“I can telephone you back,” said Maisie. “Give me your number.”
Sylvia Preston read out the number and hung up. Maisie dialed, and heard one ring before the WAAF answered.
“Yes, thank you.” She sounded breathless.
“Are you all right?” asked Maisie. “You’re not in any danger?”
“I’m in danger every day—but not the sort you mean.” The young woman gave a half-laugh, almost a snort. “I ran to get to the telephone, and now I’m trying not to breathe in for the terrible smell in here. I don’t know why people have to do some of the things they do in a telephone box. Anyway, let me tell you what I think you should know.”
“Go on,” said Maisie.
“I heard you talking to the landlady when you came down. She didn’t quite tell you everything. There were two men came to see Joe—both of them turned out very well indeed, looking like they were in the pictures. Not in uniform—but not everyone is, though they both looked like they should be. One was about my age, I would imagine—twenty-one, twenty-two, something like that. And the other was older, thirties—he reminded me of my brother who’s thirty-six . . . I know, don’t ask about the age difference between us. I reckon my mum kept away from my dad for fifteen years after the terrible time she had when my brother was born!”
Maisie smiled, then prompted Preston. “But there must have been something a bit off, for you to notice them—what didn’t you like?”
“I didn’t like the way they spoke to him. I couldn’t hear the words, but as they walked a little way down the road, I didn’t like the tone—I could hear them, friendly enough first of all—they called him ‘Joe,’ so they knew him—well, the younger one did. The other one was more . . . more officious, I would say. Nice enough, handing out the ciggies—Joe shook his head, he was a good boy, really he was. Shouldn’t have been away from home, I reckon. Then I couldn’t hear anything, but I could see, and Joe just kept shaking his head, and then the younger one got him by the arm—you know, grabbed his upper arm—and turned toward him. I don’t know what he said, but it looked like Joe was scared—he held his head down, as if he didn’t want to look up into their faces.”
“Did he go off with them?”
“No, he didn’t. They had a motor car though—I saw them get into it. But here’s what happened—another one of the painters, Freddie Mayes, came along in the van, and stopped alongside them. I can’t be sure, but I think he knew them. Well, he knew the older one. The younger man was in the black motor car already. And Joe got into the van, as if it had been a life raft come to save him. I couldn’t make out his face, but you can see these things by the way people move—he clambered in that van sharpish.”
“Then?” promoted Maisie.
“Then the van drove off, and so did the motor car—the motor went out on Winchester Road, and the van in another direction—I don’t know which airfield they were at that day.” There was a pause on the line, before Preston continued. “That’s about it, Miss Dobbs. As I said, our illustrious landlady didn’t tell you quite everything.”
“Thank you, Miss Preston,” said Maisie. “I appreciate you getting in touch—very much indeed.”
“Well, I had to—we all liked Joe, us girls. He took our teasing in good heart, but he was a good boy.” She paused, and Maisie thought she heard her begin to weep.
“Are you all right, Sylvia?”
“I just think it’s terrible—that’s he’s missing, that he’s gone off somewhere. Probably to get away from those blokes, if I know anything. Do you think you’ll find him?”
Maisie drew breath and closed her eyes. Giving news of a death was never straightforward, the words caught in her heart and in her throat. “I’m so sorry, Sylvia. Joe’s body was found a few days ago—he’s dead, I’m afraid.”
There was silence on the line, after several seconds punctuated by a sniff, and a cough. “It wasn’t an accident, was it?” said Preston, her words stumbling out as she sobbed. “I tell you, Joe was scared, Miss Dobbs—I don’t know what he was scared of, but he had fear written all over him during that last week I saw him.”
“Would you know those men again?” asked Maisie.
“The younger one, probably. But I know how easy it is to make mistakes, so I would have to be careful.”
“You’re to be commended for your reticence, Sylvia, and—”
Before Maisie could say more, Preston broke in. “I’ve just had enough of death and bodies, really I have.”
“What do you mean?”
“My job—look, sorry, I’m not supposed to talk about it.”
“I can be trusted—if you want to get something off your chest.”
Silence again, and more sniffing. “I’m a driver, Miss Dobbs. They taught me to drive and I thought I would be driving the officers up and down to London, and out to other airfields, that sort of thing. But you know what I do? I drive an ambulance.”
“An ambulance? For practice drills?”
“I suppose you could say that, but the death is real.”
“You’re going to have to explain that to me, Sylvia—I’m not quite following you.”
“They’re training the army to parachute—all these boys coming down in big lorries so they can practice parachuting, for taking on the Germans over there. I don’t know when they think they’re going to do that, what with everyone talking about an invasion. But the army has already started them practicing at their barracks, jumping off walls, so they know how to land. Then they bring them here to jump from aircraft. They go up over Salisbury Plain, that’s one place. We wait in the ambulances as they come down. We don’t pick up many injured—if you land wrong, you’re dead, easy as that. If I get one with a sprained ankle or a broken leg, or a collarbone, or what have you, I feel as if I’ve been let off light. Most of the time I’m with another girl loading up dead lads whose legs have gone right up through their bodies, or they’re completely smashed up. That’s my job. One time I had to drive back across Salisbury Plain in the dark, on my own, with six dead boys in the back of my ambulance, so no one would see, no one would know. And I tell you, I don’t think aeroplanes were invented for people to suddenly get up off their seat and jump out of a door. But that’s me.”
“I am so very sorry, Sylvia,” said Maisie. “I had no idea.”
“Oh, no one has any idea. And to think I was pleased to be a driver—working outside, on the move, and none of this stuck indoors doing meteorology or typing up reports for the brass. Now I drive a death wagon—that’s how it feels.” She paused, drawing breath before continuing. “You won’t tell anyone, will you?”
“I promise, Sylvia.”
“Right. I’ve got to go now.”
“Thank you very—” Maisie was expressing gratitude to the continuous hum of the disconnected call.
When she had raised her head from her hands, with the image of young women lifting the terribly damaged bodies of equally young men still in her mind’s eye, Maisie reached for the telephone receiver and dialed a number she knew by heart. A man answered, a clerk to the solicitor she was seeking.
“Hello, Anthony—is Mr. Klein there, please?”
“Yes, Your Ladyship—I will tell him you’re waiting. One moment, please.”
There was silence on the line, and then a series of clicks before the measured tones of her solicitor echoed down the line.
“Maisie. How lovely to hear from you—it’s about time we had a chat about your affairs. I’m afraid, what with the war, I am concerned with regard to the properties in France, however—”
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Klein—it’s so impolite of me to interrupt, but I would like to speak to you about Anna.”
“Ah, yes. I have held back, but if you wish, I will take your instructions to find a good family for her.”
“Mr. Klein—I . . . I . . .” She felt herself falter. “Mr. Klein, I think I . . .”
“We’d better meet, Maisie. I believe I understand completely. Are you about to leave town, or can you come to my office?”
“I’m catching a later train today. I daresay Anna is resting in any case—she has measles.”