To Die but Once

by Jacqueline Winspear

  “If you have already received clearance for me, then I suppose I do have friends in the right places—though I certainly didn’t request such favoritism.”

  “Well, there’s not much to tell you, Miss Dobbs—or I’d ask you into the mess for a chat. Yes, we’ve had painting crews—some working on the outside, and some working on the interiors of the buildings. They’ve moved on now, and I think they’re over at our decoy site—but of course, now I’ve told you that, if I find out you’re an enemy agent after all, I’ll have to kill you.” There was a second’s delay before he grinned.

  “Oh, I don’t think you need to go that far,” said Maisie, smiling in return. “But what’s a decoy site?”

  “It’s fake—everything about it is fake. Fake buildings, fake aircraft, fake people—no, just kidding about the people—but from the air it looks like a place of substance and will draw enemy aircraft away from Andover. We have a lot going on here. I’m sure you know that.”

  “And where is the decoy?”

  “Hurstbourne Tarrant. Mind you, by the time you get there, the painters could have moved on again—that one would have been faster to go over, and perhaps not so crucial. After all, if the enemy bomb the place, we want it to look like they scored a good one with lots of fire and flames. Anything to keep them away from here.”

  “Right—I’ll go over there.”

  The officer shrugged. “You’ve got the clearance.”

  Maisie nodded, and held out her hand. “Do you fly, Captain?”

  “Oh yes—just doing a spot of desk duty today. Had a thumper of a headache this morning, so had to go to the sick bay. But I’ll be back in the air later. I’m on Blenheims.”

  “And you’re going into France?”

  The young man tapped the side of his nose and smiled. “Can’t say. Even you don’t have clearance for that.”

  And at that moment, Maisie knew this officer—who seemed far too young for such a job—would be bound for France, and with his squadron would be doing all he could to press back the German army who were fast approaching the beaches where soldiers were beginning to gather. Without thinking she placed her hand on the top of his arm.

  “Safe landings, Captain. I wish you safe landings.”

  “Much obliged, Miss Dobbs. Now then—must be getting on.” And with that he returned to his motorbike, removed his cap and pushed it down into the pannier, and pulled on his leather jacket once more, though he did not fasten it. Maisie watched as he turned the bike, and made off in the direction of the airfield buildings at speed, his jacket flapping out with the wind like a pair of wings.

  “All right, miss?” said the guard.

  “Yes, thank you. Could you give me directions to Hurstbourne Tarrant?”

  There were two guards on duty at the decoy airfield. They checked her identity card, and informed her that they had been briefed regarding her inquiry and that a small painting crew was indeed at the airfield—someone would be across to speak to her in about five minutes. As she waited, it occurred to Maisie that a decoy airfield was like any other RAF station, except for the silence, and the lack of activity. It was as if she were looking at an empty shell discarded on the beach. Twenty minutes later an approaching white dot in the distance revealed itself to be a van from Yates’ yard in London. When it screeched to a halt a few yards away from the gate, a man of about thirty years of age emerged from the vehicle, dressed in white overalls. His pale blue shirt was visible above the collar, and he wore paint-splattered hobnail boots. He reached back into the van for a cloth, and was wiping his hands as he approached Maisie.

  “Miss Dobbs?”

  “Yes, that’s me.”

  “Freddie Mayes, foreman on this job here. What can I do for you? I understand you’re looking for young Joey Coombes.”

  “Yes, that’s right—have you seen him?”

  The man shook his head. “Not for a few days—he was called off to work with another crew. Trouble is, I heard he’d gone home, back to London.”

  “Gone home? When?”

