Maisie and Lady Rowan left Chelstone Manor early for the drive to London. As Lady Rowan would doubtless have been more comfortable had her chauffeur taken her to Westminster Abbey, Maisie concluded that, in accepting her offer, her mother-in-law probably wanted to discuss something, without interruption and away from her home.
“Now we’re under way, I think I can relax,” said Lady Rowan. “And I must say, I do like your new motor car.”
“Thank you very much,” said Maisie. “It’s bigger than the MG, so easier to take the family out for the day, though of course when I bought it I hadn’t considered the fact that we would be dealing with petrol coupons. I have to be very careful because I have an assignment that’s taking me down to Hampshire now—it’s a bit of a journey, and I cannot depend upon buses and trains when I get there.”
“And it’s not as if you can put your toe down and push this motor car a bit is it? I suppose it uses more petrol if you get too enthusiastic.”
Maisie looked across at Lady Rowan for a second, then brought her attention back to the road. “I know you, Rowan—you would be tearing around the countryside if you had this motor.”
Rowan laughed. “I always liked a little speed, you know—the wind in my hair and the feeling that I could just drive off in search of something thrilling, if only for a short time. The hip put paid to that though—the wonderful hazards of riding horses diminished the years of excitement behind the wheel. And as you know, my son inherited the devil-may-care aspect of my character—which I . . .” She faltered. “It’s something I very much regret. I wish he had been more like his father; more measured, more a thinking man than a doing man.”
Maisie continued to look ahead but chose her words carefully for she understood her mother-in-law was, perhaps, making a confession of sorts.
“The James I knew—and loved deeply—had within him the best of both you and Lord Julian. He was also his own man, and he followed his heart.”
“He followed it too high that day, didn’t he, Maisie?”
“Time has passed, Rowan—time has passed for us all. It’s taken me a good long while to reach this point, but I don’t think it serves any of us to look back. Tormenting ourselves with ‘What if?’ and trying to change past events—if only in the imagination—can drive a person mad.”
Lady Rowan looked out of the window. “I love the way the mist comes off the fields in the morning, just as the day is warming up. It makes me feel as if the next twenty-four hours could hold the promise of something extraordinary. Something new.”
Maisie nodded, aware that the older woman had turned toward her and was now watching her as she drove on toward River Hill.
“It was the me in him that caused him to make that bad decision, Maisie. It was the me in him that caused you to lose your child.”
Maisie looked in her rearview mirror to check the road behind, slipped down the gears, braked and pulled over into a lay-by. She switched off the engine, turned to her mother-in-law and reached for her hand.
“What do you want to say, Rowan? We’ve never really made the time to talk, just the two of us, and we’ve always skirted around what happened in Canada, touching upon it here and there before escaping to our respective corners. We’ve let fear of what might be said prevent us from saying what has to be said, so we can be at peace, both of us. And I know only too well how time can cast a sort of skin over an event—a membrane that gets thicker until a point where broaching the subject is all but impossible, even when you think you can face the grief and terror once more. I did the same thing—years ago, with Simon. Remember?” Maisie looked down at Lady Rowan’s hand, clasped in her own—at the deep brown liver spots, and the arthritic thumb and forefinger. It was a hand that revealed a life lived to the full. “I loved James for who he was, and he loved me for who I was. His death caused me to lose myself for a while—for years, really—you know that. But I am back. I am whole. And you do not need to make your confession to me, but I will hear it all the same. Your son loved his life, Rowan. He loved the man he became, and the man he was on the day he died.”
“But he was a . . . a bloody fool.” The older woman pressed her lips together, and looked away. “That was bad language, but I am so very angry with my own son and I’ve kept it bottled up because it’s so . . . so hard to say that about someone I loved so much but am so very . . . so very . . . disappointed in. I can’t stand myself for the thoughts that go through my head sometimes, and when you were away for all that time, all I could think of was, ‘James did that—she lost him and her child and it’s all his fault.’ And if it was his fault, then it was my fault too, because I’m his mother. I couldn’t talk to Julian about it, because the man is crushed anyway—there have been times when it has taken every fiber of our strength together to go from one day to the next, though it’s become easier. But if I had the chance to do so, I would take my son and box his ears.”
