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 now 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.
Mrs. Keep welcomed Maisie with a cup of tea, home-baked scones and the promise of a room always ready for her whenever she came to the farm. Once refreshed, Maisie set her bag in the room, dropped in to say hello to Doreen’s aunt, and went on her way—this time in the direction of the airfield where she believed Teddy Wickham was stationed. Would she be able to see him? Would her name still be on a list that gave her preferential access? She had not wanted to trouble Lord Julian again, but was now having second thoughts and wished she had.
As before there were two guards stationed at the gatehouse when she drove up. She pulled into a lay-by opposite their station, reached into her handbag and took out her identity card. She wound down the window and held out the card.
“Good afternoon, Sergeant. I wonder if I could speak to the officer in charge, if I may? My name is Maisie Dobbs—here is my calling card.” She took one of the cards from her pocket. She did not wish to appear too confident of her position, but at the same time wanted to get answers to questions as soon as she could. “I believe my name should be on a list here—perhaps it’s with the officer in charge.”
“Right you are, miss. Remain in your motor car, if you don’t mind.” The sergeant returned to the gatehouse and stepped inside. Through the open door Maisie could see him winding up the telephone and placing a call. The conversation seemed to take longer than she had expected, but at last he replaced the receiver and walked back toward the Alvis.
“Sergeant Packham had to go through some papers, Miss Dobbs. He’d remembered seeing your name, but the permission to enter had been filed away. Now then, when I lift the gate you may proceed to the building situated to your right as you drive up there. Do not exceed five miles per hour, and do not stop. You will see where to park your vehicle and a guard will be waiting to escort you to an office where Sergeant Packham will see you.”
Maisie nodded and thanked the guard, who proceeded to lift a barrier, waving her through as she drove on. Taking care to keep the Alvis at the specified speed—tantamount to hardly moving—she followed instructions for parking. An armed guard approached the motor car, opened the door and instructed her to “Follow me, madam.”
Upon entering the long, one-storey building, she smelled fresh paint, and could see the job had been finished recently, perhaps in the last fortnight. The guard stopped outside a door, knocked and was given leave to enter. An officer and a sergeant were waiting in the room and returned the guard’s salute. The room was cool and felt damp, and seemed infused with the vapor of fresh emulsion. It was oppressive, reminding her of an interrogation room at Scotland Yard.
“Miss Dobbs,” said the officer. “Flight Lieutenant Cobb, and this is Sergeant Packham. Please take a seat.” He extended a hand toward a chair opposite a single desk in the room. Cobb took a seat on the other side of the desk, while Packham remained standing. “Now, how might we help you, Miss Dobbs? Is this to do with the painters?”
Maisie looked from Cobb to Packham. “Yes, I’m afraid it is in connection with the death of one of the young apprentices, Joseph Coombes. I’m given to understand that a friend of his brother, named Edward—Teddy—Wickham is stationed here. He visited Mr. Coombes a few weeks before his death, and subsequently told the deceased’s parents that their son had been in ‘top form.’ I would like to see Wickham, if I may. I would like to ask him a few questions about his meeting with Joseph Coombes.”
“Is there a suspicion of foul play in the death of the young apprentice?” asked Cobb.
“The inquest has yet to take place, but in all likelihood the coroner will conclude death by misadventure.”
“Young lad playing fast and loose with fate, eh?” said Cobb.
“Perhaps not,” said Maisie. “Might I see Wickham?”
Cobb turned to Sergeant Packham. “Where is Corporal Wickham at the moment?”
Packham lifted an open ledger from the desk and began to run his finger down the page. “In the hangar, sir,” he replied.
“Ask the guard to fetch him, and bring him to this office.” He turned to Maisie. “I should like to be present during your inquisition, if that’s all right,” said Cobb.
