Maisie opened the French doors that led into the walled garden from the sitting room, and went into the kitchen to put away the few grocery items she had brought back from Chelstone. She placed a bottle of milk in her new refrigerator, a half loaf into an enamel bread bin on the table, and poured a quarter pound of Brooke Bond tea into the caddy. Slipping off her pale blue summer jacket, she hung it over the back of the chair, filled the kettle with water and put it on the stove. Standing by the stove, staring at the flame licking up around the kettle, Maisie began to formulate a plan for the following day. Teddy Wickham—she wanted to talk to the young man who had decreed that Joe Coombes was on “top form.” And she wanted to see the place where the lad’s body had been found—there had been no time to pay a visit when she had been brought to Hampshire to identify the body. She would have to speak to Detective Inspector Murphy to gain access to the area, but she had found him to be an approachable man, so did not envisage a problem with her request.
She made a pot of tea, poured a cup and set it on a small wooden tray along with a slice of bread and jam she had prepared while waiting for the kettle to boil, then went into the garden, switching on the wireless as she passed.
Maisie had become quite used to the barrage balloons bobbing in breezes high above, as if London had been prepared for a party, not a war. But the balloons were there to deflect an attack by enemy aircraft, not to entertain. Men and women in the anti-aircraft batteries would be scanning the skies, alert for radio messages signaling imminent attack. She had almost forgotten how it might be to see the underground stations without sandbagging to protect them. And as far as keeping her gas mask with her—like many of the capital’s populace, she could not quite remember where she had last put it, and made a mental note to look in the dining room cabinet.
The drive from Chelstone, the service at the abbey, along with the bobbing barrage balloons, seemed to have a soporific effect. It was from a dozy afternoon slumber that Maisie was woken by the telephone. She was rising from the chair when it stopped, so she sat down again, thinking it could not have been very important. A chill in the air wrapped itself around her arms, and she was aware that an announcement had interrupted music on the wireless, which had been beset by poor reception.
“. . . owners of pleasure craft, able-bodied men with an understanding of navigation and offshore boating experience are asked to report to their local police station . . . those approved will . . . from Ramsgate . . . to France.”
The announcer added that the same message had been broadcast several times that day. She shivered and looked at her watch as the wireless crackled and music continued; it was almost six o’clock in the evening. She had just picked up the tray when the telephone began ringing again, but this time she moved quickly to pick up the call. She was about to recite the number when she heard her stepmother’s voice.
“Maisie, is that you?”
“Yes—Brenda? Brenda, what is it? Is it Anna? Dad? Is everyone all right?”
“Yes, yes—your father’s well and Anna’s all right too. It’s Tim.”
“Tim? What’s happened?”
“He’s not come home?”
“Brenda, what do you mean, he’s not come home? Where did he go?”
“It was after you left this morning—he came in from the conservatory just as you drove out of the gates, so must have been about seven. He said that he was going off to see a friend of his who lives in Rye. I think it was Rye. Or perhaps he said he was meeting him in Rye. Oh dear . . .” Brenda’s voice became faint, as if she were trying to remember exact details of the conversation. “Anyway, he said they were going hiking across the Romney Marshes. I asked him how he was going to get there, and he said it was all right, he’d looked up the trains and he would get a bus part of the way, if necessary. I told him I thought he should let his mother know, but he just said, ‘Oh, it’s all right, Mrs. Dobbs—she knows I’m going to see Gordon.’ He was in such a rush to get on his way, it was all I could do to make him wait while I packed up a sandwich box for him, and made him take a bottle of ginger beer. If he’s doing all that walking, he would need something inside him, growing lad like that.”
“Priscilla didn’t tell me anything about Tim going to see his friend Gordon while he was with us,” said Maisie. “And neither, for that matter, did Tim.”
“That’s as may be, but he’s gone, and I told him quite clearly that he had to be back by four o’clock, or it wasn’t fair to you, as you’re responsible for him.” She sighed—but Maisie could hear it was an angry sigh, a sigh of frustration. “I don’t think he liked it—being told that, but he said he would be back on the train that gets into Tonbridge at twenty past three, so he would be back at Chelstone in good time. He left about half past seven, marching off with his knapsack. And he’s not back.”
Maisie laced the telephone cable around her fingers. Tim had been pushing against boundaries for a while, but he had never crossed a line with her. Yet she knew he had been shocked at seeing young men not so much older than him coming back from France. And Tim was a bright lad—he would have taken account of the steady escalation of news regarding the German advance and the precarious position of the army. A deep collective sense of emergency was being felt by the British people; the plight of “our boys” was a national tragedy in the making—the news reports were full of it. And Tim could have overheard his father discussing the situation; after all, in his position with the Ministry of Information, Douglas was privy to reports from military intelligence.
“Brenda—did Tim make any telephone calls that I don’t know about? He’s usually very polite and will ask permission even to place a call to his mother.”
“Not as far as I know, but—”
“But what?”
“Well, it was when you were tucking in Anna last night and reading her a story—before you sat down to a late supper with Tim. You were in with her or a while, because you were putting calamine on her spots, and bathing her eyes—those poor eyes, so sticky with this measles—and Tim said he was just going out for a walk across the field. He took Jook with him. Now, you know as well as I do, that when you go over the stile at the other end of Top Field, you’re at the crossroads, and there’s the telephone kiosk, right next to the bus stop.”
“The bus that goes to Tenterden, where you can change for Rye.”
“Oh dear,” said Brenda. “Where do you think he’s gone?”
Maisie felt her heart beating almost to her neck. “It’s what he’s done as much as where he’s gone.”
“But where? He’s only a lad,” said Brenda.
“Now, you mustn’t worry, Brenda. I’ll get him back—I think I know where he is. You look after Anna for me—and tell her Tim will be home soon.”
“Your voice, Maisie—I can hear it—you’re frightened.”
“It’s all right, Brenda—we’ll find him, one way or another. Now, I must go. I must speak to his mother.”
“Maisie, what joy—you’re back! Of course I knew because—” Priscilla was holding a cocktail in one hand as she opened the front door. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“Let’s go in, Priscilla—is Douglas at home?”
“It’s Sunday evening—where else would he be but his study?”
“Call him, Priscilla, please.”
Priscilla ran to the bottom of the staircase and called out, “Douglas! Douglas? Come down—now. It’s important.”
Maisie heard a door open close to the stairs on the first floor, and Douglas Partridge looked over the banister.
“Maisie, lovely to see you—but what’s going on?”
“I must speak to you about Tim,” said Maisie.
In the hall, Maisie recounted Brenda’s concerns that Tim had not arrived home on time.