“It’s so lovely how people stop to ask about Martin when I take him out in the pram—as if seeing a baby makes the sun shine a little brighter. But have you noticed, since just before Christmas there’s been more children around now who’ve been brought back from evacuation to London by their parents? After all, it’s not as if something really terrible has happened to us since war was declared. Though I think it will, what with what’s gone on in the Netherlands, and, well . . .” Sandra Pickering’s voice tapered off, giving the impression that she could not countenance the direction of her thoughts. She took the baby from his carrycot and handed him to Maisie. “He slept all the way here in the motor car.”
“The movement of the motor can soothe a baby.”
Sandra laughed. “Not when it’s me slamming on the brakes every two minutes!” She smiled as Maisie gently rocked the child in her arms. “I reckon we’ll all be stopping driving soon—not enough coupons for the petrol, and it’s not as if you can carry them over from month to month if you don’t go anywhere much. Anyway, I’ll get on with these letters—and you say you have someone coming in?”
“Yes, Mrs. Coombes—Sally, Phil Coombes’ wife from the Prince, around the corner.” Maisie glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. “She should be here any minute—if she keeps to the arrangement I made with Phil this morning. Would it be all right if we hand Martin to her? I think having the babe in her arms will soothe her spirit. It’s about their son, Joe, you see. They haven’t heard from him for a few days, and to add to their concern, they say he hasn’t been himself of late. He’s on a special job for the government—he works for Yates and Sons, the painters and decorators, and they’ve a contract to paint all airfield buildings across the county with a type of fire retardant. It sounds as if the emulsion they’re using is causing Joe to have terrible headaches, and they’re worried he’s unwell and not telling anyone.”
“I bet young Joe jumped at the chance of a job away from home.”
“Have you noticed something I’ve missed?” asked Maisie.
“I’ve only been into the Prince on a couple of occasions—once with Billy after we’d left the office one evening, before I met Lawrence, and then another time when Lawrence met me from work and we went in for a drink before going home. But the first time, I remember the way Phil was talking and I thought he and Sally kept Archie, Vivian, and Joe on a very tight rein. He said, ‘You see it all, working in a pub.’ And then he went on to say that they’d brought up their three to know what’s right and what’s wrong and that there’s a good sort and a bad sort and they wouldn’t tolerate if one of them became a bad sort.” Sandra paused, watching as Maisie settled the baby, who had whimpered as he slept in her arms. “The second time, Vivian arrived back at the pub later than expected—she was about fourteen at the time and had only just started work. But on that evening—it must have been a Friday—instead of getting on the bus and coming straight home, she’d gone out to a caff with some of the girls she worked with. I suppose it was half past seven or eight o’clock when she walked in, but Phil tore her off a strip in front of everyone in the pub. Sally was working behind the bar as well, and after Phil had had a go, she said, ‘Upstairs right now, my girl—I’ve got some words for you too.’” Sandra shook her head. “I have no doubt they were worried, but I can see why Archie left home as soon as he could. Vivian is stuck there until she’s twenty-one—she’ll probably get married just to get away. It’s a shame—they love their children, but they’ve let what they’ve seen while working for the brewery get the better of them.” Sandra looked at her child in Maisie’s arms. “I hope I’m a good mother—I hope I don’t smother Martin with my worries.”
The doorbell sounded. Maisie held out Martin to his mother. “Sandra, that will be Sally Coombes. I’d like you to be present for this little meeting—take some notes for me. We’ll stay in here—and let’s get the chairs over by the window. It’s warmed up a bit now, and the sun is shining.”
Maisie ran downstairs to welcome her visitor. “Mrs. Coombes—I’m so glad you could come.” She opened the door wide. “The day’s brighter now, isn’t it? I don’t know if I like the mornings so chilly.”