  The man ran his fingers through dark hair swept back with brilliantine, and then absently wiped his fingers against his overalls. “’Bout four days ago, I reckon. Couldn’t stand the job, all the traveling around, not sleeping in his own bed of a night.” He inspected his paint-stained hands. “He told me he wasn’t feeling right—and I told him, don’t be a silly lad. Before he knows it, he’ll be seventeen and up for conscription, and then he’ll know what getting fed up with being away from home is really like. I said to him, ‘Stay with the crew, boy—you’re in a reserved occupation, working on these airfields—you’ll go through this war safe as houses, and not end up looking down at where your legs used to be and wondering how that came to happen. I told him what my dad was like when he came home from France—I was going on five years of age, and I remember. Screaming all night, not being able to walk properly ever again, and then there was his lungs. Soon as this job came up, I was in. After all this war business, I’m going back to my street and with all the bits of my body where they should be.”

  “So, as far as you know, he went back—and should be at home,” reiterated Maisie.

  “Haven’t heard from him since he told me he’d had enough. To be honest, I think being the youngest was a bit much for him, because he’s the only apprentice on the crew.”

  Maisie nodded agreement. “Yes, that would do it, for a sensitive boy.”

  “Sensitive? Joey Coombes? Oh, let me tell you, that boy could have his moments—probably had to, some of the company he was keeping.”

  “What do you mean? The Joe I know is a good lad.”

  “Yeah, but you know what they say—it’s the quiet ones you’ve got to watch.” He gave a snorting half-laugh, dismissive in tone, and pulled a packet of Woodbines from the top pocket of his overalls. “Can’t have a smoke around here you know, not when we’re working.” He continued as he lit up and drew on the cigarette, holding it between thumb and forefinger, then inspecting the ashen glow as he exhaled smoke away from Maisie. “Couple of lads—older than Joe, I reckon—came down to see him. Said they were looking up their old friend, and when I told them he had work to do, they got all stroppy. Joe went out and had a word, and off they went. Looked like a pair of hounds to me—old enough to be in uniform, but in civvies. I asked him who they were, and he just said ‘mates.’ But I had a feeling he was well in with them though, not that I can put a finger on why.” The man looked away from Maisie before she could speak, and called over to the guardsman. “What’s the time, mate?”

  “Not your knocking off time yet, old son,” came the reply.

  A second’s laughter ensued, and Freddie Mayes turned back to Maisie. “Better be off now, miss. Work to do—and there’s a lot of it.”

  “Are you doing well out of it?” asked Maisie.

  “Earning more than we were getting for touching up mansions in Belgravia for snooty women who wanted us to match the paint with the curtains or their frocks. And on this job, Joe was getting a good wad of cash in his pay packet, for an apprentice. Shame he couldn’t take it—he was good at his work. Very precise, had good hands on him. Worker’s hands. Then off he goes, home to his mum.”

  Maisie thanked the man, ignoring the tone in his voice. She had no further questions, but watched as he walked to the van, throttled the engine into life and drove at speed back to the decoy airfield, toward empty buildings that reminded Maisie of a still body bereft of a beating human heart.

  Chapter 5

  The black motor car visible in Maisie’s rearview mirror was not close enough to be overly obvious, but it had been in her wake a little too long for her not to have noticed. The driver had signaled when she had, had braked when she had, and had remained well back when she slowed her speed. Now she would test the driver—she would not return to London. Instead she would detour across country, through Petersfield, and onward beyond Petworth, taking the road on to Uckfield and then Heathfield, across to Tunbridge Wells and
—finally—Chelstone. It would be a rare coincidence if a fellow driver were to be undertaking the long, identical journey. For her part, London could wait—she would go to see Anna, and along the way find out if she were being followed.

  It was close to Heathfield that Maisie looked into the mirror and saw only a green Morris Eight trailing behind her—she had first spotted it pulling out of a petrol station some two miles away. She breathed a sigh of relief, feeling the tension she had held in her neck ebb away. Already somewhat lighter, she decided to stop in Tunbridge Wells to buy a gift for Anna. Not a doll—Anna was not drawn to dolls, much preferring the company of the giant Alsatian, Emma, or her white pony, Lady. She enjoyed reading, so a book might be a good choice, a story they could read together. But Maisie had to take care and not spend a lot of money—it must be a gift without obvious high value, or she would be taken to task by her father—Frankie Dobbs had never hidden his concern regarding the bond that had grown between Maisie and the evacuee child.

