To Die but Once (Maisie Dobbs #14)(100)
“You should come,” said Maisie. “You know what you always say about the dragon. Look it in the eye, and then keep it mollified.”
George checked the amount of petrol in the tank, and decreed that Maisie had enough fuel in the Alvis for one more excursion. They set off mid-morning on the last Friday in June for the drive down to Rye.
Parking the motor car alongside the harbor, Maisie and Priscilla walked past fishing boats unloading their catch, and stood to remember the day Tim came home from Dunkirk.
“I still can’t believe he did it, Maisie. I’ve been moaning for the past three years that Tim was the one causing me trouble, and that this sailing lark at least kept him out of the house for a while. Now he’s the one who has surprised me the most—and of whom I am so proud.”
“They’re good young men, Priscilla,” said Maisie. “Tim was incredibly brave.”
“I can still see him struggling to bring in the boat—and that fisherman helping him do it on his own, knowing it was only right that he be given the chance.” Priscilla wiped a tear from each eye. “I think this war is going to make a lot of mothers proud—but for the wrong reasons. What was it Churchill said? You know—it was on the wireless. ‘The Battle of France is over. The Battle of Britain is about to begin.’ It makes my heart so heavy. Young men shouldn’t have to die, and their parents shouldn’t have to go through the rest of their lives making everything seem right by saying, ‘At least my boy was brave.’ Or, ‘We’re proud he did his bit.’”
A now familiar low rumble of aircraft engines caused Priscilla and Maisie to look up, hands shielding their eyes from the midday sun. Three Hurricanes flew in formation overhead, out toward the Channel.
Priscilla stood on tiptoe and waved at the departing aircraft, then turned to Maisie. “Just in case that’s my Tom up there.”
Maisie waved along with her until the aircraft were out of sight. And she wondered, then, how it must feel flying across the Weald of Kent, across Sussex, over ancient woodland and patchwork fields of barley and hops down below; over farms with oast houses, their white cowls like witches’ hats poking through the morning mist, and above market towns and small villages, with children looking up and waving as they passed, until they left the English coast behind.
“It’s time to drive back to Chelstone, Pris,” said Maisie. “They’ll all be wondering where we’ve got to.”
“And Anna will be home from school by the time we get there.”
Maisie linked her arm through Priscilla’s, and nodded. Yes, Anna would be home.