Maisie shook her head. “Oh, Rowan. James drew joy from the mystery of what each day might hold—he had come back from the dreadful years immediately after the war, and those years tormented him. That’s all we should remember—that he loved his life, that he died as a man who was loved, a man filled with the promise of fatherhood and of being involved in something so important to our country. It’s something we should hold in our hearts, Rowan.”
Lady Rowan shook her head. “I wish I could be so forgiving.”
Maisie sighed. “What might Maurice say to you, if he were here?”
Lady Rowan shifted her seat, though she allowed Maisie to continue stroking her hand. “I wish I knew,” she said, then changed her tone. “Though I will add that he wasn’t always right, you know.”
“And there you have one thing he might have said.” Maisie smiled. “He would have reminded you that we don’t always make the very best decisions. That is who we are—not perfect. Yet with our imperfections we are perfect human beings; that is who we are meant to be. James died doing something he loved, and we all adored him for his passion. He chose to be an aviator, and he chose to test a new fighter aircraft for the government—it was a fateful day and it changed all our lives. Yet it serves no one to go back and forth trying to apportion blame. Forgive yourself, Rowan. Forgive yourself and set yourself free of this blame, of regret.”
“But you lost—”
Maisie shook her head and released Lady Rowan’s hand, patting it as she did so.
“I am here today.” She reached for the ignition and started the engine again. “In Spain I was reminded of all the losses people endure. Tragedy is so personal, but it doesn’t mean it hasn’t happened before, to someone, somewhere—it’s what helps us to understand and bring solace to others, knowing something of what they feel. And look at the family I have now—you, Lord Julian, my father and Brenda, and Priscilla, Douglas and the boys.”
“And Anna,” said Lady Rowan.
Maisie felt the piercing blue eyes upon her, and another unspoken question hanging in the air. She slipped the motor car into gear. “Yes, and Anna.”
The long snaking line of people waiting to enter Westminster Abbey almost took Maisie’s breath away. Unable to park near the abbey, she pulled in as close as she could to the gates to allow Rowan to step out of the Alvis. She then drove off to look for a suitable place to leave the motor car, which she found just off Great Smith Street. She ran back to the abbey to rejoin Lady Rowan, who informed her that because she “knew people” there were already places kept for them, so they wouldn’t have to stand. But as she was about to follow her mother-in-law into the abbey, she had second thoughts.
“Rowan—I’m going to join the queue. I want to stand with the crowd. You should sit down as soon as you can—keep a seat for me, and I’ll find you.”
Lady Rowan looked at the growing line of people—there must have been thousands of men, women and children—and nodded. “The king said it should be a National Day of Prayer, that we should come together, as a people, to pray to be delivered from the approaching tyranny.” She cast her gaze back to Maisie. “Yes, join the throng, Maisie—if my hip were not nipping at me, I would too. But it’s one of those days when I must give thanks for the privilege of good connections and a reserved seat. I’ll see you inside.”
As she was moving to the end of the line, Maisie heard a voice call out.
“Oi, Miss! Oi, Miss—it’s us over here. Come on.” She looked into the line of people, and saw Billy, Doreen and Margaret Rose, all waving to her.
“You don’t mind if the lady joins us, do you, mate?” Billy turned to a man and his wife standing behind them.
“All right by me.” The man stepped back. “Come on, slip in here, love.”
“Thank you, sir—I am much obliged to you.” She turned to Billy and Doreen. “It’s lovely to see you here—all three of you.” She put a hand on Doreen’s arm to emphasize her greeting, and smiled down at their daughter. “Hello Margaret Rose—oh my goodness, you’ve grown. You’ll be as tall as Bobby soon.”
