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- Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Serie: Maisie Dobbs
- Sprache: Englisch
Spring 1940. With Britons facing what has become known as the Bore War - nothing much seems to have happened yet - Maisie Dobbs is asked to investigate the disappearance of a local lad, a young apprentice craftsman working on a "hush-hush" government contract. As Maisie's inquiry reveals a possible link to the London underworld, so the country is bracing for a possible enemy invasion amid news of the British expeditionary force stranded along the French coast. And another mother is worried about a missing son - but this time the boy in question is one beloved by Maisie.
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Seitenzahl: 515
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018
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TO DIE BUT ONCE
A Maisie Dobbs Novel
JACQUELINE WINSPEAR
Again, for my dad, Albert Winspear 1926–2012 A city boy who loved the land. His story inspired this novel
Cowards die many times before their deaths;
The valiant never taste of death but once.
Of all the wonders that I yet have heard,
It seems to me most strange that men should fear,
Seeing that death, a necessary end,
Will come when it will come.
– WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE,JULIUS CAESAR, ACT 2, SCENE 2
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
Hampshire, England, May 1940
The boy had not had a day without a headache in weeks. How many weeks was it now? And how many aspirin powders had he taken, every night when he arrived back at his digs – a shared room in another lodging house in another town? Another town with airfields close by, and buildings to be painted with that viscous grey emulsion. He wondered about the aspirin and the emulsion as he walked home from the pub, and deep down inside himself, he knew that one had something to do with the other, though his mates on the job hadn’t complained. Not that he’d dare say anything – no, he had to keep his mouth shut, because he was lucky to have a job at all, so there was nothing to whine about. And, if truth be told, he should not have been at the pub drinking – but the landlord didn’t mind, probably didn’t even know. After all, the boy had come in with the older lads, and it’s not as if he looked like an apprentice.
He missed his mum. He’d never have mentioned it, not to any of the lads – they teased him enough about being the boy – though he might have said to Freddie Mayes, ‘Freddie, you would love my mum’s spotted dick pudding.’ And he’d describe the way she kneaded the suet dough, how she added handfuls of sultanas, currants and raisins. Then she’d take a large square of clean white cloth, place the round ball of dough in the middle and tie the ends nice and tight. Then it would go into the saucepan of boiling water to steam for hours. Hours, it would be, and the sweet smell would envelop the kitchen. And if the pudding had been put on the heat later in the day, it would be long after supper time that she’d take it out of the saucepan, unknotting the hot wet cloth with her fingertips, then she’d spoon the pudding into bowls and pour a big dollop of Tate & Lyle Golden Syrup onto every helping. If it was a Sunday, she’d make custard. She’d said in a letter that they were having to cut back on sugar, what with the war. But he couldn’t complain, not really – after all, this job was on account of the war, though for the life of him he’d never come across paint like it. He sighed. At first he’d had trouble getting used to the silence in the country. In London, back in the Smoke, you never heard a footstep behind you, because there were footsteps everywhere. There were always people out on the street, and there was more life. Human life, that is. Mind you, if there was a smog, that made the footsteps sound different, as if someone was messing about with the echo, twisting it, like a plumber shaping a length of pipe to get it around a bend in the house. But now he loved being close to the land, and all that green. It was quiet. Peaceful. Well, it was peaceful once he’d done his work for the day, and when he could get over to the farm.
Not long now. Not far to his tiny room in that strange house with the loopy woman, and all them WAAFs on the floor below.
According to Freddie, they were moving on to the next job in a couple of days, though this stop had been a good one – a lot of work to do, so the crew had stayed longer, had a chance to settle in a bit, get to know a few locals. And there was the overtime. More money to send home. He stopped. Blimey my noddle hurts. He pressed his fingers to his temples, massaging the bluish thin flesh. It wasn’t only the emulsion that was giving him the pain, though he was sure it was doing a fair job of killing off a few brain cells. There had been nothing but trouble since he’d come here. Not being in the country trouble, and not work trouble – no, it was people trouble. He wanted to stay, but because of the other business, he wanted to get going. If he had to stick with this job, like his dad said he should, then he wanted to get on with it. He wanted to move on soon, and soon couldn’t come fast enough, because his heart would break anyway, leaving the old boy. If only he hadn’t … but what was it his dad always said? ‘You can’t look back, son, not in this life. No, you can only look forward and step out in its direction.’ And when he’d said, ‘What direction?’, his dad had said, ‘The future, son. The future – always look to your future.’ Well, the future wasn’t turning out to be the one he wanted. Instead, the future was the next place, another airfield and this painting job. The past was two days ago and two blokes he would rather not see again, though he knew he would, but for now he wanted to forget it. Forget them. Christ, this head!
