“What? Something’s off. What is it?”
Maisie was used to thinking on her feet, to making snap decisions when a life was threatened, or an investigation was reaching a crucial point. Given what she knew of Doreen’s vulnerability in the face of bad news, and the threat of mental breakdown that had never quite left her, she might be able to circumvent Billy’s wife suffering a serious psychological response to her son’s life being at risk. If Billy knew now about the situation in France, it would give him time to reach Doreen before news left Westminster for Fleet Street, before the morrow’s early newspapers were stacked onto trains; trains that would take the escalating news to every household in the country—news of Britain’s vulnerable army fighting for its life, and a possible eventual evacuation of the expeditionary force from the coast of France. An army of men—of husbands, brothers, sweethearts, sons—and yes, daughters too, for she knew there were young women ambulance drivers and telephonists with the Auxilliary Territorial Service over in France.
Maisie remembered being at Chelstone, in the spring of 1918—why was she there? Was she convalescing, following her own wounding in France? Yes it must have been, because she was walking at a slow pace through the village—if she moved any faster she would lose her balance. She had watched as the messenger boy went from house to house. Soon it seemed everyone was on the street, women calling to each other, telling children to find the men working out in the fields. “Who have we lost? Who have we lost?” they cried, each holding out their own telegram, just delivered following the Spring Offensive. For everyone knew everyone else, and every boy had grown to manhood with a family of mother, father and village. A man and woman might have lost their son—but they had also lost his best friends, and the boys who had played football together in the street after school, and cricket on the green in summer. “Who have we lost?” The words echoed in her ears.
“What, miss—what is it? Is it Doreen? Our little Lizzie?”
Maisie knew then that she must tell Billy, for instead of asking for Margaret Rose, his youngest child, who had been evacuated to the country with her mother, he had uttered the name of a daughter now dead—dear little Lizzie Beale, who had succumbed to diphtheria so long ago. An ingrained fear of loss had caused him to call out the wrong name. She must give him the opportunity to reach Doreen before news reached her first—surely they had time. And surely “planned” on the part of the government meant that something might not need to be put into action. There might still be a chance of success. After all, the information she’d received could be incorrect, superseded by developing events. But this was war, not a game—and if it were true, that Churchill had given instructions for plans for evacuation of the BEF to be drawn up, it meant that the situation was grave.
“Billy—you know Vivian at the pub is a telephonist on the government exchanges, and—”
“What of it?” Billy frowned, his tone had become short.
“She’s bound by the Official Secrets Act, but she told her mother and father that she had overheard a conversation between callers at . . . at a very high level, discussing orders for a possible evacuation of the expeditionary force in France. The Germans have moved into the Netherlands and Belgium, and it is feared it will only be a matter of time before France falls. Our army is in fierce combat with the Germans, and already men are making their way to the coast of northern France.”
Billy ran the fingers of one hand after the other through his hair. “Blimmin’ hell—they’re still digging up soldiers from the last war across that Somme valley, and now there’ll be even more.” He rested his head in his hands. “My son. My boy . . . what will we do? What will Doreen do? We can’t lose him.”
Instinctively Maisie moved to his side.
Sandra checked the sleeping baby in his carrycot, and stepped across toward the door. “I’ll make tea—we could all do with a cup.”
Billy pointed at the carrycot. “Make sure you take that boy somewhere where they’re neutral, Sandra—make sure you and Lawrence get away and take him where no one will ever be knocking at the door and wanting him for soldiering.”
“Billy, I brought the motor car with me this morning, and I’ll drive you down to Hampshire without delay if you think it best to go to Doreen. I just have to place a couple of telephone calls and I’ll be ready to go.”
“What about the petrol, miss?”
“I’ve motor spirit coupons in my bag, so I’m all right—let’s think ourselves lucky, as I was about to retire the Alvis to the barn at Chelstone for the duration.”
Billy sat down on the chair vacated by Mrs. Coombes. He leaned forward with his arms folded and resting on his knees, his gaze toward the floor. When he spoke, his voice was low. “I know there’s thousands of lads over there, and I feel for every one of them and their mums and dads, and their wives, their children. But I never wanted my Billy to go, not after what I saw the last time around. And they said it would be different. War’s always the same though—politicians square off and ordinary lads do their dirty work. I’d stick all of them ministers in a field—all of them, all of these big nobs from every country what wants a fight, and I’d let them have all their blimmin’ weapons and tell them to get on with it. Leave us ordinary people alone to live our lives. That’s what I’d do.”
Maisie knew it would be of no use to comment. His need, now, was to be with his family.
“What’ll I do about Bobby?” Billy wiped his hand across his forehead. “I can’t believe it—for a minute I forgot all about my other boy.”
“It’s all right, Billy—you’re reacting as anyone might in your situation. Now then, let’s plan to leave within the hour, and I’ll have you down to Hampshire in next to no time.”
“Won’t the train be faster?” said Sandra as she returned to the room with a tray set with a teapot, milk jug, and sugar. She set it down on her desk, and moved to pick up two cups and saucers along with the china mug favored by Maisie, which were kept on top of the filing cabinet.
“Billy—what do you think?” asked Maisie.
“Um—the train might be faster, but first I’ve got to get on one going to Whitchurch, and then there’s the bus from there to the village—well, hamlet, more like, closer to Doreen’s aunt. And I’ve got a walk after that.”
“Right—here’s what we’ll do. Billy—I’ll take you, no arguments. Sandra, can you get a message to young Bobby—let him know his dad has had to go down to Hampshire for work.” She turned back to Billy. “I’m sure he can look after himself, but is there anyone you want to look in on him?”
“Mrs. Relf, the neighbor. She’s a good ’un, and she’s taken a shine to Bobby—said she reminds him of the boy she lost on the Somme.”
“Right—Sandra, would you get a messenger to take a note to Mrs. Relf—ask her to kindly look out for Bobby when he gets home from work.” She turned to Billy. “Didn’t you tell me he’s doing a lot of overtime at the garage, converting motor cars for war work?”
“He won’t be home before seven. Like I said this morning—I don’t even see him much on a Sunday, because he’s so tired, he’s not out of bed before noon.”
“Not to worry, miss—I’ll look after everything.” Sandra reached for the telephone receiver. “I’ll get Lawrence and we’ll drive over to Billy’s later, if need be. And don’t you worry either, Billy—he’ll be all right. Bobby’s more or less a man now anyway, so he won’t want too many women fussing over him.”
“He might be a man, Sandra—but just like his brother, he’s still my boy.”
Chapter 3