The child looked down at her feet, and ran her fingers through the halo of blond curls that fell across her forehead, a mannerism that made her appear even more like her father. And when she raised her head, her cornflower blue eyes staring at Maisie, she said, “Mum and Dad told me we had to come, because even if you didn’t believe in God, you had to give him a chance when things get very difficult. And everybody has to pull together.”
“Quite right,” said the man who had allowed Maisie to slide into the queue, as Margaret Rose hid her face in her mother’s skirts.
“From the mouths of babes,” said a woman in front of them.
There was little time for a long conversation with Billy, but there was an opportunity for a brief chat. “Is Bobby at home?” asked Maisie.
Billy sighed, and exchanged glances with his wife. “Yep, he’s at home. And that’s where he’ll stay if I’ve got anything to do with it.”
“Billy—he only—” said Doreen.
Billy shook his head. “Nothing like having a sixteen-year-old know-all in the house, is there? He’s gone and signed up to be a mechanic for the air force. Says it’s not dangerous, that he’ll be working on the aeroplanes, not in them. Well, that’s all very well, but they could just as well send him up, in time.”
Doreen looked at Maisie and raised her eyebrows. Maisie realized, then, that the woman who had previously suffered such debilitating mental illness was now calm, and was likely the one keeping a level head.
“What do you think, Doreen?”
The woman linked her arm through her husband’s, as if to chivvy him into a better mood. “We’ve got young Billy over there in France, so it’s easy to think Bobby should wait, just a bit, before he goes in for anything to do with the army or air force or whatever. But one thing occurred to me—because we always call them ‘young Billy’ or ‘young Bobby’ it’s too easy to forget they’re men. They know what they want, and I don’t think we should hold Bobby back. Not if this is what he’s got a knack for—we can’t expect him to want to work in that garage down the road forever, can we? And it’s a good opportunity for him to get a proper profession with real prospects, isn’t it?”
“It’s a difficult situation, especially as Bobby needs your consent,” said Maisie, drawing her attention from Doreen to Billy. “I know he’s named after your brother, and you thought the world of him.”
“Two peas in a pod, me and our Bobby,” said Billy.
Maisie watched as Doreen bit her lip and turned away, then at once swung round again, her cheeks flushed. “And you haven’t forgiven the fact that he died too young fighting over there, have you? But your son—our son—is not your brother. The way I see it, you have a choice. You can either acknowledge him and the fact that this is what he wants. It’s something he has a talent for, and he landed this opportunity with no help from anyone—and that’s no mean feat, Billy. No mean feat on the part of our Bobby. Or you can withhold consent, which means you can do something you were powerless to do with your brother, his namesake—and that is to stop him.” She had kept her voice low, but every word carried the weight of her frustration with her husband. “The truth is you could never have stopped your brother, because he knew what he wanted, and he wanted to prove himself to be a man worthy of his country’s respect. Bobby is old enough to go to this air force college, to learn a new trade and then to take up a new job. And if you’re trying to save him, my love—just you remember how Sandra’s Eric died. Poor girl lost her first husband when he was working on an engine in a small garage. There’s no accounting for fate’s timing. No accounting at all.”
Billy was silent, staring at his wife. “I’d forgotten about Eric,” said Billy, distracted.
Maisie stepped forward as the queue moved. She made no comment that might come between man and wife. They had almost reached the entrance to Westminster Abbey when she heard Billy break the silence with Doreen. “Anyway, I’ll think about it.” She looked around at the same time as Doreen leaned toward Billy for him to put his arm around her shoulders.
“Right,” said Maisie. “We’re almost at the door. I have to go in that direction now—Lady Rowan has saved a seat for me. I’ll see you tomorrow, Billy. In fact, I can take you all down to Hampshire, because that’s where I’m planning to go.”
“Oh, Margaret Rose and I are staying—we’re not going to the country,” said Doreen.
“And that’s another nice bag of worms opened up, just as we’re about to go into a church!” said Billy. “Mind you, if there’s an invasion, it might be better for my girls to be closer to London.”