Maisie took account of Cobb’s stance—he had now come to his feet. It occurred to her that, perhaps, in civilian life he had not known much respect from his peers, that he had yearned for a measure of power, some sense of having an edge over others. He had possibly been all but invisible in school days, hence his need to sit while the sergeant stood—affirming his position—and then to stand as soon as the sergeant had left the room. Maisie leaned back in the chair, placing her elbows on the arms and stretching into the space allowed her.
“I’d like to talk to him in private—if that’s all right,” said Maisie. “It might be easier if Corporal Wickham had no cause to feel intimidated by the presence of an officer in the room. You are, after all, his superior.” She left the word “superior” hanging, suspended in the air between them, a word chosen to stroke an ego as if it were a dog to be calmed.
“Yes, quite,” said Cobb.
A single knock at the door signaled Packham’s entrance, with Teddy Wickham close behind. The young man was of average height, about five feet ten inches, and with reddish-blond hair. His gray eyes held no sparkle, though as soon as he saw Cobb, he snapped to attention, his chest pushed out and his back ramrod straight when he saluted the officer.
“At ease, Wickham,” said Cobb. “This is Miss Dobbs. She has something to discuss with you in private—which I am allowing on this occasion.” He looked at Maisie, again as if to underline his position. “A guard will be waiting outside and will escort you to your motor car directly you’ve finished in here, Miss Dobbs.” He turned back to Wickham. “And, corporal, you will immediately return to your duties.” He pronounced the word “immeejetly.”
“Yes, sir!” Wickham saluted again, his heels snapping together.
“And please don’t do that—you look like a bloody Nazi,” added Cobb as he and Packham left the room.
“You can breathe again and sit down now, Teddy—pull up that chair so you’re on this side of the desk.”
“Are you sure, miss, I mean—”
“Of course. Come on, sit down.”
Wickham picked up his chair and set it down so that it was diagonally situated to Maisie—not opposite and not alongside. She smiled. Whether deliberate or instinctive, he had seated himself in a neutral place.
“What do you want to talk to me about?” asked Wickham.
“Joe Coombes,” said Maisie.
Teddy Wickham nodded and looked down at his hands. “I heard he was dead. Probably the job what did it.”
“Tell me what you mean, Teddy?”
“Being away from home. Joe was a soft one—and all this business, going around painting these buildings, it wasn’t doing him any good at all.” He had leaned forward, his shoulders rounded, his arms now folded.
“But you said he was on ‘top form’—those were your exact words, according to Phil Coombes.”
“Well, he was, in a way—but it was as if he couldn’t get comfortable. On one hand he was having a bit too much fun with the lads, if you ask me. I mean, he wasn’t used to the late nights, that sort of thing. And on the other, he was on his own—the apprentice, not one of the boys.”
“Late nights? That doesn’t sound like the Joe I knew,” said Maisie.
Wickham looked up. “Didn’t know you knew him.”
“Yes, I know Phil and Sally, and I knew Joe. Not Archie though.” She sighed. “What makes you think Joe was having that many late nights? Was he drinking?”
Wickham shrugged. “Might’ve been. He was away from home, away from having the collar round his neck, so he was enjoying himself.”
Maisie folded her arms and leaned forward, mirroring Wickham.
“What do you do here, Teddy?”
“All sorts, but mainly stores, supplies and ordering. Boring really. But it’s steady, and I won’t be out there fighting, or up there in the air fighting, or on a ship fighting.”
“Not a bad move,” said Maisie.
“Wasn’t deliberate—luck of the draw. It’s where I ended up.”
“Do you get much leave?”
“More than some, I suppose. More than them going up and over there to fight the Germans.”
“So that’s how you were able to see Joe, make sure he was all right.”
“Saw him a couple of times.”
“How did you manage to get into the stores job? Sounds like a cushy number to me. What did you do before you joined up?” asked Maisie.
“I worked in a warehouse. Same sort of thing—they like to use what you’ve already got, I suppose—and like I said, it’s the luck of the draw. Always is.”
Maisie nodded. “Where was the warehouse—where you worked before the war?”
“Sydenham.”
“Oh, then you weren’t far from Archie then?”
