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 directed 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?”