Sally Coombes was in her late forties and looked as if she had dressed for an important appointment. Her mousy brown hair was tightly curled, and she wore a navy blue hat with a broader brim than was the fashion. Her fawn wool coat was of good quality and well cared for, and she wore shoes that seemed freshly polished—there was not a scuff on them, and her leather handbag appeared hardly used, almost brand-new. Maisie thought it might have been a special gift, only occasionally taken from a box lined with tissue paper. Sally Coombes, she knew, didn’t really go anywhere. Her home was her first responsibility, and it was situated above her second—assisting her husband in the pub.
“I don’t like this spring cold either—I even put on a heavy coat today. I mean, it’s sunny, but I can’t seem to get warm these past couple of weeks.” Sally Coombes held on to her bag with both hands, as if it might be wrest from her grip at any moment.
Maisie placed her hand on Coombes’ upper arm. “I understand, Mrs. Coombes—you must be very worried about Joe.”
The woman’s eyes filled with tears as she pressed her lips together.
Maisie smiled. “Come on—I’ll put on the gas fire so you can warm up. And Sandra’s here with the baby.” She led the way to the first-floor office. “He’s such a lovely little lad—just a couple of months old now. She’s lucky he’s so calm.”
“My first one wasn’t. Or the second, come to that. But Joe was a dream of a baby—hardly a grizzle out of him. And always smiling.”
As they entered the office, Sandra walked toward them. “It’s lovely to see you, Mrs. Coombes. You haven’t seen my baby yet, have you?”
Maisie smiled and began to move three chairs back toward the fireplace, where she turned on the gas flame. The room was not cold now, but it was clear from her blue fingertips that Sally Coombes was indeed feeling a chill.
Coombes looked down at the child swaddled in a knitted white shawl. “Look at those rosy cheeks!”
“Would you like to hold him?” asked Sandra.
The woman set down her bag on Billy’s desk and took the baby.
“Let’s all take the weight off our feet, shall we?” suggested Maisie.
As Coombes smiled down at the baby and rubbed a finger alongside his cheek, Maisie put her first question to the woman.
“Can you tell us what is making you so unsettled about Joe, Mrs. Coombes? Mr. Coombes has already given us his account, but I would like to know what you’re feeling about the situation—as a mother.”
Coombes seemed loath to shift her attention from Martin to Maisie. With a gentle touch she ran her finger alongside the baby’s cheek again, and sighed. She looked up at Sandra, then Maisie. “My Joe was just like this—not a peep from him for hours, so content.” She took a deep breath. “He’s just not been himself. I am sure Phil said the same thing—and it’s not something you can describe, though I’ll do my best. Joe’s been on this job for a few months now—and you know, it’s hard work, outside for the most part, and through the winter too. He’s a strong lad, doesn’t complain, and we’ve brought them up to know the value of a hard day’s work—so it’s not as if he was moaning about the job. Well, not until a couple of weeks ago. But I think I noticed the change before Phil. Joe would telephone us—not to talk for long, but just to say hello so we could hear his voice. But his voice changed—he became sort of, well, distant, like he didn’t really want to talk. It was as if he was just getting through the five minutes on the telephone, and I felt like I wasn’t so much having a conversation as interrogating him, or whatever the right word is. ‘How are you, Joe?’ ‘All right, Mum.’ ‘What’s the job like?’ ‘All right, Mum.’ ‘Do you like your new lodgings?’ ‘They’re all right.’ It was like trying to have a word with a brick.”
“I take it he was more . . . more forthcoming, before this lack of enthusiasm started,” offered Maisie.
“Oh yes, Miss Dobbs—he would always have a story,” said Coombes. “Perhaps something about the landlady, or a laugh he’d had with the lads. He couldn’t wait to tell us about the first time he saw a heron, landing on a lake—he’d gone for a walk after work, to get some fresh air, he’d said, and he saw a big heron. He was made up with seeing it—loved seeing new things.” She became thoughtful. “To be honest, I reckon he really loved being in the country, though I think it was around the same time as he began taking those long walks after his working day was done, that he first started having those nasty headaches. Perhaps he walked to feel better.”
“What about the headaches, Mrs. Coombes?”
