“I felt quite bad about going to Ramsgate, to tell you the truth,” said Priscilla, flicking ash from her cigarette out of the open passenger side window. “I mean, there I was, jumping up and down, talking to anyone who looked official, trying to find out if they knew where my son was. And they had enough on their hands dealing with the men coming off the boats, without a lunatic mother screaming at them.” She coughed and patted her chest. “I don’t know whether that’s the gasper I’m puffing away on, or all this fresh air. Lovely to have a motor car with a roof you can put down though—I adored driving with the wind in my hair when we lived in Biarritz.” She paused. “Sometimes I wish we’d have bloody well stayed there, because now I have a son in the air force and another who thinks he’s Lord Horatio bloody Nelson.”
“It’s best you’re not in Biarritz, Pris—not with what’s happened in France. And you know it.” Maisie shifted gears as she slowed to drive through Chelstone.
“I absolutely adore this village, Maisie. Perhaps I should sell the family home and buy something here—it would make sense, because we hardly ever use the house now, and I’ve only kept it, really, for the memories. But I think Kent would be so much more convenient, after all, we would be in the country, yet there’s the train or the coach to go back and forth from London.” At that moment, a trio of RAF Spitfires flew overhead. “Then of course, I remember that Kent has taken the brunt of invasions for centuries, and I don’t particularly want to be on the front line,” she added, shielding her eyes with a hand to follow the aircraft until they disappeared into the clouds. “Wouldn’t it be simply the strangest thing if one of those boys were my son, flying off to France?” She turned to Maisie, then raised a palm to blow a kiss in the direction of the aircraft.
“Nearly there,” said Maisie. “Brenda will have baked a bounty of cakes, I’m sure.”
“Thank heavens for your chickens and their eggs!” said Priscilla.
Maisie pulled into the lane leading to the back of the Dower House, parking the Alvis under a tree.
“Tomorrow will be the last time I can drive—it has to go into the garage until after the war now. I can’t push my luck with the special allowance anymore.”
“Ours has gone into storage too—going to Ramsgate was its swan song until this war is finished,” said Priscilla. “And there’s your greeting party,” she added, pointing to the back door of the Dower House.
Frankie Dobbs stood on the threshold, holding Anna’s hand. The child was in her pajamas, her feet drumming the ground, running on the spot as she waved to Maisie.
Maisie stepped from the motor car as Frankie relinquished his hold on Anna’s hand. The little girl ran to Maisie, Emma ambling from behind Frankie to remain close to her mistress.
“You’re home, you’re home, you’re home!”
“And you’ve forgotten your slippers, your slippers, your slippers, young lady,” said Maisie, lifting the child and holding her on her hip. “My, for a little girl who’s had the measles, you’re getting heavy! And what time is this? It’s past time for a measled girl to be in her bed!”
“Hello, Auntie Priscilla,” said Anna, as Maisie let her slither to the ground.
“Hello, Anna,” said Priscilla, leaning forward and tapping her own nose and cheeks. “One there, one there, and one on the other side.”
Anna giggled and kissed Priscilla on both cheeks and her nose, as instructed, then reached for Maisie’s hand.
“Tim’s coming back tomorrow,” she said, leading Maisie and Priscilla into the kitchen. The women exchanged glances.
“Hello, love,” said Frankie, kissing his daughter. “She’s gone on and on about Tim coming home all day.” He looked at Priscilla, who had moved to kiss him in greeting. “Sorry, Mrs. Partridge—I told her to keep her dreams a secret, because I wouldn’t want you to be upset. But Anna’s been waiting for Maisie and you to get here—she was so excited she couldn’t rest.”
“What will upset me is you not calling me ‘Priscilla’—how many years have I known you now, Mr. Dobbs?” She paused and pulled a face. “Oh dear, I don’t practice what I preach, do I?”
At that moment, Brenda entered the kitchen. “Hello, Mrs. Partridge—I’ve made up the guest room for you and Mr. Partridge, and we’ll put Tarquin in the conservatory when he gets here—Tim always loves sleeping there.”
“That’s perfect, Mrs. Dobbs—thank you so very much.” Priscilla turned to Maisie. “And I suppose you’re still bedding down in the library.”
