To Die but Once (Maisie Dobbs #14)(10)
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?”