Wickham shrugged. “No, not far, just up the road. He’s got a job that keeps him in civvy street though, jammy whatsit that he is.”
Maisie nodded, and when she spoke it was with a softer voice. “You’re very upset about Joe, aren’t you, Teddy?”
Wickham looked away. “Well, I would be, wouldn’t I. My mate’s little brother, dead because no one was looking after him.”
“What do you mean, Teddy? I thought the men he worked with were keeping an eye on him.”
“Well, they weren’t sharp enough, were they? Didn’t stop him ending up dead, did they?”
“Perhaps they didn’t know what he was up to,” said Maisie, her tone remaining modulated.
Wickham looked up at the clock on the wall. “I’ve got to get back, Miss . . . Miss Dobbs. Got a shipment coming in, big one—everything from parts for vehicles, parts for aeroplanes, medical supplies, all that sort of thing, right down to tea and Bovril—and I’ve got to check it all through on the ledgers.”
Maisie said nothing, maintaining her gaze upon him so that, when he looked up, he found himself staring straight into her eyes.
“What?” he said.
“What are you afraid to tell me, Teddy?”
The young man shook his head, stood up and moved the chair back to its place behind the desk. He stood as if to attention in front of Maisie, and saluted before opening the door. Maisie heard his stride along a corridor, then a door opening, and as she left the room to greet the guard, she glanced out of a window and saw Wickham walking at speed toward an aircraft hangar, his hands curled into fists by his side.
“This way, ma’am,” said the guard, one hand steadying the rifle slung over his shoulder.
When they reached the motor car, the guard opened the door for Maisie to take her seat. He closed the door behind her and stood to watch as she maneuvered the Alvis around, and began to drive at the same low speed toward the exit. Another guard approached the barrier, lifting it for her to pass, then directed her across into a lay-by of sorts, and held up his hand for her to remain in place. He looked along the lane leading to the airfield, and beckoned a lorry forward, which—Maisie could see—was followed by three similar vehicles. The guard checked the papers handed to him by each driver, and as the lorries moved off, the engines roared and whined. Having secured the gate, the guard waved her forward and on her way.
A mile or so along the road she passed two more lorries, with boxes being loaded from one to the other. The first lorry was similar to those she had passed at the airfield, and the second bore the Yates’ company livery. There were no tins or barrels or anything that might contain paint to be seen.
Making her way back along country lanes, Maisie was thinking about Teddy Wickham, when she heard the low drone of aircraft approaching. She stopped the motor car next to a five-bar gate overlooking the green fields beyond, and stepped out. Leaning on the gate she looked up at the aeroplanes as they flew overhead—two Hurricanes and three Spitfires if she were not mistaken—toward the coast, and in all likelihood bound for France. And she remembered another time, at an airfield outside Munich just two years earlier, when she watched a young aviatrix, Elaine Otterburn, take off on a mission to save the life of a man valuable to Britain’s preparations for war, and her words as she had watched the aircraft disappear into the clouds: “God Speed.” Maisie whispered those same words again as the aircraft became specks in the distance.
The interview with Teddy Wickham troubled Maisie, not simply because she believed—indeed, she knew—that he had lied to her, but also for one other reason. As Teddy Wickham had left her he was fighting back tears. But were they tears of the bereaved? Tears of guilt? Or perhaps an expression of fear? She stopped at a bakery to buy a cheese roll, and then at a grocer’s where she bought a bottle of ginger beer, and considered her next move. She wanted to see Freddie and Len again, the two painters who were working with Joe, and who—as the senior men—were supposed to be training him in his job. In particular Freddie Mayes. Driving back into Whitchurch, she stopped at the telephone kiosk and placed a call to Yates’ yard. As soon as the singsong voice answered, she knew she was in luck.
“Yates Painting and Decorating, how may I help you?” The speaker’s tone seemed to begin on a low note and end on a high one.
“Hello—is this Miss Bright? Charlotte?”
There was a pause before the woman replied with a lowered voice. “That’s Miss Dobbs—I recognize your voice.”