“It’s very comfortable, and if I can’t sleep, there’s plenty of reading material to get on with.” She reached for Anna’s hand. “Now, while you all catch up with your news, I’m taking Anna upstairs. It’s time she was in bed again—we don’t want all the excitement to set her back.”
Maisie was stretched out on top of the covers reading a story, with Anna in bed resting against the crook of her arm, when Brenda entered with a mug of warm milk.
“Looks like she’s not far off sleep now,” said Brenda.
“Almost in the land of nod, aren’t you,” said Maisie, sweeping a tendril of black hair across Anna’s forehead, away from her eyes. “Come on, time for your milk.”
As Anna reached for the mug and began to sip, Maisie continued to support the child, who was leaning against her.
“Heard from your Mr. Klein, Maisie?” asked Brenda, standing by the door.
“Yes, I saw him this week. It was a short meeting, not very long at all.”
“And?”
Maisie shrugged, not looking at Brenda, paying attention to Anna as she finished her milk. “Just a few little things to get over.”
“Oh,” said Brenda. “We’ll talk about it later.”
“Yes,” said Maisie.
Brenda left the room as Anna took a final sip and handed the mug to Maisie.
“A widow is a lady whose husband has died, isn’t she?” said Anna.
“Yes, that’s right.” Maisie stood up and set the mug on the side table. She had answered the question as if it were the most ordinary inquiry. “Now then, snuggle down and close your eyes ready for the sandman.”
“I know your husband died,” whispered Anna.
“Yes, you probably heard someone mention it,” said Maisie. “It’s not a secret, but I don’t talk about it much.”
“Lady Rowan came over to read to me when I first had measles. I heard her talking to Auntie Brenda downstairs. She said it doesn’t help that you’re a widow.”
“Probably because sometimes being a widow makes other people sad,” said Maisie.
“Who’s Mr. Klein?” asked Anna, resting her head on the pillow.
“He’s what they call a solicitor. A man who draws up papers to do with the law.”
“Did he draw up papers for you because you’re a widow?”
“Yes, he helped me with all sort of things,” said Maisie
“Is he drawing up papers so you can keep me?”
Maisie knelt down at the side of the bed and held Anna’s hand. Emma, who had been lying close to the door, raised her nose.
“What made you say that, Anna?”
The child looked into Maisie’s eyes. “Because you want me. That’s what nanny said, before she went to heaven. She told me that everything would be all right, because the lady wanted me.”
Upon reaching Hastings at ten o’clock the following morning, Maisie parked the motor car close to the Stade, the shingle beach that was home to the town’s fishing fleet. Most had returned home with the morning’s catch several hours earlier, though one of the heavy clinker-built boats had just been winched ashore.
“Wait a moment, Pris—I won’t be long,” said Maisie as she took one of several bottles of water she had packed in the motor car, and walked across the shingle to speak to a fisherman. He was standing to one side, his waxed overalls and jacket sodden and stained, his face and hands black with oil and sweat. She uncorked the bottle and passed it to him. He nodded his appreciation.
“You’ve come back from Dunkirk, haven’t you?”
The man drank several mouthfuls and nodded again.
“I wonder if you could help me. My friend’s son and another boy went out in a launch—a forty-five-footer. They’ve not come in, and I wondered if—as you were making your way back—you saw a vessel returning in this direction. She’s usually moored at the harbor in Rye. So not far.”
He shook his head, took one more long draw from the bottle, and wiped his mouth against his sleeve, spreading another line of oil across his cheek. “Can’t say as I have, love.” The man leaned back against the boat behind him, and sank down to sit on a mound of nets. “Sorry. We only just came in.” He raised the bottle as if in a toast. “Much obliged to you. Much obliged.”
“Thank you, sir. Thank you—for going over there.”
“It was terrible. Never get the pictures out of my head. Never. Once seen, never forgotten.” He closed his eyes.
Maisie moved to walk away, then heard the fisherman speak again. “Just because I never saw the boat, don’t mean it weren’t there.” He sipped more water and nodded toward the boat that had just been winched in. “It was all I could do to get us back here, what with her taking on water. Didn’t like to leave, because there’s still more to bring home. Brave boys. All brave boys. And your lads might’ve been out there. I just never saw ’em. ’Twas all I could do to see my way home.”
