll telephone him now.” Maisie stood up, grabbed her bag and stepped into her office. “Excuse me, Sandra—just for a minute,” she added, as she closed the door separating her room from the outer office.
Maisie was put through to the solicitor with no delay.
“Slight problem, Maisie. Not a huge one, but . . . well, any snag at this point could become more serious if we don’t nip it in the bud.”
Chapter 11
Maisie was torn. Should she go to Hampshire again? Remain in London? Or should she follow her heart, which would be to drive down to Rye to see if Tim and his friend would return to the place where the vessel was usually moored. She looked at the clock and turned on the wireless in her office. Stepping toward the sliding doors again, she drew them back.
“I’m about to listen to the news on the wireless—come in if you want to, Sandra.”
British and French troops last night held Calais and Dunkirk. The French official communiqué stated that Boulogne had been taken by the Germans after fierce street fighting. German shock troops attacking on the outskirts of Boulogne were smashed by shells from British warships firing over the town. The battle for Calais is still south of the town. British soldiers fought magnificently with the French to repulse every enemy attack yesterday . . . and across the Atlantic, President Roosevelt told the USA to prepare for the “approaching storm.” Stressing the “futility, the impossibility” of the idea of isolation, he said, “Obviously a defense policy based on that is merely to invite future attack.”
The two women listened to the news for a few more minutes before Maisie switched off the set.
“It never occurred to me that it would be a good idea to have a wireless in the office,” said Sandra. “But since the war started and you brought it in, at least we can keep up with what’s going on. And it brings us all together, considering everyone across the country’s listening.”
“I sometimes wonder if the news is helpful to us,” said Maisie. “Or if it just makes us more anxious. If Tim and his friend are in the midst of this, it could be days before they come home. Gordon’s parents have asked the coastguard to look out for the boat, but according to Priscilla, Gordon’s father has joined the flotilla, and he hopes to find them along the way.”
They were jolted from speculation by the telephone. Sandra answered the call.
“Billy—Billy!” She looked at Maisie, who held out her hand. “You’re just leaving Mrs. Partridge’s house? All right, Billy, I’m passing you over to her now.”
“Billy,” said Maisie, grasping the receiver. “I’ve heard your good news! You must be beyond relieved—and what a miracle.”
“Miracle? I never believed in them, but now I do, miss—I thought I would go on my knees right there and then. Talk about a weight off my mind—it’s been like carrying around a hundred-weight of coal. But let me tell you, I reckon they need all the miracles they can get, our army over there. You should see the state of them—my boy isn’t my boy anymore, miss—he looks like his granddad. And he looks like the lads I was with in the war—that long stare, as if they’ve seen into the devil’s eyes. Put years on him, this has, but at least he’s on his feet—though he’s got a nasty shoulder wound. The important thing is that he’s back now, he’s over here and not over there. Miss, they say there’s thousands of our boys, waiting to be rescued—thousands of them. And according to Billy, Hitler’s blimmin’ Luftwaffe are strafing men while they wait and they’re bombing the ships what are coming in to save them. And down in Ramsgate—I’ve never seen anything like it. There’s more soldiers than I imagined disembarking, then there’s the people coming in to help. You know, when we heard about the evacuation of Dunkirk, I don’t think I had it in my head what it looked like, and what the soldiers and the navy are going through. Tell you the truth, I still don’t, not really—I can only get a picture of it from what I’ve been told. Our Billy said to me, ‘Dad, at least I’m home . . . I’m home.’ And no
w I keep thinking about the ones waiting to get away. All that waiting. And the hoping.”
“All right, Billy, you must go straight home to see Doreen. At least Mr. and Mrs. Partridge are safely back in Holland Park?”
“Had to all but drag Mrs. P., but the authorities don’t want civilians getting in the way down there unless they’ve got a job to do. And even she realized that she was doing more harm than good—but who can blame her? I’m glad Mr. P. was there. He’s like a solid rock, isn’t he? Stalwart, that’s what he is, and he takes care of her and keeps her from doing a mischief to herself—and they reckon this evacuation is going to take days and days.”
“Douglas knows what she’s been through. This is her most dreadful nightmare coming true—she knows the whereabouts of only one of her three sons, and it’s a wonder she hasn’t handcuffed him to his bed so he doesn’t move while she’s away.”
“Well, she’s home now. And that’s where I’m going, off to see Doreen and Margaret Rose, if that’s all right, then I’ll be in the office later.”
“Don’t worry, Billy. Come in tomorrow.”
“What about Hampshire?”
“I’m not sure—but I think I’ll leave soon.”
“You don’t sound very sure, miss.”
“It’s Tim, and—”
“There’s nothing you can do, miss. That’s what Mr. and Mrs. P. realized. Nothing you can do until he comes back in, and if his pal is anything like him, they won’t come home until it’s over, until they’ve done everything they can for our boys.”
“That’s what worries me,” said Maisie.
There was something about driving that made Maisie feel cocooned from the world around her. Looking out onto streets where people were going about their daily round until the town gave way to countryside again, catching glimpses of farmers at work, a horse-drawn plough turning the soil, or workers marching from one field to another—it was easy to believe the war was nothing more than a nightmare that would come to an end soon, that the country would wake up and any threat of an invasion by a ruthless enemy would have evaporated. Time would march on, the seasons would pass and death would come after three score years and ten—and with good fortune, perhaps a few more years added on to enjoy a life well lived.