“Charlotte, would you be able to give me some information please?”
“What sort of information?” Her voice was now little more than a whisper.
“Can you tell me where Freddie and Len are today? I’m in Hampshire and I’d like to see them.”
“Hmmm, let me see—just a minute.”
Maisie could hear the turning of pages, then Bright was back on the line. “Yes, I thought so. They moved on from that last airfield, and they’re now at another place. RAF Templeton. Nearer the coast it is—have you got a map?”
“Yes, I have, and I’ve also a list of the RAF stations, so I have everything I need. Is everything all right, Charlotte?”
“Mike Yates gave me my cards this morning—said that seeing as I was leaving anyway, I might as well be gone sooner rather than later, especially as he had another girl coming from the labor exchange with better qualifications than me. Made a point of telling me she was ‘brighter’ than me. I hate that man—and I’d like to know what someone with so-called better qualifications is doing coming here.”
“You’ll be in uniform soon, anyway,” said Maisie.
“Counting down the hours, Miss Dobbs. Counting down the hours.”
Maisie laughed. “Charlotte, I’ve another question. As I was leaving the other day, a motor car came into the yard—it was a black and green Rover Ten. Do you know who it belongs to?”
There was a brief pause before Bright answered. “I shouldn’t say, you know, what with that form I had to sign, the one about keeping quiet about what I do here—but seeing as this is my last day, I don’t give tuppence ha’apenny for Yates and his secrets. That motor car belongs to a bloke called Jimmy Robertson, but that wasn’t him driving it. No, that was one of his tea boys—that’s what my dad calls them, the blokes down the ladder from the top. Robertson has a finger in a lot of pies, and he comes here because one of the pies he has a finger in is the painting business. He supplies that special paint and helped get Mike Yates that contract. I’m not supposed to know that, but I do—oh, hang on.” There was a pause, then Bright came back on the line. “No, madam, I’m afraid it wasn’t Yates Painting and Decorating—I’ve looked up the records. However, Yates would be more than happy to give you an estimate—shall I get Mr. Yates to telephone you? No? All right. Thank you, madam.”
“Charlotte—could you give me your address quickly, just in case I have any more questions for you.”
The young woman recited her address in a low voice, adding a hurried good-bye.
Maisie left the telephone kiosk and sat in her motor car, staring straight ahead, deep in thought, paying no attention to her surroundings. She sighed, shook her head and spoke aloud, as if someone else were in the Alvis, and she had asked for their opinion. “Jimmy Robertson. That’s all I need—Jimmy Robertson.”
Maisie had never met Jimmy Robertson, though she had heard of him. Had not everyone in south London heard of the Robertson family? In the office, where she kept the card file started by Maurice, a resource used throughout her apprenticeship and which she continued to refer to, there was a clutch of cards, each one bearing a Christian name followed by the surname “Robertson.” The family’s tentacles reached into almost every business south of the river, and—she had heard—possibly even into Westminster. No wonder Sergeant Bright worried about his daughter—it beggared belief that he had ever allowed her to work for Mike Yates, if that was the company he kept. Jimmy Robertson was known to be ruthless with those who crossed him. She remembered hearing about one of Robertson’s “tea boys”—a man who had, on the orders of Jimmy Robertson, been dismembered before his body was set in concrete and thrown into the Thames. It was Caldwell who had told her. “The word on the street is that Barney Coleman’s now holding up Rotherhithe Docks. And they say Jimmy Robertson started cutting him before he was dead!” Robertson was not someone to be underestimated—Barney Coleman was his cousin.
