“I wish I’d not bought the Alvis now,” said Maisie, leafing through the post.
“Oh, as long as you don’t go everywhere in the motor, just save it for going down to Kent, and you’ll be all right. But I hope you’ve got your blackout curtains up. It’s a one-hundred-pound fine if you don’t have them, and it’s the likes of me who’ll be reporting you!”
Maisie raised an eyebrow. “The likes of you?”
“I joined up with the local Air Raid Precautions a few months ago, when they were calling for men to come forward, and for everyone to do their national service for the sake of the country. I mean, let’s face it, what with everything going on since March, when them Nazis took over Czechoslovakia—and you were over there in Munich last year, so you saw a lot more than most—well, we all knew what we were in for, didn’t we?” He shook his head. “And it’s not as if everyone’s been that pally since the Armistice and that conference in Paris, is it? Anyway, I’m an ARP man now, ready to do a shift when I get home from work. Five nights a week after I’ve had my tea, I’ll be out walking the streets with the old tin hat on my noddle, knocking on doors if I see even so much as a needle of light coming through. We’ve all got to do our bit, haven’t we, miss? Them German blighters could come down out of the sky any night or day, just like we’ve been warned. Mind you, it’s not as if they’ve been teeming over here to bomb us out yet, is it?”
Maisie drew breath to speak, but Billy went on, tapping his rolled newspaper on the table as if to underline his comment.
“And the German navy hasn’t been slow off the mark. See what they did to that ship, the Athena? That’s not war, that’s not fair play—it’s murder, what with all them passengers on board, and there was no army and no Royal Navy, but ordinary people. And it happened not far off our coast. Makes me sick.” He flung the newspaper down and shook his head again.
Maisie allowed a few seconds of silence to pass. Billy had been more vocal about matters of government of late, taking any opportunity to voice his opinions. She pushed his cup of tea towards him.
“Billy, have a look at this photograph of Albert Durant. What do you think—notice anything?”
Billy reached and took the photograph. “Looks very official, doesn’t he?”
“It’s a private bank, where he worked—small, not like some of the bigger concerns. This one is more for investments. Every member of staff has his or her photograph taken for the personnel files—that’s why it looks official.”
“And he looks older than thirty-eight or -nine—wasn’t that his age? More like sixty-five. Mind you, I’m no oil painting, am I? I bet he saw a battle or two, that one.”
Maisie shook her head. “According to this, he hadn’t. He couldn’t join the army for some reason—probably his age—and came over to England during the war with other refugees.”
Billy frowned, looking up at Maisie as he placed the photograph on the table in front of her. He was silent for a moment, as if considering how to express his thoughts.
“You know what you always say, don’t you?” He reached for his cup of tea. “About trusting your instincts—like listening to a voice inside you. Well, I’ve got one of them instincts right now that there’s a bit of information missing on this fellow. I only have to look at those eyes, miss, and I can tell you without a shadow of doubt—and that’s something for me to say, because doubt could be my middle name—but I would say he saw a battle or two, that one.” He tapped the photograph as if to underline his words. “I’m an old soldier, and it was only when I got back that it struck me. We all know our kind, all of us who fought in the war. I don’t care whether a man was on our side or the other side—if he was on a battlefield, I’d know it.”
Maisie stood up and went to her desk. She leafed through a clutch of papers until she found the envelope that had contained the earlier notes sent from Francesca Thomas. She looked into the envelope and reached in, drawing out another photograph. “They always stick to the inside of the envelope—I meant to check again to see if she’d sent us a photograph.” The image of Frederick Addens was informal, taken with his family, perhaps in a garden, or possibly the photographer had situated himself at the park one Sunday afternoon, the better to drum up custom from couples walking with their children, mothers pushing baby carriages, and families out for the day. Maisie passed the photograph to Billy, who took it from her and squinted.
“Frederick Addens. His face is quite clear.”
“It’s clear, all right,” said Billy.
“According to the notes, he wasn’t sixteen when he arrived in England. Too young for service, I would imagine.”
“Hmmph! There were a lot too young for service, whichever side of the line you were on.”