  Maisie parked close to the picturesque area known as The Pantiles, walked to the bookshop opposite the bandstand, and chose an illustrated edition of The Railway Children by E. Nesbit. Leaving the shop with her brown paper-wrapped parcel, she realized she was anxious to reach Chelstone, and she thought, then, about how Joe might have felt, far from home, moving from place to place with the painting crew. Such dislocation might well have caused distress, leading to tension, and subsequently, headaches.

  She unlocked the door of the Alvis, placed her shoulder bag and the small parcel on the passenger seat and, having started the engine, was about to maneuver out onto the main thoroughfare when she saw a black motor car idling across the road. The driver’s face was obscured by a newspaper, but as she watched, the corner flapped down and the man behind the wheel stole a look at her vehicle. He brought up the newspaper with a sharp snap. Maisie held her breath, but moved off after another motor car had passed, and then turned right, followed by an immediate left. She pulled into a narrow lane of terrace houses to the right of a church on the corner, stopped the vehicle beyond a tree, and looked back at the road she had just left. Only a few seconds elapsed before the black motor car passed by. If she emerged from the lane now, the driver might spot her in his rearview mirror, but at the same time, she did not want to give him time to turn around and come in search of her. She slammed the gear into reverse, pulled back onto the road, and proceeded in the direction of The Pantiles. Beyond the shops was an area of rough ground surrounded by trees—she would wait there a while before making her way to Tonbridge, and then to Chelstone. And during the time spent sitting under the broad canopy of a plane tree, she had time to speculate. Who was following her? What nerve had she touched in her investigation thus far into the whereabouts of Joe Coombes? She could not imagine the landlady in Whitchurch having given her name to another person—but perhaps someone came along with a few choice banknotes and was soon in possession of Maisie’s card. Given the time of day and the encroaching evening, it would have been clear she was staying locally, so the driver had only to wait until the following day to identify her motor car as she drove through Whitchurch, and then wait for her at each stop until she was on her way back to London.

  Or could Billy’s visit to Yates’ yard have sparked interest? Perhaps he’d asked one question too many, and had set off an alarm. And now Maisie was being followed. But by whom? A government agent? A Yates employee? Someone from the military department supplying Yates with what could well be a toxic paint?

  Another hour passed before Maisie felt a sufficient level of ease to drive off, through Tunbridge Wells, skirting around Tonbridge in the direction of Chelstone, where she arrived late afternoon. When Maisie entered through the kitchen door, Brenda informed her that Anna was asleep in her room, guarded by the ever-watchful Emma.

  “How is she?” asked Maisie as her stepmother busied herself making a chicken broth.

  “Had a bit of a temperature today, but the fever broke last night and she’s full of spots, poor little mite. I put a pair of cotton gloves on her hands—stops her doing too much damage to her skin if she scratches in her sleep. She has conjunctivitis, so I go in and bathe her eyes of a morning—she smiled this morning and said she liked feeling the warm water. So now we’ve got to get some good bone broth down her—and she does like chicken, so cook over at the house sent a girl round this morning with one already cooked. She said it was roasted last night for the Canadians, but they preferred the beef. Well, they would, wouldn’t they? Strapping great men like that, what with all them prairies or whatever it is they have over there.”

  “I’ll go up to see her now,” said Maisie. “I can only stay tonight—I have a lot of work on my plate at the moment, but I’ll be back on Thursday.”

  Maisie removed her jacket and slipped it over the back of a kitchen chair. She took the wrapped book, and made her way upstairs.

  Anna was curled up in her bed, her hands clasped under her chin. Her eyes were closed, but the way Emma—lying down alongside the bed—was looking up at her young mistress, Maisie guessed that Anna was not asleep. She stroked the dog’s head, and knelt by the bed. She placed her hand on the child’s forehead and, without thinking, leaned forward to kiss the place where her fingers had just measured the girl’s temperature.