Maisie looked from one to the other. “Well, the offer’s there—I can take you all, if you wish. Anyway, Billy, we must speak tomorrow morning at the office in any case. About Archie Coombes.”
“Oh yes, Archie Coombes. He’s a different kettle of fish, no two ways about it. I’ve a few things to report on that young man.”
Maisie opened the French doors that led into the walled garden from the sitting room, and went into the kitchen to put away the few grocery items she had brought back from Chelstone. She placed a bottle of milk in her new refrigerator, a half loaf into an enamel bread bin on the table, and poured a quarter pound of Brooke Bond tea into the caddy. Slipping off her pale blue summer jacket, she hung it over the back of the chair, filled the kettle with water and put it on the stove. Standing by the stove, staring at the flame licking up around the kettle, Maisie began to formulate a plan for the following day. Teddy Wickham—she wanted to talk to the young man who had decreed that Joe Coombes was on “top form.” And she wanted to see the place where the lad’s body had been found—there had been no time to pay a visit when she had been brought to Hampshire to identify the body. She would have to speak to Detective Inspector Murphy to gain access to the area, but she had found him to be an approachable man, so did not envisage a problem with her request.
She made a pot of tea, poured a cup and set it on a small wooden tray along with a slice of bread and jam she had prepared while waiting for the kettle to boil, then went into the garden, switching on the wireless as she passed.
Maisie had become quite used to the barrage balloons bobbing in breezes high above, as if London had been prepared for a party, not a war. But the balloons were there to deflect an attack by enemy aircraft, not to entertain. Men and women in the anti-aircraft batteries would be scanning the skies, alert for radio messages signaling imminent attack. She had almost forgotten how it might be to see the underground stations without sandbagging to protect them. And as far as keeping her gas mask with her—like many of the capital’s populace, she could not quite remember where she had last put it, and made a mental note to look in the dining room cabinet.
The drive from Chelstone, the service at the abbey, along with the bobbing barrage balloons, seemed to have a soporific effect. It was from a dozy afternoon slumber that Maisie was woken by the telephone. She was rising from the chair when it stopped, so she sat down again, thinking it could not have been very important. A chill in the air wrapped itself around her arms, and she was aware that an announcement had interrupted music on the wireless, which had been beset by poor reception.
“. . . owners of pleasure craft, able-bodied men with an understanding of navigation and offshore boating experience are asked to report to their local police station . . . those approved will . . . from Ramsgate . . . to France.”
The announcer added that the same message had been broadcast several times that day. She shivered and looked at her watch as the wireless crackled and music continued; it was almost six o’clock in the evening. She had just picked up the tray when the telephone began ringing again, but this time she moved quickly to pick up the call. She was about to recite the number when she heard her stepmother’s voice.
“Maisie, is that you?”
“Yes—Brenda? Brenda, what is it? Is it Anna? Dad? Is everyone all right?”
“Yes, yes—your father’s well and Anna’s all right too. It’s Tim.”
“Tim? What’s happened?”
“He’s not come home?”
“Brenda, what do you mean, he’s not come home? Where did he go?”
“It was after you left this morning—he came in from the conservatory just as you drove out of the gates, so must have been about seven. He said that he was going off to see a friend of his who lives in Rye. I think it was Rye. Or perhaps he said he was meeting him in Rye. Oh dear . . .” Brenda’s voice became faint, as if she were trying to remember exact details of the conversation. “Anyway, he said they were going hiking across the Romney Marshes. I asked him how he was going to get there, and he said it was all right, he’d looked up the trains and he would get a bus part of the way, if necessary. I told him I thought he should let his mother know, but he just said, ‘Oh, it’s all right, Mrs. Dobbs—she knows I’m going to see Gordon.’ He was in such a rush to get on his way, it was all I could do to make him wait while I packed up a sandwich box for him, and made him take a bottle of ginger beer. If he’s doing all that walking, he would need something inside him, growing lad like that.”
“Priscilla didn’t tell me anything about Tim going to see his friend Gordon while he was with us,” said Maisie. “And neither, for that matter, did Tim.”
