“But we know that high jinks is not something someone does alone—even a boy of that age. Joe wasn’t that sort of person anyway.”
“And there’s them who would say that any lad of fifteen or sixteen is a high jinks sort of person.” Caldwell touched the brim of his hat and turned to step inside the vehicle. “I’ll send a motor car around in an hour to take you home—you’ll never get a cab in the blackout. Be in touch, Miss Dobbs—and watch your back. I don’t like this one.”
Maisie raised her hand as the motor car pulled away from the curb, and commenced walking toward her office in Fitzroy Square. It was dark now, so she switched on the light before running up the stairs, then turned it off as she placed her key in the lock—the last thing she wanted was an ARP man admonishing her for breaking the blackout. She could hear music coming from the top floor—having once been servants’ quarters in the days when the mansion had been a private home, the upper floor had been divided into separate bed-sitting rooms, and were let to students from the Slade art institute. There was no noise from the flats during the day, but at night there was often a gramophone playing, or the sound of voices—and sometimes even “high jinks.”
She had not intended to remain in the office long, but she was grateful to Caldwell and his offer of a vehicle to take her home. She unlocked the door and felt her way to the windows to draw the blackout curtains before stepping through to her private office, where she again drew the blackout curtains, and turned on her desk light.
Sandra had left a few messages for her on top of a leather-bound blotting paper book that held a letter to be signed between each leaf. Maisie flicked through the messages, stopping at one in particular. She drew the light down to read.
A woman named Sylvia Preston telephoned, and said she was with the WAAF in Hampshire—apparently she had telephoned the office a couple of times, but there was no answer, so I didn’t speak to her until she tried again on Wednesday afternoon. She says she had been a lodger in the same house as Joe Coombes until he left recently—though she added that she has been sent to a new billet now. She explained that she overheard your conversation with the landlady, and she thought she should telephone, as she would like to speak to you personally. The landlady had left your card on the hall table, so she was able to obtain your telephone number. She is stationed at one of the airfields, but would not say which one. It’s very difficult for her to place a call to you given her hours, however, she said she could wait at the telephone kiosk in Whitchurch on Sunday evening at seven o’clock.
A number was inscribed below the message.
Maisie walked across to the window, and fingered back the curtain just enough to look down through the grainy darkness onto the yard at the back. A sliver of light from the occupant’s not-quite-closed blackout curtains illuminated the fact that nature had finally yielded to the attention of a committed tenant. She could discern the outline of a series of terra-cotta pots holding geraniums, pelargoniums and hydrangeas, and since war had been declared, the tenant had begun to grow vegetables in a series of wooden boxes. It reminded Maisie that she should have done the same and started her own vegetable garden. As an island, Britain depended in part upon its merchant navy to keep the larders stocked, and that merchant navy was now at risk from U-boat attack—the people of Britain understood only too well that men were risking their lives to put food on their tables. In the newspapers and on posters, it had been made clear that if everyone took responsibility for growing some vegetables, it would help keep families fed over the long haul of war.
She admonished herself for not calling earlier to speak to Sandra. Indeed, it was likely that Sandra had telephoned Chelstone to recount the messages, but had missed her. She sighed with frustration—she could have learned something important from Sylvia Preston—why else would the WAAF have made the effort to contact her? Turning away from the window, Maisie ensured the curtains met with no room for light to escape. She knew she would feel a greater control if she worked on a case map—it would give her direction and insight.
Joe Coombes deserved an advocate, someone who would speak for him, someone who would seek out the source of his ill health, and ultimately, his death, so she set to work, taking a length of wallpaper from a basket in the corner. Billy’s friend, a painter and decorator, furnished them with the ends of rolls used in his job, and they had proven perfect for the job. It was as Maisie laid out the paper—patterned side down—on the long table set perpendicular to her desk, that it occurred to her—painter and decorator. What was Billy’s friend’s name? She stepped across to her desk and reached for the telephone. No, Billy would not be at home. But he might walk into Whitchurch to place a call to his younger son, just to check up on him. She began to dial. The telephone rang and when a voice came on the line, for a moment Maisie did not know what to say, for Bobby Beale sounded just like his father.