“He wouldn’t say much, just that it was as if someone had landed him a wallop on his head, and that the light seemed blue around the edges of whatever he was looking at. And he felt bad in his stomach at the same time—you know, as if he would bring up his breakfast.”
“I know that sort of headache,” said Sandra. “I had them a few times when I was first carrying Martin. Came with the sickness—you remember, Miss Dobbs. You sent me home—in fact, you had Billy go out and find a taxi for me.”
“I remember very well,” said Maisie. She leaned toward Sally Coombes. “It’s a very bad sort of headache that can often be caused by bright light, or by a certain smell, or by strong food—chocolate will do it, believe it or not. They can start at any age, though often at Joe’s age, coming into manhood. Had he ever experienced them before?”
Coombes shook her head. “Never. My three were always in tip-top health. None of them drink—well, as far as I know, because Archie lives in lodgings across the water, in Sydenham. Close to the engineering works where he’s a foreman now. And I know this might surprise you, but not one of them has ever touched a ciggie either—unlike their father.”
Maisie allowed silence to settle for some seconds before speaking again. “Mrs. Coombes—Sally—why do you think Joe failed to make his usual telephone calls this past week?”
Coombes looked up, her eyes filled with tears. She appeared to increase her hold on Martin, causing him to whimper. Sandra leaned forward, concern in her eyes. Maisie lifted her chin and gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head. Coombes brought her attention back to the child. She smiled down at him, and rocked him into sleep once more.
“I think something is very wrong, Miss Dobbs. I think something is terribly amiss. I am like Phil—I can’t put my finger on it . . . and I’ve wondered what Joe has been doing with himself when he’s not working. He can’t be walking all the time. But I can tell you that in the past three weeks or so, something has been wrong with my boy. I’ve asked myself if the headaches have been brought on by whatever it is he’s working on? Or is he worried about something?” She looked up. “You see, Joe was always happy-go-lucky—that’s the best way to describe him. Innocent. Not like some of the lads you see about—even those in uniform. Being in khaki doesn’t suddenly make saints of them, does it?” She shook her head. “I’m the boy’s mother, and I know—it has been as if he was a man with all the worries of the world on his shoulders. Phil can’t see it like that—but he’s worried sick too. We both know Joe’s changed and there’s got to be a good reason for it.”
Maisie could see the woman’s eyes smarting with unshed tears, and was about to offer her plan regarding Joe, when Sally Coombes resumed speaking. “You know, Miss Dobbs, I have worried that we’ve been too hard on them. That we’ve sort of kept them too coddled so they would be, like I said, innocent. I wonder if we didn’t give them enough—you know, enough, well tough—to look after themselves. Especially Joe. Mind you, our Archie knows a thing or two, and Vivian isn’t a stupid girl. You expect growing up in London to give them some backbone. But I still wonder if it’s not all down to us, and that Joe, more than the other two, could have done with more elbow, so he could nudge back when the world nudged him.”
“I’m sure there’s nothing here that’s your fault, Mrs. Coombes,” said Maisie. “Now, I can see you’re tired, and I know you need to get back to the pub and have some rest before opening time. Let me tell you what we’re going to do—because we will find out what’s ailing Joe and we will do what we can to put things right with him. Billy is at Yates’ yard this afternoon. He’s talking to people there, to find out exactly where Joe is, and whether they’ve heard from the crew he’s with.” She paused to make sure Sally Coombes was absorbing her words. “And Billy will be in Hampshire this coming Saturday, visiting his family. I thought I might take him down there in the motor—our evacuee, Anna, is very fond of his daughter, so it might make a nice excursion for her. We can go over to Whitchurch to see if we can find Joe—unless the crew has moved on. If we locate him and he’s not well, we’ll make sure he sees a doctor. If he’s covering up these headaches during working hours, there is no reason why any of his workmates would think to help him.”
“That sounds like Joe—I’m sure he would never let on. He wants to be seen as one of the men, not just the boy apprentice.”