The boy walked on along the path by the stream, then across the rickety wooden bridge, down an alley, a shortcut to his landlady’s house. Freddie would wake him later when he came staggering back, in his cups, making more noise because he was trying to be quiet. But the boy knew he’d at least get a bit of shut-eye before he had to pretend to be interested in Freddie bragging about a girl he’d been eyeing up, how they didn’t all go for a man in uniform, so he was in with a chance. Which was just as well, because Freddie wasn’t giving up this job in a hurry – reserved occupations, it was, and he’d said he had no blimmin’ intention of joining the army and going the way of his father, and look what happened to him the last time the country went to war.
What was that? The boy turned and looked back, stood for a second, perhaps two. Nothing. Just country sounds. Probably someone’s cat on the prowl. And then the pain again. But this time it was different, this time it was sudden, a deep terrible searing crack across his skull. Night-time turned to light, turned to lots of light, and he could hear his father telling him to look to the future, but the shock felled him, brought him to his knees, and then another wave of pain across his head again, taking him down, grinding his cheek into the path’s loose gravel. He reached up with his fingers – shaking fingers, fingers he could not seem to steer – and he touched his head and brought back his hand wet. Wet with his own blood. He felt tears begin to stream from his eyes. Oh, he missed his mum. He missed his dad and, in that moment, he even missed London. Then there was nothing more to think, no other thoughts crossed the boy’s mind and time felt so slow, so very slow, though he could hear voices. Long, drawn-out voices. One seemed familiar and he struggled to find the word, the right word to call out to that person, but the word that was the person’s name just would not come and he did not know if it was a man or a woman. And as he felt his body being lifted, the streetlight ahead grew faint, and at once he knew his breath was shallow, and then more shallow, and his heartbeat was slowing down, as if an engine inside him had been deprived of fuel.
It was as if someone had reached out and snuffed out a candle. Just like that, finger and thumb around the flame as he made one last attempt to form the words that would not come. Darkness enveloped him, pressed against his chest, filled his mouth, suffocated him, and the future his dad had told him to step out towards ceased to exist.
CHAPTER ONE
London, 20th May, 1940
Maisie Dobbs pulled off Tottenham Court Road, manoeuvring her Alvis drophead coupe motor car into Warren Street. She waved to Jack Barker, who she knew should have retired by now – he had been selling newspapers on his patch outside the Tube station for years, and in that time she had seen him become more and more stooped, taking precious seconds to fold the newspapers ready to hand to busy office workers and shop assistants as they rushed to and from work. There was a time when his grandson had helped out before and after school, but now young Peter was not so young any more, and was in the army.
Maisie wound down the window and slowed the motor car. She held out a coin for the man to take. ‘No need for change, Mr Barker,’ said Maisie, as she placed the newspaper on the passenger seat. ‘I bet you miss your helper.’
‘I do at that, Miss Dobbs. I had another one of ’em lined up to give me a hand, only he was evacuated to Wales. But I reckon he’ll be home soon. His mum keeps saying that what with this Bore War, there’s nothing happening. But I’ve told her – there’s war happening all right – it’s just not reached us. I reckon your Mr Beale must be worried sick – knowing what he went through in the last war, and now his eldest is over there with the expeditionary force. He must be losing sleep over it. According to the Express, the Germans have marched right across the Ardennes, through Holland and now they’re into France – too blimmin’ close to us, for my liking.’
Maisie nodded. Her assistant, Billy Beale, was indeed losing sleep worrying about his son, who was serving with the army in France, but he was also concerned for his wife, Doreen. Years before they had already lost a little girl, Lizzie, who had died after contracting diphtheria – Doreen had suffered a breakdown following the tragedy. Billy had therefore decided it was best for her to take their youngest child, Margaret Rose, to stay with an aunt in Hampshire, leaving him at home with his second son, Bobby, an apprentice mechanic.
‘Did you see they’ve put more sandbags around the station?’ said Barker. ‘Before long there won’t be room for me out here on the pavement.’
‘Oh, they’ll make room for you, Mr Barker – what would we all do without you!’ replied Maisie, turning her head to check for traffic as she moved away from the kerb.