She had intended to place a call to Chelstone to ask after Anna’s health, but looked at the single penny left in her purse—she would have to do it later. Instead she started the engine and slipped the motor car into gear, her thoughts on the conversation with Charlotte Bright. An unexpected thread was now running through the web. It happened—though not often. But this time perhaps that single thread might be the one to pull. As she made her way to RAF Templeton, checking the map at every junction, she wondered what counsel Maurice might offer. She remembered a story he had told about a sojourn in Morocco as a young man. He explained that in times past, for the early morning and evening Muslim call to prayer, the muezzin had no means of telling the correct time—the exact moments of dawn and dusk—so from their balcony high up on the minaret, they would hold two threads in the palm of one hand: a black thread and a white thread. When they could see no distinction between white and black at night, that was the time to begin their call. And in the morning, as soon as they could distinguish the white thread, so they would summon the faithful to prayer. Maurice had taken a pencil and paper and drawn a minaret, so that she might know what this tower, part of the mosque, looked like. She knew, then, as she turned off onto another lane, that for all her work on a case map and despite the colors used to follow each thread of evidence collected, she was still at the dawn of her investigation, for she could not distinguish black from white. Indeed, as she followed directions to the airfield, she was reminded of the difficulty of the task—all road signs had been removed. It seemed to be a reflection of her investigation into the death of Joe Coombes.
Once again Maisie had to go through the procedure of identifying herself to a guard, for someone at an office in a low building on the airfield to approve her presence, and only then would she be authorized to wait for the person she wanted to see. As she stood alongside the Alvis, she saw a van coming toward the guardhouse, a cloud of dust rising up behind the back wheels.
“I’m going to give that lad a bit of a talking to about his driving,” said the guard. “He looks as if he’s in a race to get over here. Pity he’s in civvy street and not one of ours—I’d have him on latrine duty for that.”
The van screeched to a halt on the other side of the barrier, and Freddie Mayes stepped out, slamming the door behind him.
“Before you leave your old jam-jar in the way, mate, you’d better put it over to one side—there’s people driving up and they want to get in and out,” the guard admonished the painter, who—thought Maisie—if looks could kill, had just committed murder.
The van was moved and Freddie came to the barrier, ducked underneath and approached Maisie.
“Miss Dobbs. You’re back again. Mr. Yates said none of us were to talk to you. Sorry about that.”
“Nice to see you again too, Freddie.” Maisie followed the sarcastic quip with a question. “When did you speak to him last—he was very cordial to me when I visited.”
“It’s this business about Joe,” said Freddie. “Got him worried, I suppose.”
“In case you’re all getting ill, is that it?”
Mayes shrugged. “Not as bad as Joe, but it makes us feel a bit queasy at times. Nothing that a pint won’t cure of an evening. Anyway, I’m going back up to the Smoke soon. Not for long, just for a couple of days off, then back down here. Like being in the army it is, stuck where you don’t want to be.”
“Just as well you’re not in the army, don’t you think?” Maisie regarded the painter, who took a packet of cigarettes from his pocket. It was a full packet of twenty expensive cigarettes, not the Woodbines he had smoked before. “I’d like to ask a couple more questions, about Joe.”
“All right then—fire away,” said Freddie.
“Can you tell me honestly—did Joe drink at all? Was he ever the worse for wear after you’d been down to the pub in one of these villages where you’ve been staying?”
Freddie shook his head. “Joe wasn’t what you’d call a drinker. Mind you, I suppose it’s my fault that once or twice he was a bit tipsy. He was all wound up, you see. Like a spring. I put it down to missing his mum or something like that—p’raps he’s got a girl back at home. So when he asked for a shandy a couple of times, instead of his usual Vimto, I got the landlord to make it more ale than lemonade—which is the opposite of what Joe liked. The way he ordered it, it was a glass of lemonade and a spoonful of ale on the top! Who would have believed his old man was a publican?” Freddie took a long draw on his cigarette, pinched out the lighted end and threw it into the bushes. He was staring at the ground as he spoke. “So, I suppose a couple of times he was a little bit not-quite-there, but at least he wasn’t so nervy. Just before it happened—just before he died—he was in a bit of a state. Every time someone came into the pub, he almost jumped out of his skin. I reckon it was the paint—it was doing something to his mind.” He looked up at Maisie. “But do I think it was doing enough to his mind to make him jump onto a railway line? I really don’t know. None of us was with him, and he wasn’t one for skylarking around. And I’ve thought about it a lot—I reckon Joe was like he was because he wanted to be different from some of the sorts he saw in his dad’s business. But he told me his dad warned him about it too—that the pub should be a lesson to him. It put dinner on the table and clothes on their backs, but there were better ways to earn a living.”