Coombes handed the baby back to Sandra, who set aside her notebook and took her son, placing him with care in his carrycot. Coombes pulled her coat around her, and took up her handbag again.
“I feel for poor Mr. Beale, you know. What with his son being over there in France, and the way things are going.”
Maisie inclined her head, and was about to inquire further.
Coombes put her hand to her mouth. “Oh dear—oh dear, I shouldn’t have said anything. Oh dear, I could get our Viv put in prison for that.”
“I’m not following you, Mrs. Coombes,” said Maisie.
Sandra stepped closer. “Your Vivian works on the government telephone exchange, doesn’t she? What has she heard, Mrs. Coombes? What has she heard that hasn’t been announced?”
“Oh dear, I shouldn’t have said anything. But I reckon they’ll sort it out, Mr. Churchill and all those army and navy men—and especially now Mr. Churchill’s prime minister and that Chamberlain has gone. That stupid man and his bits of paper signed by Adolf Hitler—so much for his peace in our time. And we believed him!” She put her hand to her forehead, then took it away to grasp her bag again. “Viv was so upset yesterday when she came home—she’d been working an early shift. She wasn’t supposed to say anything to us, on account of her signing the Official Secrets Act forms, but she couldn’t keep it to herself. You see, our boys are stuck over there. The Germans have already gone into Holland and Belgium, and now they’re moving in to trap our soldiers. And once they’ve done that, you know Hitler will come over here to get us. Our boys have got a terrible job on their hands. Vivian heard it all, on the line—orders going out to prepare for a possible evacuation of our expeditionary force from France. They’re already bringing home what they call non-essential staff. Viv heard that there’s more calling themselves non-essential just to get away. And there’s French and Belgian boys stuck too. The government’s trying to plan an evacuation of as many soldiers as they can, only they’ve kept it quiet for morale reasons—apparently the army are trying to fight the Germans on the one hand and move toward the coast at the same time. If it gets any worse, the government won’t manage to keep it a secret for much longer.” She straightened her shoulders. “I suppose you could say it won’t stay secret if my girl tells anyone else, but she was fair shaken about it all. Tell you the truth, I think she’s been a bit sweet on Mr. Beale’s eldest, ever since he brought him in for a half-pint before he went off to join the army. Mr. Beale probably doesn’t know this, but young Billy came back of his own accord a couple of times when he came home on leave, just to see our Viv before he went over there. Phil frowned on it a bit, but as he said, at least he knows Mr. Beale’s lads are good boys.”
An image of Billy’s son came into Maisie’s mind’s eye, a boy of eight or nine when she first met him, with wheaten hair like his father, and a swagger to his step. Young Billy, always with a cheeky grin, taking on the job of helping his father keep the family morale high, even through the worst of times. She remembered him coming into the office before leaving for France, filled with that confidence and proud in his new uniform, talking about how long it took him to get his boots to a spit-and-polish shine. And when Maisie had said, “Take care, young Billy,” and had pressed four half-crowns into his hand, he had blushed and said, “Fanks, Miss Dobbs—this’ll buy me and the boys a few pints before we go.” His father had walked to the door with him, and had returned to the office, his head low.
Maisie could feel Sandra’s eyes upon her. They both understood what the news meant for Billy and his family. The question now was whether she should tell Billy what she knew, or leave it to Pathé News to inform him. After all, perhaps his son might not be at risk.
“You won’t say anything to anyone, will you, Miss Dobbs? Mrs. Pickering? I should have kept my mouth shut, after all, it’s not as if I should know anything—but our Viv was so upset, she just had to get it off her chest.”
“We’ll both keep it to ourselves, Mrs. Coombes,” said Maisie. “I’m sure that, if the BEF are indeed stranded, it will be in the newspapers at some point during the next few days. And I’d already heard something along those lines from another source.”
