“Every conversation that takes place in my office is held in strict confidence, Mr. Coombes—Phil.” Maisie laid her hand upon her chest.
Coombes pressed his lips together, then continued. “Turns out the job was to take the crew to every single airfield or RAF station in the whole of the British Isles, with the most important being the ones within striking distance of the coast—they were to be the priority. Here’s how Joe explained it to me—the lads on the crew go in a Yates’ van down to a place—as far as I know, they’ve just been in Hampshire, not far from Southampton and Portsmouth, as the crow flies—and when they get there they’re put up in lodgings, and they report to the airfield. Paint is brought in on a special lorry—a Yates’ lorry, not RAF, but special all the same—then they have to set about painting all the buildings with this emulsion, but only the outside for most of them.”
“Was it for camouflage? Did he say?” asked Maisie.
Coombes shook his head. “He said it was a sort of gray in color, so I suppose there was that camouflage business, but that’s not what it was for. It was a sort of—what do they call it?” He frowned. “For fire. To stop a building catching on fire—that’s it, it’s called a fire retardant.”
“Sounds like a jammy job to me—paint buildings for the government and take their money. And wasn’t it a reserved profession?” said Billy.
Coombes looked at Billy Beale. “Yes, it was a protected job—he could spend the rest of the war for however long it lasts, just painting airfield buildings for the RAF. But he said the paint wasn’t like anything he’d ever come across. Sort of thick, very viscous, he said—his word, ‘viscous.’ And he reckoned it gave him headaches, terrible headaches, what with the vapor coming off it. It sounded like strong stuff.”
“What do you mean?” asked Maisie, pressing a hand to her right temple. As Coombes described his son’s work, a headache had started behind her eyes, moving to her crown. She felt unsettled, and her vision was blurred, just for a second. “Did he describe what was strong about the paint? Just the smell?”
“Joe told me that after they’d finished putting a few coats onto each wall, they had to line up a row of blowtorches against the wall, right close to where they’d just painted it, and they had to leave them there burning for a good few hours while they moved on to the next wall, or the next building.”
“It’s a wonder the wall didn’t come down,” said Billy.
“No, it didn’t come down—that’s the thing. Joe said there wasn’t a mark on it, not even a small smoke stain. They’d run those blowtorches, and after they took them away hours later, the wall looked like they’d just finished painting.”
“And what was this emulsion called?” asked Maisie.
“Oh, it didn’t have a name. Just a number.” Phil Coombes shook his head. “Blessed if I can remember the number—I don’t know if he even told me. If I find it, I’ll let you know, because I’m sure I wrote something down.”
“And you think Joe has been affected by this paint, that he might be ill,” said Billy, making a note in his book.
“I don’t know, mate. I just know we haven’t heard, and that he hasn’t been himself lately. You know your own, and I know something’s wrong.”
Maisie allowed a few seconds of silence as Coombes’ story of his son’s work lingered in the air. “First of all, have you spoken to Mr. Yates? Or to a foreman at their works? Where’s their depot?”
“I’ve been on the blower a couple of times. A young lady in the office told me Mr. Yates would return my call, but he hasn’t. I had my other boy go round there to the works—it’s just across the river, in Kennington—and he said there was no one there to talk to. He said the typist said she’d only been in a couple of hours, and that since she arrived, everyone was out on a job, and that she didn’t have any notes regarding the whereabouts of an individual employee.”
Maisie nodded. “I would imagine all the workers are out during the day, on job sites. Do you know how Joe got on with his work mates? He was an apprentice—were there others, or was he the youngest of the crew? Do you know if the men working with him were beyond apprenticeship?”
“I reckon he was the only apprentice on the crew, and the youngest of them. The other painters were always sent all around London, working for Yates—the business lost a number to the services, so apparently it sort of balanced out when a few contracts were canceled, after war was declared. Mind you, I would imagine they’ll get it back if this government work goes well. But according to Joe, Mike Yates can manage the work still going on in London, plus this contract. The older painters and decorators are too long in the tooth for the army, so they can teach the apprentices, who are too young. They’ve got a few younger men in the crew with Joe, probably ones that don’t want to get dirty fighting. Before he . . . before he sort of changed, Joe said that they were all looking out for him, being the apprentice on the job, and that he was eating well and getting his sleep. No late nights with the boys—he was brought up in a pub, so he knows how to take care of himself.”
“What do you mean by ‘sort of changed’?” asked Maisie. “Can you be more specific? I know it’s hard, because when it’s someone we’re close to, it’s often something we feel and it’s not anything easy to describe.”
Coombes rubbed his chin. “Oh, I don’t know. It’s been four weeks since he was last home for a Saturday and Sunday. He was quiet then. Me and the missus put it down to him being a bit tired, what with knocking around the country, sleeping in different places. She thought he could do with a tonic, and even went around to Boots, to see what she could get for him. You know, it probably seemed like a big adventure at first, this job, but them lads are working at a clip, and then there were the headaches, like I said.”
Maisie allowed another moment of silence to pass before asking her next question. “Is there anything else you can add?”
Coombes shook his head. “I know he was all right before that last visit. One of Archie’s mates was stationed in the area, so he looked in on Joe at his digs in Whitchurch and said he was on top form. Those were his words. Top form. But I don’t think he’s on any top form now, or he would have picked up the blower and made a call to me and his mum. And all we know is that he’s near this place called Whitchurch.”
“Hampshire. I can—” Billy began to speak, but Maisie shook her head, aware Phil Coombes was watching her, waiting.
“As Billy was about to say, he’s making regular visits to Hampshire to see his wife and daughter. I believe he’s not too far from Whitchurch.” She paused again. “Phil—Mr. Coombes—I think I should speak to your wife. She should know you came to talk to us. I understand you don’t want her to be worried, but the thing is, I bet she is worried sick too, and it might help if she’s given the opportunity to air her feelings without thinking she’s adding to your worries. Something she says might throw more light on Joe’s situation.” Maisie smiled at Coombes. “I promise I will take care of her. And in the meantime, Billy here will go along to Yates’ yard, and have a word with them—you know Billy, he’s a terrier. He won’t be put off by anyone and will find out if something’s amiss about Joe’s working conditions. They’re probably not used to dealing with families, because their workers have always been in London, so they go home at night. Your questions might easily be settled.”
“I never thought of it that way.”
“But all the same, I am taking your concerns seriously, and we will do all we can to help.” Maisie came to her feet. “And you’re not to worry about the money.”
She caught Billy’s eye.
“I’ll see you out, mate,” offered Billy.