  “Auntie Maisie.” Anna’s voice was little more than a whisper.

  “Oh pet, you poor little mite.”

  “I’m all right, Miss Maisie. Emma’s here, and Auntie Brenda says she’ll let me have my broth from the pudding basin—Nan always gave me broth in the pudding basin if I wasn’t feeling well.”

  “You can have your broth in whatever bowl you want, Anna.” She ran her fingers across the little girl’s forehead again. “I have a present for you—a new book.”

  Anna nodded. Maisie set the book down as Brenda came into the room bearing a tray with a small white pudding basin filled with broth, a slice of fresh bread and a glass of Lucozade. “There you are—Anna could do with the extra glucose in the Lucozade,” said Brenda. “It’ll give her more energy to get better.”

  Maisie helped Anna to sit up, and put her arm around her as Brenda set the tray on the bed. It was as Maisie dipped the spoon into the broth and held it steady for Anna to sip, that she was aware of Brenda watching her. She looked up. “What is it?”

  Brenda seemed to purse her lips and shook her head. “Nothing. Not now, anyway.” She left the room, and Maisie continued to guide the spoon until Anna reached for it and insisted upon eating without help.

  When the child had taken all she could, and her eyes had become heavy again, Maisie made her comfortable, watched her drift into sleep, and brought the tray back down to the kitchen.

  “I took her to the lavatory, so she’s settled now.” Maisie took the basin and cutlery from the tray and began to wash them at the sink. “I’m concerned—is something else wrong with Anna, Brenda? What’s going on?”

  “I reckon the child needs to know where she stands, Maisie—makes a body weaker, not knowing your place in the world.”

  “She’s here with us, and she’s safe.”

  “But what about when this is all over? This war? Then what? You may have her best interests at heart, and you may now have some sort of power of attorney or whatever they call it—but I bet she wonders where she’ll fetch up when all the children go home.”

  “She’ll always have a place here—you know that—until . . . until we find a family for her.”

  “And that’s the rub, isn’t it, Maisie? It’s one thing you explaining things but I reckon something should be done about it. Now. Before she gets too settled here. We all love her—how could we not? But you promised to make sure she had a good home. What do you think you can do about it?”

  Maisie nodded. “I’ll talk to Mr. Klein. He’ll know what to do next.”

  “Good.” Brenda picked up a cloth to dry the crockery and cutlery Maisie had just washed. “And your friend, Priscilla—she phoned to confirm that Tim is
going to come down to Chelstone on Saturday. He’s had another falling-out at home, and he apparently said that he wanted to see ‘Tante Maisie’ because she was the only one who understood him. His mother told him you would be busy until Saturday anyway, and he was not to bother you any sooner.”

  “Oh dear—poor Pris.”

  “Poor Tim, if you ask me. Mind you, he has got a mouth on him, when he likes.”

  “It’s just his age. He’ll grow out of it, Brenda. Did she say what train he was catching?”

  “She said she would put him on the train from London so he can change at Tonbridge for the eleven o’clock stopping train down to Chelstone.”

  Maisie sighed. “He’s such a good boy—good young man, really. He just hates the fact that Tom appears to be proving himself—proving himself to be a man—and he hasn’t had the chance yet.”

  “He probably wants to run away, but not too far—and you two do get on, don’t you?”

  “That’s because I’m not his mother. Anyway, let’s get Dad to line up some jobs for him—and it’ll cheer up Anna no end to have him here. She has a little-girl crush on him.”

  The telephone woke Maisie at half past six in the morning. At first its ringing came as part of a dream, a sound in the distance along a tunnel where she was searching for something—she did not know what it was that was lost, but in the dream her anxiety increased until she awoke, her heart pounding.

  “Hello—” In her half-sleep, Maisie could not remember the number to recite to the caller.

  “Miss Dobbs—still having sweet dreams, are you?”

  “Good morning, Inspector—isn’t this rather early for you?”

  “Early when there’s work to be done, and you know what they say about the early bird.”