Addens stood up, holding out his hand to Billy, then to Maisie. “That’ll take a weight off my mind. I mean, I know the Belgian people at the consulate—or whatever it is . . . I know they’re looking out for us, sending someone around, but—”
Maisie felt both Billy’s and Sandra’s eyes upon her. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Addens—Arthur—did you say the embassy sent someone around to the house? To see your mother and Dottie?”
“Yeah. I don’t know who it was, but apparently it was a courtesy visit to ensure that the family were all right. And the bloke also said he needed documents from us, you know, my dad’s papers.” He looked from Maisie to Billy, then back to Maisie. “Do they usually do this sort of thing?”
“Where former refugees are concerned, yes, I believe so,” said Maisie.
“I don’t think Dottie liked it. Since Dad died, she’s been a bit like a terrier when it comes to protecting our mum.”
“No one could blame her for that,” said Billy.
Addens stood up. “Anyway, thank you for your time, Miss Dobbs.” He pulled the beret from his epaulette and pressed it onto his head, flattening the saucer of wool against his right ear. “Better be off. I said I’d get the garden sorted out today, before I have to go back to barracks.”
As Sandra left the room to escort Arthur Addens to the door, Maisie was aware that Billy was staring at her.
“What’s that Dr. Thomas playing at, miss?”
Maisie consulted her watch and made a note of Addens’ visit. “I don’t know—it’s all part of some great circle of secrecy.” She sighed. “And it seems we could have been given a bit more in the way of information about embassy protocols—if that’s what they are. Of course, Francesca Thomas could pull me off the case, but she hasn’t—she knows that would spike my curiosity even more. But she can try to deflect my attention.” She looked up at Billy. “There are elements here that are defying explanation—at the moment. Anyway, we should get on our way. At least the hop dust might give us a good night’s sleep.”
“And that’s something I could do with,” said Billy.
By the time Maisie pulled onto the chalky track that led to Cherry Tree Farm, it had been arranged that Billy’s new hours would be from ten in the morning until half past three in the afternoon. The amount in his wage packet would not change, but it would be left to him to undertake overtime if he saw fit and if the case required it. Maisie advised him to take the following Monday off to go to the country with Doreen and Margaret, as it had been decided they would leave London and Billy should go with them, to make sure they were settled. Apparently Bobby was working late anyway, as so many ordinary motor cars were being altered to do war work. According to Billy, his boy was spending more time welding metal to make ambulances than working on engines, but at this point, as far as Maisie was concerned, having Billy out of the office on Monday would keep him in the dark regarding her own plans.
“And Bobby says, these motors he’s working on are being given up by ordinary people—obviously people who can afford it—because they reckon this petrol rationing will get worse, and we’ll end up seeing private vehicles banned anyway. So this nice motor of yours will end up in a garage somewhere. I can’t see it being useful for real work, can you?”
“Thank you, oh prophet of doom,” Maisie teased. “In any case, I can leave the Alvis in a barn at Chelstone, if it comes to that. I’ll make do with trains and buses—it just takes longer and limits me in getting to and from some places, and in this work we don’t always have the luxury of the extra time it takes to catch a bus, do we?”
“It’s a case of having to make do.”
They drove past tall just-picked Kentish cherry trees and a field with three ponies, before the farmhouse and oasts came into view.
“I don’t know what Mr. Dobbs might say about that pony in there—the little one. She’s full of mud and dust, and it looks like she’s been picked on a bit—see, she’s standing all by herself.”
Maisie glanced at the field, then brought her attention back to the track. “Yes, Dad would sort them out, of that there’s no doubt.”
They pulled up in front of the farmhouse to find out where they might locate Leonard Peterson. Mr. Epps, the farmer—a gruff man who Maisie suspected was in his late fifties—pushed back his cap, admired the Alvis, and proceeded to tell Maisie that she would have been better off with a tractor for coming down a farm track.
“I’m surprised you’ve got an axle on that thing, what with our bumpy old road!” He scratched his almost-bald pate, and after declaring that the Alvis seemed to be “well up to it” after all, he directed them to the third hop garden on the left along the track. “And if you’re not sure, ask for Harrington—that’s the name of the hop garden where he was this morning. Oh, and I’d walk if I were you. Lucky you brought a decent pair of shoes, miss.”