“Oh, I thought you were your father for a moment, Bobby—it’s Miss Dobbs here.”
“’Allo, miss—if you’re looking for Dad, he won’t be back until tomorrow. I thought you knew—he’s coming back and so’s Mum and Maggie-ro.” Bobby yawned as he finished speaking.
Maisie smiled—unlike their parents, who referred to their daughter by her full name, the boys had always called her “Maggie-ro.” But she was also concerned.
“Your mum’s coming back?”
“She misses me, that’s what it is.” Bobby laughed, and continued. “Well, probably not, but she’s coming back—not to stay, because it’s better for them down there, but she’s coming back with Dad tomorrow. I reckon he’ll give me a ring soon, just to make sure I’m behaving myself.”
“And are you—behaving yourself?”
“Can’t do otherwise, can I? What with Mr. and Mrs. Pickering coming around—driving from all that way across the water, and telling me they were just passing, as if I don’t know that petrol coupons are like gold dust. And then there’s the woman next door, popping in to check up on me. I keep saying, ‘I’m sixteen—old enough to look after meself.’”
“Could you ask your dad to telephone me, as soon as he can?”
“Will do.” Bobby followed his words with a deep sigh.
“What is it, Bobby—are you all right? I can come over if you like—make you a nice dinner.”
“I’ve loads of nice dinners in that fridge. By the way, did you know my dad bought a fridge? Never had one before and don’t know anyone who’s got one either—he said it was a surprise, for my mum. Well, it will be, because it’s full of pies. I wish Mrs. Relf would bring cake—that’s what I fancy.”
“I’ll see what I can do for you.”
“Miss—can I ask you something?”
“What is it, Bobby?”
There was silence on the line.
“Bobby?”
“It’s like this, Miss Dobbs—you remember last year, at one of your Sunday dinners, I ended up talking to Tom, the one who’s gone into the RAF?”
“Yes, I remember—I saw you were deep in conversation.”
“He’s not really what I’d call my sort, all very posh, but he was nice to me and asked about what I do, you know, being a mechanic. I was telling him how I really like working on engines, that it’s sort of like playing a musical instrument for me—not that I can play any musical instrument, but it sounded right. I told him that I listen to the engines, that I listen for them to sort of sing. I can tell when I’ve got an engine right, by the sound. I thought he would laugh, but instead he says, ‘You should do an aircraft apprenticeship.’ And he told me about the college for aircraft mechanics, at RAF Halton, in Buckinghamshire. He said I’m old enough to join the RAF as an apprentice.”
Maisie felt her heart palpitate. Oh dear . . . Tom, what have you done now?
“Anyway,” Bobby continued, “he sent me a letter with all the details, and I found out how to apply. The woman in the library down the road helped me.”
“And you didn’t tell your dad, did you?”
“No
. I mean, what with my brother going off into the army, I didn’t want to say anything, and it might’ve come to nothing anyway.”
“They’ve accepted you, haven’t they?” asked Maisie.
“I had to get out of my job for two days—couple of weeks ago now—to go for an interview and a medical. They got me to work on an engine too—it was really easy for me. Dad didn’t even notice I wasn’t there, because he was down in Hampshire. Anyway, the letter came this morning. I’ll be an RAF mechanic.”
“But they need your father’s signature on the permission form—is that it?”
“Yes.” Bobby Beale paused again. “He’ll do his nut. He won’t see that it’s a better job with more prospects than me converting old cars for the ARP, and spending my life in that garage. I mean, I’ve learned a lot, but I know I’m good at engines—I really am. Once I’m trained on aeroplanes, well, that’s me—set. Tom says that when this war is over, you watch, people will be going everywhere on aeroplanes, much more than they do now. I’ll have a job for life, and I could go to other places. I could even go across the world. And Tom says they have engineers on some of the actual aeroplanes. They have engineers on bombers. I could work my way up.”
“You want me to talk to your dad, don’t you?”