“Thank you, sir,” she called out, raising her hand to bid him farewell again.
“Now Rye,” said Maisie as she reached the motor car and opened the driver’s door.
Priscilla took one final draw on her cigarette—this time without the holder—threw it down and ground it into the dirt with the toe of her shoe.
At Rye there was no sign of the Cassandra, but as Maisie and Priscilla left the motor car to walk across to the harbor, a member of the local constabulary approached to query Maisie’s authority for running a motor car, and also asked to see her motor spirit coupons and both their identity cards. They complied with the request.
“All looks in order, madam. But I wouldn’t chance another run in that motor car—and I hope you’ve got a full tank there because there’s not much to be had at the petrol stations.”
“Yes, fortunately—and my vehicle is going into storage tomorrow. We just had to make this last journey along the coast, looking for my friend’s son.” She explained what had happened with Tim and his friend Gordon.
“Oh yes, know the Cassandra—and now I come to think of it, I’ve seen those boys before, taking out one of the father’s boats. Got a veritable fleet, the Sandersons. Sailing family through and through.”
Maisie was aware of Priscilla’s mounting frustration, as her friend tapped her foot and folded her arms.
“Here’s my telephone number, Constable,” said Maisie, handing the man a calling card onto which she had written the Dower House number. “I know you’re a very busy man, but perhaps someone could place a call to me should this particular member of the fleet return.”
He nodded and placed the card in his breast pocket. “Right you are, madam. I’ll keep an eye out. So, you said you’re making your way along the coast.”
“Yes, we are,” interjected Priscilla. “It stands to reason my son and his friend will end up somewhere between here and Ramsgate, so we’re on our very own personal patrol to find them.”
The man smiled, as if to mollify Priscilla, then turned back to Maisie. “Drop into the constabulary at every town, madam—tell them you’ve already spoken to me, Constable Sheering, from Rye. We’re all doing what we can for the boys coming in and the boats that bring them, so my colleagues along the way will give you a hand, and if they can, they’ll let you know if he’s come in.” His eyes met Priscilla’s once again. “Your son and young Gordon are courageous boys, madam. They’re made of the best of us all.”
“Yes, quite,” said Priscilla, who turned and walked away.
“Her other son is in the RAF, so she’s not herself,” explained Maisie, as she watched Priscilla light another cigarette.
“Didn’t think so,” said the constable. “I wouldn’t want to be in her shoes. I’ll let you know if I find out anything.”
Maisie nodded, thanked the man, and walked back to Priscilla.
“Sorry about that,” said Priscilla. “I could just see us tearing along the barbed-wire-wrapped coast—Dymchurch, Hythe, Folkestone, Ramsgate—having these little chats with policemen and old salts along the way and getting nowhere fast. Finding out absolutely nothing while my son could be dead somewhere!”
“I just told that man a terrible lie, Pris—I told him you weren’t being yourself, but really I should have said you are being exactly yourself! The first fisherman had just returned from Dunkirk, having saved heaven knows how many lives, and that constable is going to look out for Tim. We will find him, but we won’t find him in an instant!”
“I should have let you do this alone, but I could not sit still. Just could not sit still a minute longer.” She folded her arms.
“Then let’s get on our way.”
They were silent along the route, stopping in Dymchurch and then Hythe.
“Never mind water and a bottle of ginger beer each, why didn’t I think of bringing a flask of something to soothe my nerves? That was a huge error on my part,” said Priscilla, lighting up another cigarette, then extinguishing the lighted end with her thumb and finger, and throwing it out of the open window. “I should probably slow down with these things—luckily I’ve got a stash, but they’ll go on ration, and—”
“Oh dear, I wonder what he wants?” Maisie looked into the rearview mirror, at the police motor car gaining on her, bell ringing. The driver had opened his window and was waving at Maisie to pull over.
“I’m not surprised—your foot turned into lead as we left Hythe,” said Priscilla.