“Our boys are fighting for their lives and ours, over there. And if they lose, if Hitler gets closer, it’ll only be a question of time before invasion, that’s what worries me. People will lose their sons, and then we’ll lose our country—and let’s face it, it won’t be the first time. As Phil says, look at the Romans, and the Normans, and the Saxons before them—and those Saxons were German, after all. Little island like this—we’re sitting ducks. I don’t know what will come of us, truly I don’t. At least mine are in reserved occupations, that’s all I can say—but no one will be protected, come the invasion.”
Maisie escorted Sally Coombes downstairs to the front door, opening it wide to a shaft of sunlight. Before bidding her goodbye, she reassured the woman. “I will keep in touch, Mrs. Coombes, and I daresay I will have something to report next Monday, if not before.”
“Who knows what might have happened by then,” said Coombes as she stepped out into Fitzroy Square.
As Maisie collected the afternoon’s post from the table, she heard a key in the lock, the door opened again, and Billy crossed the threshold.
“Lovely afternoon, miss. Really feels like spring has sprung—and there’s Sally Coombes walking down the road bundled up for a blizzard.” They began walking up the stairs together, Maisie listening while Billy talked about who he’d seen on the walk from the underground station. “Now I could do with a cuppa.” He continued his chatter before Maisie could respond. “Sandra here? Lovely—can’t wait to see the little fella again. I bet he’s a bonny boy. I remember when my young Billy was that age—I tell you, when my first boy was born, I felt like everything was getting better. I mean, I’d married my best girl, and now I had a boy.”
Sandra came to her feet to greet Billy as they entered the office. But before she could speak, Billy looked from Sandra, to Maisie.
“What? Something’s off. What is it?”
Maisie was used to thinking on her feet, to making snap decisions when a life was threatened, or an investigation was reaching a crucial point. Given what she knew of Doreen’s vulnerability in the face of bad news, and the threat of mental breakdown that had never quite left her, she might be able to circumvent Billy’s wife suffering a serious psychological response to her son’s life being at risk. If Billy knew now about the situation in France, it would give him time to reach Doreen before news left Westminster for Fleet Street, before the morrow’s early newspapers were stacked onto trains; trains that would take the escalating news to every household in the country—news of Britain’s vulnerable army fighting for its life, and a possible eventual evacuation of the expeditionary force from the coast of France. An army of men—of husbands, brothers, sweethearts, sons—and yes, daughters too, for she knew there were young women ambulance drivers and telephonists with the Auxilliary Territorial Service over in France.
Maisie remembered being at Chelstone, in the spring of 1918—why was she there? Was she convalescing, following her own wounding in France? Yes it must have been, because she was walking at a slow pace through the village—if she moved any faster she would lose her balance. She had watched as the messenger boy went from house to house. Soon it seemed everyone was on the street, women calling to each other, telling children to find the men working out in the fields. “Who have we lost? Who have we lost?” they cried, each holding out their own telegram, just delivered following the Spring Offensive. For everyone knew everyone else, and every boy had grown to manhood with a family of mother, father and village. A man and woman might have lost their son—but they had also lost his best friends, and the boys who had played football together in the street after school, and cricket on the green in summer. “Who have we lost?” The words echoed in her ears.
“What, miss—what is it? Is it Doreen? Our little Lizzie?”
Maisie knew then that she must tell Billy, for instead of asking for Margaret Rose, his youngest child, who had been evacuated to the country with her mother, he had uttered the name of a daughter now dead—dear little Lizzie Beale, who had succumbed to diphtheria so long ago. An ingrained fear of loss had caused him to call out the wrong name. She must give him the opportunity to reach Doreen before news reached her first—surely they had time. And surely “planned” on the part of the government meant that something might not need to be put into action. There might still be a chance of success. After all, the information she’d received could be incorrect, superseded by developing events. But this was war, not a game—and if it were true, that Churchill had given instructions for plans for evacuation of the BEF to be drawn up, it meant that the situation was grave.
“Billy—you know Vivian at the pub is a telephonist on the government exchanges, and—”
“What of it?” Billy frowned, his tone had become short.
