Maisie moved closer to Preston. “The what?”
Preston cast her glance around the tea shop again. “Chain Home stations—they’re stations where they have a special early warning system and they’ve been set up all along the coast, so we can tell when there’s an attack coming from over there. It’s using radio signals and I’ll be a plotter for what they call ‘radio detection and ranging.’ We can use this system to instantly know where the enemy aircraft are located and how many of them are coming over here, so we can get our boys up there to intercept them. We’ll be able to give a decent warning if bombers are on their way.” She leaned back and began spreading clotted cream on the remainder of her scone. “That’s all I’d better say. They’re sending me to Ventnor on the Isle of Wight, so that’s me—away from the ambulances and that terrible job. And you won’t tell anyone, will you?”
“I wouldn’t tell a soul,” said Maisie. “And I don’t think you should tell anyone else—not even your family. I think this information is too important, Sylvia.”
Maisie met Dr. Clarissa Clark at the hotel in London where she was staying while attending a series of meetings—one in connection with her findings during the postmortem on Joe Coombes.
“The interesting thing, Maisie, is that—having done more research—we discovered that while the various substances used by Robertson to thin out the fire retardant and to make it go further, were fairly nasty, they were not what was causing the more serious problems. The paint had been developed and then tested only to discover whether it had the required fire-retardant qualities. The testing was arbitrary, a very basic affair and not conducted by scientists at the level I would like to see—they just wanted the paint on their buildings to protect them, because they were racing against time.”
“Will they discontinue use?” asked Maisie.
“I doubt it, not the way they’re constructing new airfields around the country. No, it’s a time of war, so a worker who has a particularly bad reaction—someone like Joe—is only so much concomitant damage along the way.”
“That’s terrible,” said Maisie.
Clark pressed her lips together before speaking again. “It is terrible, Maisie—but so is a burning building. To die in a fire is a dreadful death—I’ve seen my fair share of burn victims and I am sure I will see many, many more before this war is done. Will there be more Joes? I don’t know—though certainly there are going to be precautions now. I’ve asked for even the most simple masks to be provided to the workers, especially those apprentices who are still so young. And I have stipulated that they should wear gloves, though they tend to limit the dexterity of the working painter. And a list of guidelines I’ve drawn up will be issued to the companies who are currently taking over the Yates’ contract—that’s what my meetings here in London have been all about.” She paused. “The thing that worries me is not what happens to these workers now, or even in a few months, or a year—it’s what happens when years have passed. This very powerful fire retardant is poison, and such contamination can remain in the body for decades, affecting every part of the human system. I am sure men will suffer in the future and never know it was all due to a job they took on when they were little more than boys.”
Tim Partridge came home to Chelstone toward the end of June, to a welcome from all but his brother Tom, who was already stationed at RAF Hawkinge, flying Hawker Hurricane aircraft and preparing for whatever might come next in his life. Anna had taken to grabbing Tim by his right hand and insisting he accompany her to the stables to help her groom Lady. And when he objected, maintaining that a person with an arm missing could hardly groom himself, let alone a pony, she replied, “Tim—you’ve got another arm, haven’t you?” And to the delight of all who observed the exchange, Tim agreed to be pulled this way and that wherever Anna wanted his company. His recovery had begun.
With her routine reestablished, of weekdays in town and toward the week’s end, the journey back to Chelstone, it was toward the end of the month when Maisie persuaded Priscilla to accompany her to Rye.
“I don’t know if I can bear to go back there,” said Priscilla. “Gordon’s funeral was hard enough on everyone. Tim was so upset that he could not leave the hospital, but I think it was for the best.”
“You should come,” said Maisie. “You know what you always say about the dragon. Look it in the eye, and then keep it mollified.”
George checked the amount of petrol in the tank, and decreed that Maisie had enough fuel in the Alvis for one more excursion. They set off mid-morning on the last Friday in June for the drive down to Rye.
Parking the motor car alongside the harbor, Maisie and Priscilla walked past fishing boats unloading their catch, and stood to remember the day Tim came home from Dunkirk.
“I still can’t believe he did it, Maisie. I’ve been moaning for the past three years that Tim was the one causing me trouble, and that this sailing lark at least kept him out of the house for a while. Now he’s the one who has surprised me the most—and of whom I am so proud.”
“They’re good young men, Priscilla,” said Maisie. “Tim was incredibly brave.”
“I can still see him struggling to bring in the boat—and that fisherman helping him do it on his own, knowing it was only right that he be given the chance.” Priscilla wiped a tear from each eye. “I think this war is going to make a lot of mothers proud—but for the wrong reasons. What was it Churchill said? You know—it was on the wireless. ‘The Battle of France is over. The Battle of Britain is about to begin.’ It makes my heart so heavy. Young men shouldn’t have to die, and their parents shouldn’t have to go through the rest of their lives making everything seem right by saying, ‘At least my boy was brave.’ Or, ‘We’re proud he did his bit.’”
A now familiar low rumble of aircraft engines caused Priscilla and Maisie to look up, hands shielding their eyes from the midday sun. Three Hurricanes flew in formation overhead, out toward the Channel.
Priscilla stood on tiptoe and waved at the departing aircraft, then turned to Maisie. “Just in case that’s my Tom up there.”
Maisie waved along with her until the aircraft were out of sight. And she wondered, then, how it must feel flying across the Weald of Kent, across Sussex, over ancient woodland and patchwork fields of barley and hops down below; over farms with oast houses, their white cowls like witches’ hats poking through the morning mist, and above market towns and small villages, with children looking up and waving as they passed, until they left the English coast behind.
“It’s time to drive back to Chelstone, Pris,” said Maisie. “They’ll all be wondering where we’ve got to.”
“And Anna will be home from school by the time we get there.”
Maisie linked her arm through Priscilla’s, and nodded. Yes, Anna would be home.