Barker laughed and waved, but Maisie’s smile faded as she rolled up the window. While the newspapers kept up a stream of positive rhetoric, she had heard from Douglas Partridge, who now worked for the wartime Ministry of Information, that the expeditionary force in France was considered to be in a precarious position.
She drove along the street, passing the Prince of Wales pub, where the landlord, Phil Coombes, had just emerged and was ambling along to a cafe just a short way down Tottenham Court Road. Maisie thought she could set a clock by Phil Coombes, for he left the premises at the same time each morning to walk to a nearby cafe, where he would order a bacon sandwich and a cup of tea. It was his one break in the day, otherwise he never left the pub because he was either behind the bar or, when the doors were locked for the night, in the flat above. Coombes and his wife had raised two sons and a daughter in the flat, but now only Vivian, the middle child, remained at home.
Even before Maisie raised her hand to wave, and to receive from the landlord a desultory lifting of the hand in response, Maisie knew that all was not well. The way Coombes carried himself – with shoulders drooping and his head forward, as if trying to set a pace for his lagging feet – indicated a troubled man. As she turned left onto Fitzroy Street to park the Alvis, Maisie wondered if she should approach Coombes, ask him what was wrong and perhaps offer help of some sort. But had she not learnt her lesson time and again, that not everyone in straitened circumstances wants to be helped? Yet when she looked back at Phil Coombes, she felt an ache of concern in her chest, as if the man’s emotions had traced a direct line to her heart.
She was just about to set off in the direction of the cafe on Tottenham Court Road, hoping to catch up with Coombes, when Billy Beale walked around the corner, his gas mask in its box hanging over one shoulder by the strap, and bouncing up and down on his hip.
‘Mornin’, miss.’ With a deft pinch to the lighted end, he extinguished the cigarette he was smoking, and put the stub in his pocket.
‘Did you come up from Hampshire this morning?’ asked Maisie.
Billy nodded. ‘Makes all the difference, not having to come into work until late on a Monday, or even a Tuesday morning. I miss my girls, so it’s been handy, you giving me the extra time so I can get down there once a week. And you should see little Margaret Rose – all apple cheeks and growing like ivy. She’ll be almost as tall as the boys, make no mistake.’
‘I thought as much when she was a toddler – she was like a mannequin even then.’ They fell into step towards the office on Fitzroy Square. ‘Have you heard from young Billy?’
Billy shook his head. ‘Boys of his age are not exactly known for writing, are they? Doreen sends a letter or card once a week – keeping it short because she knows he won’t read anything too long – but even when he was over here in barracks, it was as much as he could do to pick up a pencil and write a quick note home. I know – I was like it myself at that age. It was only when I came back from over there that it occurred to me that it wouldn’t have hurt to write a bit more – but then there’s the censor peering at everything, so half the letter would have been blacked out anyway.’
They reached the front door of the grey, smoke-stained mansion that housed the first-floor offices of Maisie Dobbs, Psychologist and Investigator.
‘I don’t like him being in France though,’ Billy continued. ‘And I reckon it was a shock to him. He only joined up because he wanted to drive a tank. Well, he’s driving something, but I don’t know how far they’ll get with it – I heard talk in the Prince that they could be in the thick of it, if Hitler’s boys get any farther into France.’ He shook his head. ‘My worst fear since the day he was born – and his brother – was that they would be in uniform. By the way, miss, where’s your gas mask?’
‘As usual I’ve either left it at home or it’s still hanging on the hook behind the office door – I keep forgetting it, which means I’m in good company with almost half the people in London,’ said Maisie.
As they made their way up the stairs, and Maisie unlocked the door to the two-room office, Billy went on talking about his sons – not only Billy, who was named for his father, but sixteen-year-old Bobby, now an apprentice mechanic who was proving to be very good at his job. And it seemed Billy always had a story to tell about his role with the local Air Raid Precautions station – as an ARP man, he patrolled his neighbourhood after dark to ensure that people had blackout curtains closed, and that everything was as it should be in case of an attack by Hitler’s Luftwaffe.
‘Talking about the Prince – Billy, have you spoken to Phil Coombes lately?’ said Maisie. ‘I saw him this morning, and he seemed troubled. I – I’ve been thinking about him all the time you’ve been talking about Billy and Bobby. Do you know anything about his sons? Perhaps he’s worried about them.’
