To Die but Once

  Sandra came to her feet to greet Billy as they entered the office. But before she could speak, Billy looked from Sandra, to Maisie.

  “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

  Billy was leaning forward in the passenger seat of the Alvis, as if doing so would make the vehicle go faster. His eyes were focused on the road before them, and each time traffic slowed, or a bus pulled out in front of the motor car, he made his complaint known with a shaking of the fist, or a curse directe
d toward the driver. Errant pedestrians received a loud sigh, with the exception of a woman dawdling, who was treated to a Billy winding down the side window and telling her to get a move on. Maisie knew his impatience reflected fear for his wife’s emotional vulnerability, and terror for his son.

  “You know what it does, miss, don’t you?” said Billy, leaning back in the passenger seat. “It brings it all back. That’s the worst thing about being in a war—it’s not the fighting, or the tunneling, or any of the blimmin’ terrible jobs you have to do. No, it’s the waiting. For us sappers, it was waiting for the coast to be clear—laying lines, going into tunnels, putting down explosives. Waiting to get out, waiting to get in. Waiting to go over the top. It’s the waiting that makes a brave lad cave into himself. Once you get going, once you’re doing something, you get this sort of . . . sort of feeling like a bottle of pop just went off inside you. And you get on and do your job, and when it’s done you drop. But waiting’s terrible. Waiting bears down on you. They don’t tell you about that when you’ve just enlisted and you’re square bashing in Blighty. No, you find it out once you’re over there, up to your eyes in it. I saw a bloke go down once, all his insides outside of him—I got to him and said, ‘You’re all right, mate. Stretcher bearers are coming.’ And he looked up and said, ‘Thank God—the waiting’s over.’ And that was him. Gone. And now there’s all them lads over there.”

  Billy sighed as he settled in for the journey. Houses, shops and factories were thinning out, and they began to pass fields, farms and woodland. Maisie understood only too well how important it was for her to counter Billy’s intensity with her own modulated breathing, with measured movements and responses. The fire inside her assistant was burning with a fury—she would not fan the flames. Instead she meditated upon her driving, and being safe and secure inside a shell of protection. A temper was akin to a virus, and could so easily graft itself onto another.

  “You’re going to have to direct me once we get close to Alton.”

  “The last stretch is all winding roads out to the village. It’s a terror to get to—fair wears me out, it does. Doreen says they should come home, what with nothing happening. She found out that a lot of Margaret Rose’s friends who were evacuated have gone home too—and the part of the school not taken over by the army is back in use, with a couple of teachers coming in every day. We don’t like being apart, though I sometimes think Bobby quite likes a bit of freedom when I’m off seeing his mum and sister.” He fell silent, then added, “They’re good boys, my lads. A bit of lip here and there, but they’re a pair of diamonds, both of them.”

  “Tell me what happened at Yates’ yard,” said Maisie. Not only was she eager to know, but the conversation would distract Billy. “It’s been a rush since you came back into the office,” she added.

  Billy looked at his watch. “Blimey—I can hardly believe it was only this morning. Don’t take long for the world to tip, does it?”

  “No, Billy. Sadly, it doesn’t,” said Maisie.

  “Well anyway,” said Billy, taking a notebook from his inside pocket. He opened and then closed it again. “I’d better not read while you’re driving, makes me a bit queasy. I can remember it all.”

  “Open the window if you’re feeling unsettled, Billy.”

  “I’ll be all right.” He paused, ran his fingers through his hair, took one swift glance at his notebook again, and looked ahead at the road. “I got to the works and asked to speak to Mike Yates, but he wasn’t there on account of having to go to visit a site. I should have said—when I got there, I went in through the big gates—cast iron, they are, leading onto a cobblestone yard with drains because they used to have horses and carts to take men and the paints and what have you to the jobs, but it’s all vans and lorries now, with all their tools and paints stored in the old stables. There was a lorry just getting ready to leave—couple of blokes were climbing into the cab. And it was an ordinary lorry, not RAF or army. They’d just delivered paint in big tins. Now, I’m not a painter and decorator, so I don’t know if this is normal, but these tins were more like barrels, and there were blokes from Yates’ in their whites already starting to pour the stuff into smaller containers, then putting them into the back of a van.”

  “That’s interesting—were any of the men wearing masks?”

  “You mean like doctors? Or crooks?” Billy grinned.

  “Glad to see your sense of humor hasn’t completely vanished.” Maisie gave a half-laugh. “No, I meant like doctors—it occurred to me that, if this paint—emulsion, Joe called it—is sufficiently vaporous to cause headaches, I wondered if wearing some sort of mask might help, and if they wore them at the yard, when they’re decanting the bigger containers.”

  “No, they weren’t,” Billy paused, thoughtful. “Well, I tell a lie. One bloke had tied an old rag around his face. Over his nose and mouth. And there’s more to tell on that.”

