To Die but Once (Maisie Dobbs #14)(7)
“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 2
“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.