Maisie said nothing for some seconds, allowing the silence to distill her thoughts, and the picture Freddie Mayes had painted of Joe Coombes away from home. “Did he get any visitors—either at the lodgings or while working?”
The painter and decorator shook his head. “Not as far as I know—although he mentioned his brother’s mate coming over to see him. Ted—Teddy—something like that. But he went out for walks. He said it was to clear his head, though it might have been to see someone. We were in Whitchurch for a good while and he started talking to one of the farmers in the pub one night. Bloke had a sheepdog with him, and Joe was telling him how it fascinated him, the way the dogs worked on the farm. The old boy said he should come over to watch, perhaps have a go—and I know Joe walked over there of an evening sometimes—he liked the old boy’s company.”
“No one has mentioned this before,” said Maisie.
Mayes shrugged. “Didn’t seem important, I suppose—going off to look at a sheepdog messing around with some sheep.” He held out his hands, palm up, and shrugged again. “Look, Miss Dobbs, I’m a London boy, born and bred—the only thing I know about these animals is when I put a few pennies on a greyhound at Catford dogs.”
“What was the farmer’s name?”
“Hutchins. Phineas was his name. Funny old name for a funny old bloke. They called him Finny. Looks like he came out of a book. I think it’s Moorwood Farm—ask a publican in Whitchurch, any one of them would know how to get there. Not that old Finny could tell you much. Oh, and he has a bit of a smell about him—being a farmer, I suppose.”
Maisie regarded Freddie Mayes. “Do you know where the paint comes from?”
Mayes took another cigarette from the packet and lit up. Maisie wondered how long this one would last, and again how he could afford to be so cavalier about his expenditure. Recalling how Billy always kept the unsmoked portion of a cigarette, perhaps the only reason for such waste was a good supply, and at little or no cost.
“It comes in big tins in a big lorry, that’s all I know.”
“I meant its place of origin—where it begins its journey?”
“Not my business, is it? Probably from a government depot, something like that. All I know is we get the paint, put it in our buckets, and we brush it on the walls.”
“And the only friends outside of you and the lads that Joe had while you’ve been away is this old farmer and his dog.”
“Far as I know.”
“All right, Freddie—I’ve kept you from your work for long enough. You’d better get back. Thank you for your time.”
The young man drew on the cigarette a couple of times, blowing the smoke to one side. “Got to do our best by Joe, haven’t we?” He turned to leave.
Maisie watched as he took two steps, and then called to him. “Freddie—just one more thing. Sorry, but I have to ask this—you all seem to have a good supply of smokes. Where do you get them—you’re out of the way down here?”
“Mr. Yates sends them. They come with the supplies.” He gave a half-laugh. “In fact, they’re probably from the same place as that paint—” He stopped abruptly, raised a hand as a final gesture of departure, and turned back to his van.
As Maisie stepped toward the Alvis, she heard the guard shout across. “And watch your bleedin’ speed, sonny—you’re on government property and you’d better follow the rules. This ain’t your cushy civvy street.”
“Oh wind your neck in, getting upset because you’re stuck out here and not one of them fly boys up there,” came the retort from Freddie Mayes.
She started the engine, and as she slipped the motor car into gear, she wound down the window to thank the guard, who shook his head.
“That bloke and his mates on the painting job—untouchable, that’s what they are. They’re all right, I suppose, but sometimes that one can get mouthy. His mate said it was on account of the paint they’re using. Well, all I can say is, he should be over there with our lads in France. Then let’s see where mouthy gets you. You’d be wishing all you had to do all day was paint so the buildings don’t burn.”
Maisie bid good-bye to the guard and drove away from the airfield, and at a very low speed.