Maisie maneuvered the motor car to the side of the road. Both women once again took out their identity cards. The police vehicle stopped in front of them, and the policeman in the passenger seat left the motor car and walked toward Maisie.
“At a rough guess, I would say you’re about to go to Holloway Prison,” said Priscilla.
“Oh, Pris, give it the elbow!” said Maisie. She opened the door and stepped out, ready to meet the policeman at her full height.
“Miss Dobbs?” said the policeman, as he approached. He bent down to look at Priscilla through the open window. “And Mrs. Partridge?”
“Yes?” Maisie and Priscilla responded at once.
“Not many motors on the road, and certainly not one like this. We had an urgent telephone call from our colleagues along in Sussex, and we thought we should intercept you. You’re looking for a vessel named the Cassandra? Shortly after you left Rye, a fishing boat came in and the skipper raised the alarm that another boat had found her drifting without power and is towing her back to Rye. It’s a distance and slow going from the Channel, but she should be home before dark—and of course, there’s the tide to consider.”
Priscilla had already leaped out of the Alvis to join Maisie. “My son. Is my son all right? Timothy Partridge. Is Timothy Partridge on the boat?”
“I understand there are two boys, and some soldiers. There are some wounded, but both are on board.”
Priscilla ran back around the motor car to take her seat once again. “Come on, Maisie. Hurry up. Hurry!”
The policeman addressed Maisie. “Best if you follow me, miss. Best all-around.”
“Yes, thank you, Sergeant,” said Maisie. She placed a hand on his arm, and felt her eyes fill with tears. “Really—I can’t thank you enough.”
“All part of the job. Much prefer being the bearer of good news—and it’s not me to thank, but Constable Sheering down at Rye. He’s the one who put out the call. Now then, before your friend becomes a casualty, let’s be on our way. You follow—I’m the one with the bell.”
Two ambulances were standing by at Rye Harbor, and members of the local Women’s Voluntary Service, with their distinctive green uniforms, had set up a table with sandwiches and flasks of tea. Another woman was folding a pile of blankets. As soon as Maisie had parked the motor car, Priscilla ran across the road toward Constable Sheering. He held out a hand as if to steady her. In the meantime, Maisie stopped to speak to the coastguard.
“According to Mick Tate over there—in the fishing boat—he saw the Cassandra being towed back toward Rye by the Mistress Mollie, another of the fishing boats. They’d found her out there, making her way back from France, but she had almost run out of fuel. She had been attacked by them bloody Germans.” He looked up at Priscilla. “She one of the mums?”
Maisie nodded. “Yes, her son is a very good friend of the owner’s son—they sail together a lot.”
“I heard. Those lads took out the Cassandra without anyone knowing; went off and joined the flotilla of boats going to Dunkirk to help bring our boys off the Mole there. Bloody little fools—but you’ve got to hand it to them, haven’t you?” He paused, but before Maisie could reply, he continued. “Young Gordon’s mother is in Ramsgate, and as soon as we’ve found her, we’ll get her here—she’s looking out for her husband as well as her son.”
“Poor woman—to have that worry.”
The coastguard nodded toward Priscilla again. She had begun walking along the embankment as if to follow the River Rother out to sea, her hand to her forehead looking toward the point where the estuary met the sea, though it was far in the distance and not visible.
“You’re going to have to keep an eye on your friend. Mick said they’d had a good number of soldiers on board, but some went onto the other boat towing them. One of the boys was down, so the other lad was working himself silly to keep her going, and he’s been injured himself, quite badly.”
“What do you mean—one of the boys is down?” asked Maisie.
The coastguard shook his head and half turned away. “I mean he’s gone. He’s dead.”
Maisie brought her hands to her mouth. She had become light-headed, yet her feet felt as if they were indeed made of lead, as if it would take every ounce of her resolve to move.
“You all right, madam?” said the coastguard.
“Tim is my godson. Oh heavens—this is terrible. I must go to Priscilla, to stand with her.”
“P’rhaps I shouldn’t’ve said anything,” said the coastguard.
“No—no, you did the right thing. I’m prepared now. I’ve got to be Priscilla’s strength. And I must telephone her husband, to get him down here. I know where to contact him—I can get him here soon.”