“That’s as may be, but he’s gone, and I told him quite clearly that he had to be back by four o’clock, or it wasn’t fair to you, as you’re responsible for him.” She sighed—but Maisie could hear it was an angry sigh, a sigh of frustration. “I don’t think he liked it—being told that, but he said he would be back on the train that gets into Tonbridge at twenty past three, so he would be back at Chelstone in good time. He left about half past seven, marching off with his knapsack. And he’s not back.”
Maisie laced the telephone cable around her fingers. Tim had been pushing against boundaries for a while, but he had never crossed a line with her. Yet she knew he had been shocked at seeing young men not so much older than him coming back from France. And Tim was a bright lad—he would have taken account of the steady escalation of news regarding the German advance and the precarious position of the army. A deep collective sense of emergency was being felt by the British people; the plight of “our boys” was a national tragedy in the making—the news reports were full of it. And Tim could have overheard his father discussing the situation; after all, in his position with the Ministry of Information, Douglas was privy to reports from military intelligence.
“Brenda—did Tim make any telephone calls that I don’t know about? He’s usually very polite and will ask permission even to place a call to his mother.”
“Not as far as I know, but—”
“But what?”
“Well, it was when you were tucking in Anna last night and reading her a story—before you sat down to a late supper with Tim. You were in with her or a while, because you were putting calamine on her spots, and bathing her eyes—those poor eyes, so sticky with this measles—and Tim said he was just going out for a walk across the field. He took Jook with him. Now, you know as well as I do, that when you go over the stile at the other end of Top Field, you’re at the crossroads, and there’s the telephone kiosk, right next to the bus stop.”
“The bus that goes to Tenterden, where you can change for Rye.”
“Oh dear,” said Brenda. “Where do you think he’s gone?”
Maisie felt her heart beating almost to her neck. “It’s what he’s done as much as where he’s gone.”
“But where? He’s only a lad,” said Brenda.
“Now, you mustn’t worry, Brenda. I’ll get him back—I think I know where he is. You look after Anna for me—and tell her Tim will be home soon.”
“Your voice, Maisie—I can hear it—you’re frightened.”
“It’s all right, Brenda—we’ll find him, one way or another. Now, I must go. I must speak to his mother.”
“Maisie, what joy—you’re back! Of course I knew because—” Priscilla was holding a cocktail in one hand as she opened the front door. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“Let’s go in, Priscilla—is Douglas at home?”
“It’s Sunday evening—where else would he be but his study?”
“Call him, Priscilla, please.”
Priscilla ran to the bottom of the staircase and called out, “Douglas! Douglas? Come down—now. It’s important.”
Maisie heard a door open close to the stairs on the first floor, and Douglas Partridge looked over the banister.
“Maisie, lovely to see you—but what’s going on?”
“I must speak to you about Tim,” said Maisie.
In the hall, Maisie recounted Brenda’s concerns that Tim had not arrived home on time.
“Oh, that’s all right, I’m sure he’ll turn up soon,” interrupted Douglas.
Priscilla shook her head. “Go on, Maisie—I can tell you’re worried for good reason. Where do you think he is?”
“With his friend Gordon.”
Priscilla was about to counter, but Douglas interjected. “I know what Maisie’s thinking. Yes, they live in Rye—and yes, they have several boats—as far as I know a rowing boat, one of those slipper boats, a sailing yacht and a motor launch of some kind. Perhaps two. Not sure if they keep them all in Rye though—I mean, the man has a veritable fleet.” He turned to Priscilla. “Hasn’t Tim sailed out of Broadstairs with them? Gordon has older brothers, all in the services now, I believe—and the father has a lot of money to spend on his passion, which is the sea.”
Priscilla looked at Maisie. “Tell me, Maisie. Where is he?”