‘Don’t know what he has to worry about. The youngest is an apprentice painter and decorator who managed to cop himself some jammy job where he won’t have to enlist when his time comes, and the older boy is in some other reserved occupation, so he can sit out the war too, for as long as it lasts. I’d feel a lot better if my Billy were home on British soil.’
‘I know you would,’ said Maisie, as she pulled a sheaf of papers from her bag and placed them on the desk used by her part-time secretary, Sandra. ‘But I can’t get Mr Coombes out of my mind. I might … well, we’ll see.’
Billy looked up from leafing through the post he had picked up on the hall table at the foot of the stairs. ‘Don’t mind me saying so, miss, but when you have one of your thoughts like that, there’s usually something to it. Do you want me to have a word with him? I can go in for a swift half o’shandy come twelve o’clock.’
Maisie nodded. ‘Would you? That’s a good idea. Just to put my mind at rest, and—’
She was interrupted by the bell above the office door – a short blast, then a second’s silence before two longer blasts, as if the caller had at first been reticent, but had then drawn upon a strength of resolve.
‘Bit early for a visitor. Were we expecting anyone?’ asked Billy.
Maisie shook her head. ‘Go and let him in, Billy.’
‘Him?’
‘Yes. I’m sure it’s Phil Coombes.’
Billy reached for the door handle. ‘I won’t bet against it.’
Maisie shrugged and bit the inside of her lip. ‘It’s one of those serendipitous things, isn’t it? You talk about someone or they enter your thoughts, and then there they are. And he seemed so troubled. He knows what we do here – to a point – so let’s hope we can help him.’
Billy returned with the caller, who was indeed Phil Coombes. Maisie held out her hand to a chair pulled up by the gas fire. ‘It might be spring, Mr Coombes, but I find mornings are still a bit chilly, especially in this old building.’
Coombes nodded, and looked around at Billy.
‘Cup of tea for you, mate?’
Coombes shook his head. ‘Nah, thanks all the same, Bill – just had a cup around the corner.’
‘With your usual?’ asked Billy.
‘I didn’t have the stomach for it, and I look forward to that bacon sandwich, as a rule. I just had a bit of toast and didn’t really fancy that.’ He looked at Maisie, who tapped the back of the chair, though she realised Coombes was waiting for her to be seated first.
‘Come and sit down, Mr Coombes. You too, Billy – we can have a cuppa later.’ She nodded in the direction of Billy’s desk, reminding him to pick up his notebook and a pencil. Bringing her attention back to Coombes, she leant forward. ‘You’re troubled about something, Mr Coombes – you’re not your usual cheery self, and you haven’t been for a while. How can we help you?’
‘I didn’t want to bother you, Miss Dobbs, really I didn’t, but I thought that, what with your line of work, you could help out.’
Billy glanced at Maisie, and raised an eyebrow.
‘We’re here to listen, so please go on,’ encouraged Maisie.
‘I – I don’t have anything to pay you, and I know, Miss Dobbs, that you work for Scotland Yard now and again, and you’ve had all them big cases – missing persons, unexplained deaths and what have you. I don’t miss much. And I’m sure you can charge a pretty penny, but we’ve nothing put by for this sort of thing.’
‘Please don’t worry about money, Mr Coombes. Really – what’s important now is to talk about what’s on your mind. Should Billy nip round to bring Mrs Coombes to the office? Would you feel better if she were here?’
The man looked up at Maisie and shook his head, his eyes wide, fearful. ‘Oh no. No, I don’t want her to know how much it’s bothering me. It’s best if she thinks there’s nothing to worry about.’
‘So what is bothering you, mate?’ said Billy. ‘Come on, Phil, get it off your chest. You’ll be all the better for it.’
Coombes nodded. ‘I know this sounds like it’s nothing, but I can’t ignore this terrible ache I’ve got here every time I think about our boy, Joe. He’s the youngest one. We haven’t heard from him for a few days, and it’s unlike him not to get on the blower once on a Wednesday night, and again of a Sunday morning – well, I say it’s not like him, but for the past couple of weeks it’s as if he hasn’t wanted to give us a ring, hasn’t wanted to say much.’
‘I didn’t know you had a telephone in there, Phil,’ said Billy.