  “Go on,” said Maisie.

  “I went up to the bloke with the paperwork—he looked like he was ticking off the number of barrels—and first of all I asked him if Mr. Yates was there, and when he said no, I said, ‘Perhaps you can help me then.’ So, I asked him about Joe Coombes, and he said, ‘Oh, he’s not here—he’s on a job outside London.’ I asked him if he could tell me where, and he said he couldn’t, because it was—what did he say?” Billy pressed his lips together as he tried to remember the conversation. “‘Classified.’ That’s what he said. It was classified. He said Joe was working on a special . . . a special . . .” Billy opened his notebook, glanced at the pages, and closed it again, rubbing his eyes. “‘A special government works order.’ Then the bloke clammed up and asked, ‘And who are you?’ So I told him I was there because Joe’s dad was a mate of mine and couldn’t get away from work to come over himself, but him and his missus were a bit worried as they hadn’t heard from young Joe, and they thought he might be poorly, as he’d complained of having a bit of a head a few times. And he says, ‘Oh we all get a bit of that, mate—it’s paint what does it, especially this new stuff. That’s why Bert over there has a towel tied around his face.’ Then he told me it was all right because the lads are mainly working outside, so the fumes get dispersed.”

  Maisie was silent, as if the information imparted were a stone found at the beach, a pebble shot through with thin veins of strata, to be traced and considered as she turned the rock in her palm.

  “What you think of that, miss?”

  “Did he say anything else?” asked Maisie.

  “Not much—only that the older men look out for the apprentices, but at that age, they said Joe should have been pretty much able to look after himself.” Billy stared out of the window, then brought his attention back to Maisie. “Trouble is, they all think they’re men, these young lads, and even though I know what he meant—the bloke at Yates’ yard—fifteen and already at work for a year gives you a bit more nous than you had when you left school. But take it from me—there’s still something of the boy there, and without the beard of a man.”

  “And Joe was so attached to his family. Yet I have a feeling that he knew he would be able to establish some independence with his work. He was breaking away from Phil and Sally to grow that beard. But this government job is beginning to sound like more and more of a risk.” She paused. “Do I go right here, Billy?”

  “Ooops, yes, sorry, miss—I was miles away then, thinking. . . .”

  “Anyway, it sounds as if the government wanted the work done as fast as possible, and sent the painters out with the best fire retardant they had to hand. And perhaps they hadn’t gone through a full testing.”

  “P’raps they didn’t want to,” said Billy.

  “You could be right. Look, as soon as I’ve dropped you at the cottage, I’ll find a room at a local guesthouse—it shouldn’t be too difficult, but still pushing it a bit as it will be getting dark by then. Luckily we’re making good time, but I don’t want to be out after the blackout. Tomorrow I’ll have a look round, fin
d out where Joe was staying, talk to the landlady, that sort of thing. It’s a big county, but at least I know roughly where he was lodging, according to the notes taken when I spoke to Mrs. Coombes. I should telephone Brenda too, find out how Anna is this week. There have been some bugs going round, but so far she’s managed to remain well.”

  “The things they pick up at school. When I was a boy, if anything was going round—mumps, chicken pox, measles—my mum used to say, ‘Go on, get in there and get it and then you’ll be done with it.’ Makes me laugh to think of it. There’s some who take very bad though. My cousin went down with chicken pox and they put her in quarantine because they thought she had smallpox. That’s another nasty one.” Billy seemed to stare into the distance as if the past were on the road in front of him, then sat forward in his seat. “That turning there, miss—with the pillar box at the end of the lane.”

  Maisie swung the motor car onto the lane, continuing along the bumpy road until they reached a cottage on the edge of farmland.

  “This is it,” said Billy.

  “How far is it from the station?” asked Maisie.

  “Three or four mile,” said Billy.

  “And you walk all the way?”

  “Unless I can get a lift from the farmer, if he’s coming this way. Doreen’s aunt’s husband, God rest his soul, was one of the farm workers from the time he was a boy, and the farmer said the tied cottage is hers until she dies.”

  “Oh look, there’s Doreen with Margaret Rose now.” Maisie slowed the motor car, bringing it to a halt alongside the cottage. She shut off the engine and stepped out of the Alvis, watching as Billy’s daughter ran and launched herself into his arms while Doreen stood back, watching, smiling, yet with a questioning look in her eyes, until Billy held out a hand to bring her into his embrace. Maisie caught her breath, and for a moment she imagined laughing with James as their child ran to his arms, and then feeling his arms around them both, a family of three, beloved of each other. But James was gone now, along with all hope of motherhood, and at times Maisie thought she might lose the feeling of him, lose the image of his face, of his touch, of him reaching for her. She looked away, but heard Doreen call her name.