“I don’t know if you’ve heard the news—I only heard part of the broadcast because my wireless has such bad reception—but there was an announcement, a call for owners of pleasure craft who have boating experience. I don’t know, but following the news lately, I think it’s to assist in the evacuation of the expeditionary force from France. I imagine it’s turned into an all-out push now.” She paused, biting her lip, looking from Douglas to Priscilla. “I doubt just anyone can take a boat and go—the authorities wouldn’t allow it, but . . . but putting two and two together, I think Tim and his friend might have sailed out to find a way to join the flotilla gathering in the Channel. I know very little about this, but . . . but Tim is so desperate to prove himself, he would not think twice about it. And if Gordon’s brothers are all in the services, I’d bet he’s of the same mind.”
Priscilla turned to her husband. “Do we have the telephone number for this boy’s parents? He’s been down there loads of times—I am sure we’ve spoken to his people. In fact, I had a word with his mother ages ago, when Tim started visiting. I’ll find it.”
Priscilla pulled open a drawer in the hall table. She pulled out an address book with gold leaf-edged pages and a burgundy leather cover. It was well worn, and when opened, Maisie could see names and addresses crossed out and rewritten.
“Here it is. The Sandersons. The mother’s name is Beatrice—that’s it, Bea Sanderson.” She reached for the telephone receiver and dialed, turning to look at Douglas and Maisie as she waited for the call to be answered. She picked up her almost empty glass and held it out toward Douglas. Her husband took the glass, but did not move. She raised her eyebrows, pursed her lips and turned away. The call was answered. “Ah yes, good evening. Yes—is Mrs. Sanderson at home? This is Mrs. Priscilla Partridge—yes, with a P, like the bird. P-A-R-T—that’s it, you’ve got it. May I speak to Mrs. Sanderson, please?” A pause. “Not at home? When might she and Mr. Sanderson return?” Another pause. “Not until tomorrow? I see. Did Gordon go with them or is he at home?” She looked at Maisie, her eyes wide, color draining from her face. “Yes. Quite. Well, if you’ve put two and two together, you will understand that Tim Partridge is my son, and Gordon is most certainly not a guest in my house.” She turned away again, facing the mirror.
Maisie thought that, in regarding her reflection, Priscilla was keeping her spirit present, keeping her resolve rock solid, so that she would not escape into herself as wave after wave of fear enveloped her.
Priscilla continued. “You must find Mr. and Mrs. Sanderson soonest. I fear both Gordon and Timothy have told lies to be able to do something together—no, I cannot say what that something is before I speak to his parents. And you can’t let me have a number for them? Right. If I do not receive a return call within the half-hour, I will not be here to speak to them.” She turned to her husband, anger and terror mapped across her face, now flushed. She pointed to the empty glass while continuing to speak to the person on the other end of the line. “Please tell them that the boys have embarked upon a rather dangerous adventure. Here’s my number.”
Maisie turned to Douglas. “I think you ought to get her that gin and tonic, Douglas—she is about to start shouting, then she’ll break down.”
Priscilla slammed down the telephone receiver just as Douglas began walking toward the drawing room.
“Can’t he bloody see that when I say I need a drink, I need one! My son has gone off on a boat in the middle of the bloody Channel when, for all I know, his brother is in a piece of tin over his head taking his life in his hands trying to stop the German army—”
“Pris—Priscilla! Stop!” said Maisie, standing in front of her friend. “Stop this right now—we have to think clearly, and Douglas had every right to listen to the call because Tim’s his son too—not just yours.”
“But what can I do? How can we stop him?” She began to cough, tears streaming down her face, her eye makeup running across her cheeks. “It’s happening again. My history is repeating itself—I’ll lose them like I lost my brothers in the last war, all three of them. Dead. Where’s Tarquin.” She turned to call up the stairs. “Tarq! Tarquin! Come down now!”
Douglas emerged from the drawing room, a full glass of gin and tonic in his hand. Priscilla’s husband had lost an arm during the last war, and walked with a pronounced limp. He struggled to manage his cane and Priscilla’s drink—but his voice was strong.
