Sandra had left a few messages for her on top of a leather-bound blotting paper book that held a letter to be signed between each leaf. Maisie flicked through the messages, stopping at one in particular. She drew the light down to read.
A woman named Sylvia Preston telephoned, and said she was with the WAAF in Hampshire—apparently she had telephoned the office a couple of times, but there was no answer, so I didn’t speak to her until she tried again on Wednesday afternoon. She says she had been a lodger in the same house as Joe Coombes until he left recently—though she added that she has been sent to a new billet now. She explained that she overheard your conversation with the landlady, and she thought she should telephone, as she would like to speak to you personally. The landlady had left your card on the hall table, so she was able to obtain your telephone number. She is stationed at one of the airfields, but would not say which one. It’s very difficult for her to place a call to you given her hours, however, she said she could wait at the telephone kiosk in Whitchurch on Sunday evening at seven o’clock.
A number was inscribed below the message.
Maisie walked across to the window, and fingered back the curtain just enough to look down through the grainy darkness onto the yard at the back. A sliver of light from the occupant’s not-quite-closed blackout curtains illuminated the fact that nature had finally yielded to the attention of a committed tenant. She could discern the outline of a series of terra-cotta pots holding geraniums, pelargoniums and hydrangeas, and since war had been declared, the tenant had begun to grow vegetables in a series of wooden boxes. It reminded Maisie that she should have done the same and started her own vegetable garden. As an island, Britain depended in part upon its merchant navy to keep the larders stocked, and that merchant navy was now at risk from U-boat attack—the people of Britain understood only too well that men were risking their lives to put food on their tables. In the newspapers and on posters, it had been made clear that if everyone took responsibility for growing some vegetables, it would help keep families fed over the long haul of war.
She admonished herself for not calling earlier to speak to Sandra. Indeed, it was likely that Sandra had telephoned Chelstone to recount the messages, but had missed her. She sighed with frustration—she could have learned something important from Sylvia Preston—why else would the WAAF have made the effort to contact her? Turning away from the window, Maisie ensured the curtains met with no room for light to escape. She knew she would feel a greater control if she worked on a case map—it would give her direction and insight.
Joe Coombes deserved an advocate, someone who would speak for him, someone who would seek out the source of his ill health, and ultimately, his death, so she set to work, taking a length of wallpaper from a basket in the corner. Billy’s friend, a painter and decorator, furnished them with the ends of rolls used in his job, and they had proven perfect for the job. It was as Maisie laid out the paper—patterned side down—on the long table set perpendicular to her desk, that it occurred to her—painter and decorator. What was Billy’s friend’s name? She stepped across to her desk and reached for the telephone. No, Billy would not be at home. But he might walk into Whitchurch to place a call to his younger son, just to check up on him. She began to dial. The telephone rang and when a voice came on the line, for a moment Maisie did not know what to say, for Bobby Beale sounded just like his father.
“Oh, I thought you were your father for a moment, Bobby—it’s Miss Dobbs here.”
“’Allo, miss—if you’re looking for Dad, he won’t be back until tomorrow. I thought you knew—he’s coming back and so’s Mum and Maggie-ro.” Bobby yawned as he finished speaking.
Maisie smiled—unlike their parents, who referred to their daughter by her full name, the boys had always called her “Maggie-ro.” But she was also concerned.
“Your mum’s coming back?”
“She misses me, that’s what it is.” Bobby laughed, and continued. “Well, probably not, but she’s coming back—not to stay, because it’s better for them down there, but she’s coming back with Dad tomorrow. I reckon he’ll give me a ring soon, just to make sure I’m behaving myself.”
“And are you—behaving yourself?”
“Can’t do otherwise, can I? What with Mr. and Mrs. Pickering coming around—driving from all that way across the water, and telling me they were just passing, as if I don’t know that petrol coupons are like gold dust. And then there’s the woman next door, popping in to check up on me. I keep saying, ‘I’m sixteen—old enough to look after meself.’”
“Could you ask your dad to telephone me, as soon as he can?”
“Will do.” Bobby followed his words with a deep sigh.
“What is it, Bobby—are you all right? I can come over if you like—make you a nice dinner.”
“I’ve loads of nice dinners in that fridge. By the way, did you know my dad bought a fridge? Never had one before and don’t know anyone who’s got one either—he said it was a surprise, for my mum. Well, it will be, because it’s full of pies. I wish Mrs. Relf would bring cake—that’s what I fancy.”
“I’ll see what I can do for you.”
“Miss—can I ask you something?”
“What is it, Bobby?”
There was silence on the line.
“Bobby?”
“It’s like this, Miss Dobbs—you remember last year, at one of your Sunday dinners, I ended up talking to Tom, the one who’s gone into the RAF?”
“Yes, I remember—I saw you were deep in conversation.”
“He’s not really what I’d call my sort, all very posh, but he was nice to me and asked about what I do, you know, being a mechanic. I was telling him how I really like working on engines, that it’s sort of like playing a musical instrument for me—not that I can play any musical instrument, but it sounded right. I told him that I listen to the engines, that I listen for them to sort of sing. I can tell when I’ve got an engine right, by the sound. I thought he would laugh, but instead he says, ‘You should do an aircraft apprenticeship.’ And he told me about the college for aircraft mechanics, at RAF Halton, in Buckinghamshire. He said I’m old enough to join the RAF as an apprentice.”
Maisie felt her heart palpitate. Oh dear . . . Tom, what have you done now?
“Anyway,” Bobby continued, “he sent me a letter with all the details, and I found out how to apply. The woman in the library down the road helped me.”
“And you didn’t tell your dad, did you?”
“No. I mean, what with my brother going off into the army, I didn’t want to say anything, and it might’ve come to nothing anyway.”
“They’ve accepted you, haven’t they?” asked Maisie.
“I had to get out of my job for two days—couple of weeks ago now—to go for an interview and a medical. They got me to work on an engine too—it was really easy for me. Dad didn’t even notice I wasn’t there, because he was down in Hampshire. Anyway, the letter came this morning. I’ll be an RAF mechanic.”
“But they need your father’s signature on the permission form—is that it?”
“Yes.” Bobby Beale paused again. “He’ll do his nut. He won’t see that it’s a better job with more prospects than me converting old cars for the ARP, and spending my life in that garage. I mean, I’ve learned a lot, but I know I’m good at engines—I really am. Once I’m trained on aeroplanes, well, that’s me—set. Tom says that when this war is over, you watch, people will be going everywhere on aeroplanes, much more than they do now. I’ll have a job for life, and I could go to other places. I could even go across the world. And Tom says they have engineers on some of the actual aeroplanes. They have engineers on bombers. I could work my way up.”
“You want me to talk to your dad, don’t you?”
“He listens to you, miss. He says you think the right things. And what with my mum—you never know what’s going to happen. All I know is that if it wasn’t for Maggie-ro, she would be back in the nuthouse.”