Coombes sighed, as if answering even the most simple question would exhaust him. ‘The brewery had it put in a year ago now, and it’s come in handy for us, not only for the business, but since the war, with the boys not at home any more. When Joe picks up the telephone wherever he is, it’s not that he can talk for long – he’s never got enough pennies on him for a start, you know what lads are like – but at least we hear from him, and he knows we like to have a word, even if it’s a quick one, but as I say, something feels off to me.’ He looked at Billy as if for affirmation. Billy nodded. Keep going. ‘Viv’s a different kettle of fish,’ continued Coombes. ‘She started work at the telephone exchange when she left school, as a trainee, so she always gives us a bell when she’s on her way home from a shift, and then we don’t worry. What with soldiers coming in from all over – Australia, Canada, just like it was in the last war – you want to know your daughter’s safe. She’s turned nineteen now, doing well at her job – they’ve promoted her to working on the government exchanges – and she’s a nice-looking girl, which is a father’s worry.’
Billy leant forward. ‘Isn’t Joe the same age as my Bobby – about sixteen?’
‘Another six months. Archie, the eldest, is going on twenty-one now. Not that we see much of him – different kettle of fish to his sister and brother. Couldn’t wait to get off on his own, though he sometimes comes along to see us after closing time of a Sunday afternoon, for a spot of dinner before we open again. Then he’s off. It’s all I can do to get him to stay and help me change a barrel – I reckon he had enough of pubs when he was a youngster.’
‘Tell us about Joe, Mr Coombes,’ said Maisie.
Phil Coombes wiped the back of his hand across one eye and then the other. ‘I know it’s only a short stretch since we heard from him – last Wednesday, it was – but like I said, something seems off to me …’ His voice tapered off, and he looked down at the carpet, as if tracing its paisley patterns with his eyes.
‘Go on,’ said Maisie. ‘First tell us what he’s doing and why he’s not living at home – he’s only fifteen.’
‘He apprenticed to Yates and Sons, the painters and decorators.’ Coombes paused and shook his head, as if not quite believing the turn of events. ‘One of the regulars got him the job when he was coming up to leaving school, couple of year ago, come October. Seemed a good position, learning a trade, and old Bill Yates was always very good at pushing for the big jobs, and his son, Mike, is even better at it. He gets jobs over in those mansions. Belgravia, Mayfair and the like. So Joe was learning from the ground up – and it’s a job with prospects.’ Maisie was about to ask another question when Coombes smiled as he thought about his son. ‘Very easy-going boy, my Joe. Very solid young bloke – see his hands’ – Coombes held out his hands – ‘calm. Very precise with his hands, he was – even Yates himself said Joe’s laying out of the wallpaper ready for hanging was perfect, exact, just as it should be. He said he’d known blokes on the job for years who couldn’t lay out paper like that – pasted and folded, ready to hold up and brush out to keep the pattern running right.’
‘But does that work take him away from London?’ asked Maisie.
Coombes shook his head. ‘Just before war was declared, it all changed. Yates had a visit from the RAF brass. They wanted him for special war work – it was a big contract, all tied up and a sizeable down payment, according to one of the other lads who works for him, name of Freddie Mayes. Yates has got a big enough business, and what with the war, both Bill and Mike Yates realised that people would probably start pulling in their horns and wouldn’t be having so much painting and decorating done on their big houses, and the council contracts would probably dry up too, so they jumped at the chance. And like I said, they’re being paid a pretty penny – laying out government money for the painters to be in lodgings, the lot.’
‘What sort of contract was it, Phil?’ asked Billy.
‘Joe said he couldn’t talk much about it – that he had to sign some papers to say he wouldn’t let on about his job. But he told me when I promised him I didn’t have any spies in the pub walls, and that it was a father’s right to know his son’s work.’ Coombes looked up at Maisie and Billy. ‘So this is secret, right? Anything I say in this room to you two? I don’t want this getting out, because if it’s supposed to be on the QT, I don’t want my son’s name in the dirt.’
‘Every conversation that takes place in my office is held in strict confidence, Mr Coombes – Phil.’ Maisie laid her hand upon her chest.
Coombes pressed his lips together, then continued. ‘Turns out the job was to take the crew to every single airfield or RAF station in the whole of the British Isles, with the most important being the ones within striking distance of the coast – they were to be the priority. Here’s how Joe explained it to me: the lads on the crew go in a Yates’ van down to a place – as far as I know, they’ve just been in Hampshire, not far from Southampton and Portsmouth, as the crow flies – and when they get there they’re put up in lodgings, and they report to the airfield. Paint is brought in on a special lorry – a Yates’ lorry, not RAF, but special all the same – then they have to set about painting all the buildings with this emulsion, but only the outside for most of them.’