“Stop! For God’s sake stop and think, darling! Tarquin is not at home. If you remember, Elinor was here and has taken him out—they’re not due back yet. You can leave a note for them. Now then, first we should find out if we’re completely wrong and Tim has just gone for a sail, or if he’s really made for the French coast. Indeed, he could still be hiking across Romney Marsh.”
“Well, of course he’s gone to France, Douglas—of course he has,” said Priscilla.
“Maisie?” said Douglas, as he handed the fresh cocktail to his wife.
“I’m inclined to agree with Pris.” She sighed. “I know very little about nautical maps, but I have an ordinary map, one that includes the coast. I’ve had a look at it, and I suspect that, if Tim and his friend have indeed answered the call for seagoing craft, they would not have joined the flotilla in Ramsgate—I am sure the authorities have carefully registered boats they wanted to requisition. I imagine Tim and Gordon would have made their way out into the Channel and slipped in with other vessels.”
“Oh hell! I don’t know where to go, or what to do! But I know I can’t stay here and just worry until he walks through the door—or until there’s a policeman on the doorstep telling me he has bad news,” said Priscilla, her free hand on her forehead, as she lifted the glass to her lips and took several generous sips.
“There’s little you can do, Pris—but if you must be on the move, perhaps you and Douglas should go down to Ramsgate, and ask questions—someone might have seen them. And if they come in, you can stop them.”
Douglas cleared his throat. “Maisie—you go with Priscilla. I will hold you up if I go.”
Maisie watched as Douglas looked away in an attempt to control his emotions. She turned to Priscilla, who was staring at her husband, her own eyes filled with tears.
“I think you should discuss the situation,” said Maisie. “You might hear from the Sandersons soon in any case—and all the worry might be for naught. If it is, then it’s my fault, for which I am incredibly sorry—but I listened to Tim when he arrived at Chelstone yesterday, and he was full of what he had seen at Tonbridge station, as early evacuees from France were traveling through. In any case, I’ll go and make ready to leave.”
Maisie turned away, though as she reached the threshold she looked back to see Priscilla take her husband’s outstretched hand.
“Oh Tim, you young fool,” she whispered as she ran down the steps.
Fifteen minutes later, Maisie had counted her petrol coupons and gave thanks that she had enough fuel in the tank to get to Ramsgate, though not enough for the return journey—and there was likely no petrol to be had on a Sunday. As she was loading a small overnight bag into the Alvis, Priscilla came running toward her along the street.
“Bea Sanderson telephoned. They’ve been in Reigate with friends for a Friday to Monday, but they’re on their way back now. They’ve checked with a friend who lives close to where their boats are docked, or kept, or slipped—or whatever it is they do with boats—and yes, it transpires that Gordon and a friend who happens to fit Tim’s description went out for a sail early this morning and have not come back. But here’s the thing—they took the larger of Jerry Sanderson’s boats, the one that Gordon is not allowed to take out. Apparently Gordon and Tim usually go out in the smaller sailing yacht, but this is the larger motor yacht. He assures me that the boys are quite capable of taking her into the open Channel, but she’s forty-five feet, and worth a fortune. He seemed more worried about the yacht, though Bea is beside herself—like me.”
“Priscilla—I think you and Douglas should go to Ramsgate. He shouldn’t be left here to feel he’s not playing a part while his son has put himself in the path of danger. You must be together.”
“But Douglas doesn’t drive, and if I get behind the wheel, I know I will kill us.”
Maisie shook her head and took a moment, stopping Priscilla from speaking by holding up a hand. “I have another idea. Though Billy doesn’t have a motor car, I know he can drive now, because he’s had a friend teach him. I’ll see if he’ll take you—in fact, I think he’ll jump at the chance because his son is with the expeditionary force and he will want to keep himself occupied, doing something useful. I’ll telephone him now.”
Priscilla nodded. “Right—and if he agrees, I can at least get us to his home in Eltham to pick him up without causing too much damage.” She turned to walk away, but stopped and looked back at Maisie. “And at least we’ll be doing something, not just sitting around waiting.”