“She’s bound by the Official Secrets Act, but she told her mother and father that she had overheard a conversation between callers at . . . at a very high level, discussing orders for a possible evacuation of the expeditionary force in France. The Germans have moved into the Netherlands and Belgium, and it is feared it will only be a matter of time before France falls. Our army is in fierce combat with the Germans, and already men are making their way to the coast of northern France.”
Billy ran the fingers of one hand after the other through his hair. “Blimmin’ hell—they’re still digging up soldiers from the last war across that Somme valley, and now there’ll be even more.” He rested his head in his hands. “My son. My boy . . . what will we do? What will Doreen do? We can’t lose him.”
Instinctively Maisie moved to his side.
Sandra checked the sleeping baby in his carrycot, and stepped across toward the door. “I’ll make tea—we could all do with a cup.”
Billy pointed at the carrycot. “Make sure you take that boy somewhere where they’re neutral, Sandra—make sure you and Lawrence get away and take him where no one will ever be knocking at the door and wanting him for soldiering.”
“Billy, I brought the motor car with me this morning, and I’ll drive you down to Hampshire without delay if you think it best to go to Doreen. I just have to place a couple of telephone calls and I’ll be ready to go.”
“What about the petrol, miss?”
“I’ve motor spirit coupons in my bag, so I’m all right—let’s think ourselves lucky, as I was about to retire the Alvis to the barn at Chelstone for the duration.”
Billy sat down on the chair vacated by Mrs. Coombes. He leaned forward with his arms folded and resting on his knees, his gaze toward the floor. When he spoke, his voice was low. “I know there’s thousands of lads over there, and I feel for every one of them and their mums and dads, and their wives, their children. But I never wanted my Billy to go, not after what I saw the last time around. And they said it would be different. War’s always the same though—politicians square off and ordinary lads do their dirty work. I’d stick all of them ministers in a field—all of them, all of these big nobs from every country what wants a fight, and I’d let them have all their blimmin’ weapons and tell them to get on with it. Leave us ordinary people alone to live our lives. That’s what I’d do.”
Maisie knew it would be of no use to comment. His need, now, was to be with his family.
“What’ll I do about Bobby?” Billy wiped his hand across his forehead. “I can’t believe it—for a minute I forgot all about my other boy.”
“It’s all right, Billy—you’re reacting as anyone might in your situation. Now then, let’s plan to leave within the hour, and I’ll have you down to Hampshire in next to no time.”
“Won’t the train be faster?” said Sandra as she returned to the room with a tray set with a teapot, milk jug, and sugar. She set it down on her desk, and moved to pick up two cups and saucers along with the china mug favored by Maisie, which were kept on top of the filing cabinet.
“Billy—what do you think?” asked Maisie.
“Um—the train might be faster, but first I’ve got to get on one going to Whitchurch, and then there’s the bus from there to the village—well, hamlet, more like, closer to Doreen’s aunt. And I’ve got a walk after that.”
“Right—here’s what we’ll do. Billy—I’ll take you, no arguments. Sandra, can you get a message to young Bobby—let him know his dad has had to go down to Hampshire for work.” She turned back to Billy. “I’m sure he can look after himself, but is there anyone you want to look in on him?”
“Mrs. Relf, the neighbor. She’s a good ’un, and she’s taken a shine to Bobby—said she reminds him of the boy she lost on the Somme.”
“Right—Sandra, would you get a messenger to take a note to Mrs. Relf—ask her to kindly look out for Bobby when he gets home from work.” She turned to Billy. “Didn’t you tell me he’s doing a lot of overtime at the garage, converting motor cars for war work?”
“He won’t be home before seven. Like I said this morning—I don’t even see him much on a Sunday, because he’s so tired, he’s not out of bed before noon.”
“Not to worry, miss—I’ll look after everything.” Sandra reached for the telephone receiver. “I’ll get Lawrence and we’ll drive over to Billy’s later, if need be. And don’t you worry either, Billy—he’ll be all right. Bobby’s more or less a man now anyway, so he won’t want too many women fussing over him.”
“He might be a man, Sandra—but just like his brother, he’s still my boy.”