The coastguard directed her from the harbor to a telephone kiosk. Maisie ran along the road, rummaging in her pockets for change. As the door closed, the odor from every human being who had ever stood in the kiosk seemed to be leaching up from the floor and enveloping her. Struggling for breath, she opened the door, keeping it ajar with her foot as she asked the operator to connect her call.
“Chelstone Manor.” The butler answered the call.
“Simmonds! Simmonds, is Lord Julian at home?”
“Yes, indeed, Your Ladyship. Just one moment please, hold the line.”
One minute. Two minutes. Maisie made a small cylindrical pile with her coins on top of the telephone box, ready for use if the pips sounded. She adjusted the pile, counting the coins once more. Then a click on the line.
“Hello, Maisie—how are you?”
“Lord Julian—thank you, yes, I’m all right. Well, no, not quite. You are the only one I can trust to keep calm. Douglas Partridge should have just arrived at the Dower House with Tarquin. I would like George to collect him and bring him to Rye Harbor as soon as possible. But not with Tarquin. You must find a means of drawing Douglas away from his son to tell him the reason.” She recounted the news she had been given by the coastguard.
“Right you are. It will be done exactly as you’ve asked. Leave it with me, Maisie. I will also let your father know what’s happened—I am sure Mr. Dobbs will find an enjoyable means of distracting the boy.” There was a second of silence, and the pips sounded. With shaking hands Maisie pushed more coins in the slot, cursing when a coin dropped to the floor.
“Lord Julian, are you still there?” she asked.
“Yes, still here.” She heard a catch in his voice. “I imagine George could get him there in about forty minutes, at a fair clip. And Maisie—do keep us informed.”
“Yes, of course. I must go now.”
She replaced the receiver, and stepped out into the fresh air. Priscilla had walked back and was standing on the harbor wall, binoculars to her eyes. Constable Sheering gently placed his hand to one side of her, not touching her clothing, but close. Maisie saw Priscilla nod, and move back to a safer point from which to keep her vigil.
“See anything yet?” said Maisie as she approached her friend.
“You can’t see anything much from here, but when I walked alongside the river, I saw a little speck in the distance. But it’s difficult—the marshes can give you an optical illusion, so what you think is a boat, is probably a farmer crossing his field with a horse and plough.” She tapped the binoculars. “The coastguard kindly loaned these to me.”
At that point the coastguard called out. “I can see them. They’re coming in.”
Priscilla drew the binoculars up to her eyes again. “Where? Where? I can’t see them. Where are they?”
“Let me look, Pris.”
Priscilla passed the binoculars to Maisie, and stepped closer to the water again. And again the policeman drew her back. “You don’t want your son to see you in the drink when he brings that boat in, do you?”
Maisie trained the binoculars into the distance. At first she could see nothing, not even a farmer with his team of horses drawing the plough. Then a speck appeared, glistening mirrorlike in the mid-afternoon sunshine. Yet instead of anticipation, she felt dread—for until the boat docked, until the lines had been drawn in and the vessel tethered, the wheel of fate would continue spinning. Only when those on board were home would it stop—and for one mother the terror would not end.
The dot in the distance continued to grow in size as time passed. Two fishing boats cast off in the direction of the Cassandra and her savior, the Mistress Mollie. Soon another motor car was parked alongside the Alvis, and as Maisie looked up, she could see the effort with which Douglas Partridge wielded his cane as he limped toward his wife.
“Oh, darling! You’re here!” Priscilla rushed to her husband’s side. He allowed his cane to drop and pulled her to him. “Tim’s coming home. Tim’s coming home and he’s almost here.”
“I know. I know, my love. He’s almost here.”
Maisie knelt to retrieve the cane.
“Thank you, Maisie,” said Douglas. “And thank you for sorting everything out—for getting me here.”
“You spoke to Lord Julian?” asked Maisie.
“Yes. He brought me up-to-date—I know what’s happening.”
“What’s happening is that our son is almost home, Douglas!” She took his arm and began leading him toward the harbor wall. “I promise I will not admonish him in front of everyone for this escapade. I may have to fling my arms around him, though.”