“He listens to you, miss. He says you think the right things. And what with my mum—you never know what’s going to happen. All I know is that if it wasn’t for Maggie-ro, she would be back in the nuthouse.”
“Bobby—come on, she’s your mother and she’s a good mother. You shouldn’t talk about her like that.”
“I know, but . . . it’s just that sometimes I want to get away from home.”
“Look, don’t tell your dad as soon as he walks into the house. Give them a chance to get settled, and if I were you, I would bide my time.”
“It’s because of what’s going on over there, isn’t it? Billy’s stuck there, I know he is.”
“Bobby—you’ve been working very hard lately. Get a good night’s sleep and use that fine-tuned ear of yours to listen to your father and don’t talk to him about this until he’s rested—all right?”
“All right.”
“And I’ll see what I can do about the cake.”
Bobby Beale laughed. “I’ll get my dad to give you a bell.”
Maisie replaced the receiver and sat down, leaning forward, her elbows on the table, her forehead resting on her hands.
“Oh, Bobby, I wish you hadn’t told me,” she said aloud to the room. “Poor Billy.”
Maisie kept the conversation short when Billy telephoned half an hour later. In the interim, she had started the case map and had been linking names, facts, dates, times, noting thoughts that occurred to her and questions to be answered. The diagram on paper resembled wires converging into a junction box. She now had the name of Billy’s friend—Peter Sands—and Billy said he would get in touch and ask him if he could pop into the office. She reiterated that she only wanted to draw upon his expertise, and would gladly remunerate him for his time. Billy did not mention Bobby—except to say he had been a good lad, and clearly had been looked after while alone in the house. Doreen was home now, and would return to Hampshire on Monday with Margaret Rose.
The telephone rang.
“So that’s where you are!” said Priscilla Partridge. “Did you forget? You’re supposed to be at a special ambulance driver practice this evening and you’ve got five minutes to get here. Mr. Roache is about to blow a gasket as two of the younger women are not here either, and he expected us ‘experienced ladies’ to set an example. That was a rather strange experience, I must say—I was always the one being punished as an ‘example to others’ when I was at school. We may be volunteers, but this is like being in the army!”
“I’m leaving now,” said Maisie as she grabbed her bag. “In fact, the doorbell has just rung and I think that’s my transport. Thank goodness for the police!”
“What?”
“Nothing. Tell Mr. Roache I’ll be ten minutes.”
Later, after she and Priscilla had managed to take an ambulance to Marble Arch and back in the dark and then negotiated a derelict building looking for “injured”—more volunteers—and then taken them to the nearest hospital, the two women were given a lift home to Holland Park in the back of an ambulance. They stood outside Priscilla’s mansion, which was a short walk from Maisie’s flat. The whereabouts of Priscilla’s eldest son seemed to consume her thoughts, along with worries about her middle and younger sons.
“Thank goodness Tarquin is minding his p’s and q’s, that’s all I can say. And I am so glad Tim is coming down to you—Douglas said that he needed work to get his back into. Serious man work, he said, on the farm, or with your father. Tim should stop thinking all the time of all the things he’s not doing and get on with the things he can. He’s so argumentative—he’s turned from my delightful second son into a little war machine unto himself.”
“He can come down tomorrow, if you like—I plan to catch the train before lunch. My motor is at Chelstone, and I’m trying not to use it too much now anyway—not fond of driving in the dark and I can’t afford to waste my petrol coupons.”
“Oh, Douglas has something lined up for Tim tomorrow—another distraction. By the way you did all right tonight, Maisie—the way you took that turn onto Oxford Street was quite amazing. I wonder if they deliberately put other vehicles right in the middle of the road to test us—after all, when we have a real emergency, there will be a lot in our way.”
“It was all the wood they scattered on the narrow alley up to the house—that was a test, because there’s obviously a point where we’ll have to leave the ambulance and run, and then bring the wounded to the ambulance—and reverse out again.”
“God willing we’ll never have to run into any burning buildings, eh Maisie? But according to Roache, we two outdid ourselves. Frankly, I think he’s shocked that anyone over thirty has the stamina for this job—but we showed him, didn’t we?”