‘Was it for camouflage? Did he say?’ asked Maisie.
Coombes shook his head. ‘He said it was a sort of grey in colour, so I suppose there was that camouflage business, but that’s not what it was for. It was a sort of – what do they call it?’ He frowned. ‘For fire. To stop a building catching on fire – that’s it, it’s called a fire retardant.’
‘Sounds like a jammy job to me – paint buildings for the government and take their money. And wasn’t it a reserved profession?’ said Billy.
Coombes looked at Billy Beale. ‘Yes, it was a protected job – he could spend the rest of the war for however long it lasts, just painting airfield buildings for the RAF. But he said the paint wasn’t like anything he’d ever come across. Sort of thick, very viscous, he said – his word, “viscous”. And he reckoned it gave him headaches, terrible headaches, what with the vapour coming off it. It sounded like strong stuff.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Maisie, pressing a hand to her right temple. As Coombes described his son’s work, a headache had started behind her eyes, moving to her crown. She felt unsettled, and her vision was blurred, just for a second. ‘Did he describe what was strong about the paint? Just the smell?’
‘Joe told me that after they’d finished putting a few coats onto each wall, they had to line up a row of blowtorches against the wall, right close to where they’d just painted it, and they had to leave them there burning for a good few hours while they moved on to the next wall, or the next building.’
‘It’s a wonder the wall didn’t come down,’ said Billy.
‘No, it didn’t come down – that’s the thing. Joe said there wasn’t a mark on it, not even a small smoke stain. They’d run those blowtorches, and after they took them away hours later, the wall looked like they’d just finished painting.’
‘And what was this emulsion called?’ asked Maisie.
‘Oh, it didn’t have a name. Just a number.’ Phil Coombes shook his head. ‘Blessed if I can remember the number – I don’t know if he even told me. If I find it, I’ll let you know, because I’m sure I wrote something down.’
‘And you think Joe has been affected by this paint, that he might be ill,’ said Billy, making a note in his book.
‘I don’t know, mate. I just know we haven’t heard, and that he hasn’t been himself lately. You know your own, and I know something’s wrong.’
Maisie allowed a few seconds of silence as Coombes’ story of his son’s work lingered in the air. ‘First of all, have you spoken to Mr Yates? Or to a foreman at their works? Where’s their depot?’
‘I’ve been on the blower a couple of times. A young lady in the office told me Mr Yates would return my call, but he hasn’t. I had my other boy go round there to the works – it’s just across the river, in Kennington – and he said there was no one there to talk to. He said the typist said she’d only been in a couple of hours, and that since she arrived, everyone was out on a job, and that she didn’t have any notes regarding the whereabouts of an individual employee.’
Maisie nodded. ‘I would imagine all the workers are out during the day, on job sites. Do you know how Joe got on with his work mates? He was an apprentice – were there others, or was he the youngest of the crew? Do you know if the men working with him were beyond apprenticeship?’
‘I reckon he was the only apprentice on the crew, and the youngest of them. The other painters were always sent all around London, working for Yates – the business lost a number to the services, so apparently it sort of balanced out when a few contracts were cancelled, after war was declared. Mind you, I would imagine they’ll get it back if this government work goes well. But according to Joe, Mike Yates can manage the work still going on in London, plus this contract. The older painters and decorators are too long in the tooth for the army, so they can teach the apprentices, who are too young. They’ve got a few younger men in the crew with Joe, probably ones that don’t want to get dirty fighting. Before he … before he sort of changed, Joe said that they were all looking out for him, being the apprentice on the job, and that he was eating well and getting his sleep. No late nights with the boys – he was brought up in a pub, so he knows how to take care of himself.’
‘What do you mean by “sort of changed”?’ asked Maisie. ‘Can you be more specific? I know it’s hard, because when it’s someone we’re close to, it’s often something we feel and it’s not anything easy to describe.’
Coombes rubbed his chin. ‘Oh, I don’t know. It’s been four weeks since he was last home for a Saturday and Sunday. He was quiet then. Me and the missus put it down to him being a bit tired, what with knocking around the country, sleeping in different places. She thought he could do with a tonic, and even went around to Boots, to see what she could get for him. You know, it probably seemed like a big adventure at first, this job, but them lads are working at a clip, and then there were the headaches, like I said.’