Maisie and Douglas exchanged glances.
“Don’t embarrass the boy, whatever you do, Priscilla.” He pointed his cane toward a cluster of people waiting alongside the women with their tea and sandwiches. “There’s a newspaper reporter and photographer over there, and I am sure Tim would not want to be on the front page with his mother clinging to him. Whether you like it or not—our son is a hero.”
Priscilla shook her head. “I never wanted heroes.”
It was late in the afternoon when at last the Cassandra drew into full view, behind the fishing boat towing her in. The two vessels seemed to stop their progress, as another fishing boat joined them. People around began muttering, speculating about what might be happening. Douglas grabbed Priscilla’s arm to stop her running in the direction of the boats. Then a fisherman pushed back his cap and smiled.
“Good on ’em. Good on ’em.”
“What is it? What’s going on?” Priscilla called out.
“I know what he’s doing,” said the policeman. “He’s giving the Cassandra enough fuel to get to the harbor. He’s letting her come in under her own steam.”
And as the crowd became silent, the rumble and fail of an engine trying to start echoed along the river, until after a chug-chug-chug the engine fired and began running. A cheer went up and the boats began moving again toward the harbor.
Priscilla screamed out her son’s name. People clustered together to watch the launch pull in to dock, the young man at the helm calling out instructions to soldiers on board, who threw out lines from the bow and stern to waiting fishermen. The soldiers’ faces were stained and drawn, their exhaustion evident in the way they half-stumbled toward hands waiting to receive them. Maisie could see the skipper, his face black with oil, his shirt red with blood and bandages wrapped around his left shoulder and arm. A fisherman from one of the boats was standing behind him, as if to support the boy should he fall. The coastguard clambered on board to reach him, turning off the engine, then joining the fisherman to help the young man remain upright.
“I can’t see who that is,” said Priscilla. “He’s hurt. I hope it’s not Tim, I hope he’s not been wounded.”
Maisie looked at Douglas, who rested his hand on his wife’s shoulder.
“You should wait here.” He walked toward the Cassandra, just as two ambulance men made their way on board with a stretcher.
“Maisie, what is it? What’s happening?” As Priscilla struggled to speak, it was as if she were learning every word anew.
Maisie held on to Priscilla’s arm. “There are wounded on board, Priscilla. The man at the helm will not leave until everyone has left the boat—even if he’s falling down with exhaustion, he will not leave. He may be young, but he is the captain.” And in that moment, she felt a glimmer of hope.
Priscilla watched as the ambulance men began to leave the boat. And with movements that showed a deep respect and—Maisie thought—gentleness, they brought a blanket-draped body ashore. The crowd moved aside for them to continue on.
“Oh my God.” Priscilla turned to Maisie. “Is that Tim. Is that my son, Maisie?”
“We mustn’t think like that. Let’s wait and see.” She felt her voice crack, as she again drew her attention toward the Cassandra.
The two ambulance men approached the boat once more, this time without a stretcher. They made their way on board, then stopped and stood aside. Instead, Douglas was helped onto the boat by a fisherman. Maisie squinted, watching Douglas approach the coastguard and the young man who had brought the Cassandra home. And as Douglas allowed his cane to fall a second time, to pull the young man toward him, she felt Priscilla begin to give way.
“Don’t fall, Priscilla. Don’t fall. He’s home. Tim’s home.”
The coastguard handed Douglas his cane, and guided him off the vessel. He turned back to watch as Tim began to walk toward the stern.
Priscilla ran toward the Cassandra, with Maisie following. Reaching the vessel, she opened her arms to her son, yet as she witnessed the reunion, Maisie saw the blood running down Tim’s arm, his hand limp as his mother relinquished her grasp.
“Priscilla—hold on to him! He’s going down!”
And as Maisie knelt alongside Tim, she pulled back the dressing on his arm and saw the extent of his wounds.
“He was hit, miss,” said one of the soldiers. “The same one that got his mate. They came out of the sky right at us, and them two couldn’t get down in time because they were trying to get us home. Pair of bloody heroes, them boys. I don’t know how that one got us so far, but he kept saying he had to get Gordon home, that it was his job.”