“Oh, that’s all right, I’m sure he’ll turn up soon,” interrupted Douglas.
Priscilla shook her head. “Go on, Maisie—I can tell you’re worried for good reason. Where do you think he is?”
“With his friend Gordon.”
Priscilla was about to counter, but Douglas interjected. “I know what Maisie’s thinking. Yes, they live in Rye—and yes, they have several boats—as far as I know a rowing boat, one of those slipper boats, a sailing yacht and a motor launch of some kind. Perhaps two. Not sure if they keep them all in Rye though—I mean, the man has a veritable fleet.” He turned to Priscilla. “Hasn’t Tim sailed out of Broadstairs with them? Gordon has older brothers, all in the services now, I believe—and the father has a lot of money to spend on his passion, which is the sea.”
Priscilla looked at Maisie. “Tell me, Maisie. Where is he?”
“I don’t know if you’ve heard the news—I only heard part of the broadcast because my wireless has such bad reception—but there was an announcement, a call for owners of pleasure craft who have boating experience. I don’t know, but following the news lately, I think it’s to assist in the evacuation of the expeditionary force from France. I imagine it’s turned into an all-out push now.” She paused, biting her lip, looking from Douglas to Priscilla. “I doubt just anyone can take a boat and go—the authorities wouldn’t allow it, but . . . but putting two and two together, I think Tim and his friend might have sailed out to find a way to join the flotilla gathering in the Channel. I know very little about this, but . . . but Tim is so desperate to prove himself, he would not think twice about it. And if Gordon’s brothers are all in the services, I’d bet he’s of the same mind.”
Priscilla turned to her husband. “Do we have the telephone number for this boy’s parents? He’s been down there loads of times—I am sure we’ve spoken to his people. In fact, I had a word with his mother ages ago, when Tim started visiting. I’ll find it.”
Priscilla pulled open a drawer in the hall table. She pulled out an address book with gold leaf-edged pages and a burgundy leather cover. It was well worn, and when opened, Maisie could see names and addresses crossed out and rewritten.
“Here it is. The Sandersons. The mother’s name is Beatrice—that’s it, Bea Sanderson.” She reached for the telephone receiver and dialed, turning to look at Douglas and Maisie as she waited for the call to be answered. She picked up her almost empty glass and held it out toward Douglas. Her husband took the glass, but did not move. She raised her eyebrows, pursed her lips and turned away. The call was answered. “Ah yes, good evening. Yes—is Mrs. Sanderson at home? This is Mrs. Priscilla Partridge—yes, with a P, like the bird. P-A-R-T—that’s it, you’ve got it. May I speak to Mrs. Sanderson, please?” A pause. “Not at home? When might she and Mr. Sanderson return?” Another pause. “Not until tomorrow? I see. Did Gordon go with them or is he at home?” She looked at Maisie, her eyes wide, color draining from her face. “Yes. Quite. Well, if you’ve put two and two together, you will understand that Tim Partridge is my son, and Gordon is most certainly not a guest in my house.” She turned away again, facing the mirror.
Maisie thought that, in regarding her reflection, Priscilla was keeping her spirit present, keeping her resolve rock solid, so that she would not escape into herself as wave after wave of fear enveloped her.
Priscilla continued. “You must find Mr. and Mrs. Sanderson soonest. I fear both Gordon and Timothy have told lies to be able to do something together—no, I cannot say what that something is before I speak to his parents. And you can’t let me have a number for them? Right. If I do not receive a return call within the half-hour, I will not be here to speak to them.” She turned to her husband, anger and terror mapped across her face, now flushed. She pointed to the empty glass while continuing to speak to the person on the other end of the line. “Please tell them that the boys have embarked upon a rather dangerous adventure. Here’s my number.”
Maisie turned to Douglas. “I think you ought to get her that gin and tonic, Douglas—she is about to start shouting, then she’ll break down.”
Priscilla slammed down the telephone receiver just as Douglas began walking toward the drawing room.
“Can’t he bloody see that when I say I need a drink, I need one! My son has gone off on a boat in the middle of the bloody Channel when, for all I know, his brother is in a piece of tin over his head taking his life in his hands trying to stop the German army—”
“Pris—Priscilla! Stop!” said Maisie, standing in front of her friend. “Stop this right now—we have to think clearly, and Douglas had every right to listen to the call because Tim’s his son too—not just yours.”
“But what can I do? How can we stop him?” She began to cough, tears streaming down her face, her eye makeup running across her cheeks. “It’s happening again. My history is repeating itself—I’ll lose them like I lost my brothers in the last war, all three of them. Dead. Where’s Tarquin.” She turned to call up the stairs. “Tarq! Tarquin! Come down now!”
Douglas emerged from the drawing room, a full glass of gin and tonic in his hand. Priscilla’s husband had lost an arm during the last war, and walked with a pronounced limp. He struggled to manage his cane and Priscilla’s drink—but his voice was strong.
“Stop! For God’s sake stop and think, darling! Tarquin is not at home. If you remember, Elinor was here and has taken him out—they’re not due back yet. You can leave a note for them. Now then, first we should find out if we’re completely wrong and Tim has just gone for a sail, or if he’s really made for the French coast. Indeed, he could still be hiking across Romney Marsh.”
“Well, of course he’s gone to France, Douglas—of course he has,” said Priscilla.
“Maisie?” said Douglas, as he handed the fresh cocktail to his wife.
“I’m inclined to agree with Pris.” She sighed. “I know very little about nautical maps, but I have an ordinary map, one that includes the coast. I’ve had a look at it, and I suspect that, if Tim and his friend have indeed answered the call for seagoing craft, they would not have joined the flotilla in Ramsgate—I am sure the authorities have carefully registered boats they wanted to requisition. I imagine Tim and Gordon would have made their way out into the Channel and slipped in with other vessels.”
“Oh hell! I don’t know where to go, or what to do! But I know I can’t stay here and just worry until he walks through the door—or until there’s a policeman on the doorstep telling me he has bad news,” said Priscilla, her free hand on her forehead, as she lifted the glass to her lips and took several generous sips.
“There’s little you can do, Pris—but if you must be on the move, perhaps you and Douglas should go down to Ramsgate, and ask questions—someone might have seen them. And if they come in, you can stop them.”
Douglas cleared his throat. “Maisie—you go with Priscilla. I will hold you up if I go.”
Maisie watched as Douglas looked away in an attempt to control his emotions. She turned to Priscilla, who was staring at her husband, her own eyes filled with tears.
“I think you should discuss the situation,” said Maisie. “You might hear from the Sandersons soon in any case—and all the worry might be for naught. If it is, then it’s my fault, for which I am incredibly sorry—but I listened to Tim when he arrived at Chelstone yesterday, and he was full of what he had seen at Tonbridge station, as early evacuees from France were traveling through. In any case, I’ll go and make ready to leave.”
Maisie turned away, though as she reached the threshold she looked back to see Priscilla take her husband’s outstretched hand.
“Oh Tim, you young fool,” she whispered as she ran down the steps.