Maisie allowed another moment of silence to pass before asking her next question. ‘Is there anything else you can add?’
Coombes shook his head. ‘I know he was all right before that last visit. One of Archie’s mates was stationed in the area, so he looked in on Joe at his digs in Whitchurch and said he was on top form. Those were his words. Top form. But I don’t think he’s on any top form now, or he would have picked up the blower and made a call to me and his mum. And all we know is that he’s near this place called Whitchurch.’
‘Hampshire. I can—’ Billy began to speak, but Maisie shook her head, aware Phil Coombes was watching her, waiting.
‘As Billy was about to say, he’s making regular visits to Hampshire to see his wife and daughter. I believe he’s not too far from Whitchurch.’ She paused again. ‘Phil – Mr Coombes – I think I should speak to your wife. She should know you came to talk to us. I understand you don’t want her to be worried, but the thing is, I bet she is worried sick too, and it might help if she’s given the opportunity to air her feelings without thinking she’s adding to your worries. Something she says might throw more light on Joe’s situation.’ Maisie smiled at Coombes. ‘I promise I will take care of her. And in the meantime, Billy here will go along to Yates’ yard, and have a word with them – you know Billy, he’s a terrier. He won’t be put off by anyone and will find out if something’s amiss about Joe’s working conditions. They’re probably not used to dealing with families, because their workers have always been in London, so they go home at night. Your questions might easily be settled.’
‘I never thought of it that way.’
‘But all the same, I am taking your concerns seriously, and we will do all we can to help.’ Maisie came to her feet. ‘And you’re not to worry about the money.’
She caught Billy’s eye.
‘I’ll see you out, mate,’ offered Billy.
Coombes nodded and held out his hand to Maisie. ‘Thank you, Miss Dobbs. I feel better, having got that off my chest. I’ll tell Sally to come round after closing time this afternoon – that all right?’
‘Perfect. I’ll be here. And she’ll have a chance to see Sandra’s baby – she comes in one or two afternoons a week with him, to catch up with the paperwork. It’s a treat for all of us, seeing young Martin. Anna, our evacuee, loves it when he comes to the country.’
‘How’s the little lady getting on?’
‘Very well, Mr Coombes – thank you for asking. We’ll see Sally at about three o’clock then.’
‘Three o’clock it is.’
Billy was holding the office door open for Phil Coombes, when Maisie called out.
‘Oh, just one more small thing – do you have the name of the lad who was in touch with Joe – his brother’s friend?’
‘Teddy Wickham. Nice lad – known the family for years.’
Maisie thanked Coombes, and nodded to indicate that it was her final question.
Maisie was waiting, still sitting by the gas fire, staring into the flame, when Billy returned to the office and took his seat again.
‘What do you think, miss?’
‘I think he has cause for concern. I know it’s easy to say boys will be boys, that they don’t keep up with their parents when they’re away like Joe’s away, but he’s a lad who always struck me as someone who is respectful of his family. They’re a tight little unit – look at how he grew up, over the pub. In some respects, he probably was looking forward to getting away, setting out on a big adventure – but that aside, Phil’s description of the past weeks is a bit unsettling. Joe might not be well and his fellow workmates have failed to notice, so he’s soldiering on. Or he might have been ill and told his mates not to say anything to Yates – he might be fearful about losing his apprenticeship.’
‘I can see that.’
‘So can I – to a point. But there’s something that worries me far more.’
‘Miss?’
‘Think back to when Mr Coombes first started telling us about his son, about his worries – not a few minutes into the conversation. He made a slip.’
‘What sort of slip.’
‘“Very precise with his hands, he was …” He used the past tense, Billy. When he looked down at his own hands, and talked about his son, about his steady hands. Past tense.’
‘You don’t think he’s got something to do with his son going quiet?’
‘At this point … no, I don’t think so. But I believe Mr Coombes has a greater sensitivity with regard to his children than he might give himself credit for. We must get to work without delay, Billy – I fear for Joe’s safety.’
‘But if you look at it another way, he’s been working for the government.’
‘We’re at war, Billy. There are thousands of sons – and daughters – working for the government. Army, air force, navy, and in jobs like Joe’s that no one knows about. They’re all government jobs. No one is guaranteeing their safety.’
‘And don’t I know it.’
CHAPTER TWO
‘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 towards 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 towards 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 leant towards 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 leant 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 enquire 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 towards 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.’