Maisie laughed and kissed Priscilla on the cheek. “Tell Tim we’re looking forward to seeing him. Especially Anna. Oh, by the way—he has had measles, hasn’t he?”
Priscilla waved her hand. “My boys have had everything—everything you can imagine a boy can get.”
Later, as Maisie sat in her walled garden with a cup of tea and a sandwich, she gazed up at the outlines of barrage balloons obscuring the night sky, a darkness punctuated only by searchlights from a nearby anti-aircraft “ack-ack” battery scouring the heavens for possible Luftwaffe interlopers. And she wondered, then, how long the quiet would last. How long before Hitler’s armies would draw even closer, their aircraft overhead raining down a blitzkrieg of terror? In Madrid she had already seen what the Luftwaffe could inflict upon a people. Or would it all blow over—would Britain capitulate to the approaching enemy, coming closer and closer with every passing day?
She went into the house, washed her plate, cup, saucer and cutlery, and went to bed. Sleep did not come with ease, so instead she opened the blackout curtain and allowed herself to be lulled by the searchlights moving back and forth, cones of light against a midnight blue sky.
At nine o’clock the following morning, Maisie, Billy and Peter Sands sat at the long table in Maisie’s office.
“It’s very good of you to come in to see us, Mr. Sands—I really appreciate your time.”
“Aw, not to worry, Miss Dobbs—and call me ‘Pete.’ It’s a bit of a slow day, to tell you the truth. Now if it was last week, it would have been another matter, but I’m putting the finishing touches to a job over in Russell Square.” He paused, sipped from the mug of tea Billy had passed to him, and looked at Maisie, then Billy. “So, my mate here said you wanted to pick my brains.”
“Yes, Pete, I’m sure you can help us—we’d like to hear what you might know about Yates and Sons. They’ve landed a lucrative government contract for painting buildings on airfields across the country, and the emulsion—if you can call it that—is ve
ry viscous, has a strong vapor and, from what we understand already, it does the job it was designed for, which is to stop a fire from taking over if the airfield is attacked.”
“I heard they’d pulled in a big one. Of course, that’s not something that would come my way, being just me and one apprentice. Nice money, especially the way things are—I reckon that one job will keep them going throughout the war, and it’ll mean their boys are out of it, what with government work being protected.”
“Have you ever used anything like this emulsion—do you know what they put in it?” asked Maisie.
The man shook his head. “I’ve heard about paint like that, but not put a brush in it myself. But you know, what with the war, I reckon they’re using new stuff—and probably not tested, so they won’t know how long it will last, that sort of thing. Which again means that Yates’ lads will have jobs for as long as the war goes on—but let’s hope it’s not as long as the last one.”
“Let’s hope, mate,” said Billy.
“One thing,” Maisie interjected. “And it’s a tricky question, Mr. Sands—but do you think Yates is on the up and up in his business affairs? Have you ever heard anything untoward, or critical of his business practices.”
The man shrugged. “Everyone’s got to make a living, haven’t they? Old Bill Yates only took the firm so far, but Mike Yates worked hard, put in the hours and made the connections so it became a much bigger business—for our line of work, anyway. But a growing concern like that means more mouths to feed, because no one likes laying off their workers, especially men they’ve apprenticed and trained up. I mean, it’s not like they’re packing sausages, is it? And it’s not as if any bloke with a brush can just slap paint on walls—well, they can, but you can always tell the cowboys in the trade.” He paused, rubbing his stubbled chin. “I wouldn’t say Mike Yates has bad commercial practices—as far as I know—but he is a terrier. He finds out about new business, goes after the opportunities, and he keeps the customers over time. The minute his crew have finished the downstairs on a job over in Belgravia, than he’s over there asking about the upper floors. For every customer there’s a record kept of what they’ve had done and when—and he’s in there as soon as he thinks a room might need another coat of paint. And he’s a stickler for his men looking clean and tidy—all wearing spotless whites at the start of every week and every new job, and he’ll check a work site to make sure they’re leaving it in good order every day. But no getting away from it—if there’s business out there, then Mike Yates is on it like a fly on a corpse.”