Jack Barker greeted Maisie outside Warren Street station, doffed his cap and bid her good evening.
"Miss Dobbs, and a good evenin' to you. My, you are a sight for sore eyes at the end of the day."
"Mr. Barker, thank you, although I am sure I'll be better when I get a cup of tea inside me."
"You should get that Billy to make you a cuppa. Does too much jawing of a working day, that one. Do you know, I 'ave to tell him sometimes that I'm busy and can't keep puttin' the world to rights with 'im."
Maisie grinned, knowing by now that Jack Barker could talk the hind leg off a donkey, and that the same complaint about Jack was likely to come from Billy Beale.
"Well, Billy's a good 'un, isn't he, Mr. Barker?"
"'E is that. Amazing how fast 'e can move with that leg. You should see 'im sometimes, running 'ere and there, 'dot and carry one' with that leg. Poor sod. But at least we got 'im back 'ere, didn't we?"
Maisie agreed."Indeed, Mr. Barker, at least he came home. I'd best be on my way, so I'll bid you good evening. Any reason to buy the latest edition before I rush off?"
"All bloomin' bad if you ask me. Threadneedle Street and the City in a rare two-an'-eight. They're talking about a slump."
"I'll leave it then, Mr. Barker. Goodnight."
Maisie turned into Warren Street, walking behind two women students from the Slade School of Art, who were making their way back to lodgings nearby. Each carried an artist's portfolio under one arm, and giggled as the other recounted her part of a story about another woman. They stopped to speak to a group of young men who were just about to enter the Prince of Wales pub, then decided to join them. They pushed past a woman dressed in black, who had been standing outside the pub smoking a cigarette. She shouted at them to look out, but her warning was met with more giggles from the students. She was soon joined by a man, who Maisie suspected already had a wife at home, for he betrayed himself by quickly looking up and down the street before taking the woman by the arm and hurrying her inside the pub.
"It takes all sorts," said Maisie in a low voice as she passed, and continued on down Warren Street to her office.
Maisie opened the door that led to the dark stairwell, and as she went to turn on the dim light to see her way up the stairs, the light over the upper stairwell went on and Billy Beale called out.
"'S only me, Miss. See your way up?"
"Billy, you should be knocking off work by now, surely."
"Yeah, but I've got some more news for you. 'Bout that fella you was askin' about. Weathershaw. Thought I'd 'ang about in case I don't see you tomorrow."
"That's kind, Billy. Let's put the kettle on."
Maisie led the way into her office, turned on the light, and went to put the kettle on the small stove.
"And that telephone has been ringing its 'ead off today. What you need is someone to help you out, Miss, to write down messages, like."
"My telephone was ringing?"
"Well, that's what it's there for, innit?"
"Yes, of course. But it doesn't ring very often. I tend to receive messages via the postman or personal messenger. I wonder who it was?"
"Someone with an 'ead of steam, the way it was ringing. I was working on the boiler, making a fair bit of noise meself, and every now and again, there it went again. I came up a couple of times, t'see if I could answer it for you, but it stopped its nagging just as I got outside the door--I c'n use me master key in an emergency, like. I tell ya, I nearly got me kit and put in a line so that I could answer it downstairs meself."
"Pardon?"
"Remember, Miss, I was a sapper. Let me tell you, if I could run a line in the pourin' rain and on me 'ands and knees in the mud--and get the brass talkin' to each other while the 'un's trying to knock me block off as I was about it--I can bloomin' well do a thing or two with your line."
"Is that so, Billy? I'll have to remember that. In the meantime, whoever wants to speak to me will find a way. Now then, what do you have to tell me?"
"Well, I was askin' round some of me old mates, about that Vincent Weathershaw bloke. Turns out one of the fellas knew someone, who knew someone else, you know, who told them that 'e wasn't quite all there after one of the big shows."
Billy Beale tapped the side of his forehead, and Maisie inclined her head for him to continue.
"Lost a lot of men, 'e did. Apparently never forgave 'imself. Took it all upon 'is shoulders, as if 'e was the one that killed them. But what I also 'eard was that some funny stuff went on between 'im and the big brass. Now, this is all very shaky, but . . . ."
"Go on, Billy," Maisie urged.
"Well, Miss, you know, if truth be told, we were all plain scared 'alf the bloomin' time."
"Yes, I know, Billy."
"O' course you do, Miss. You know, don't you? Blimey, when I think of what you nurses must've seen . . . anyway, if the truth be told, we was all scared. You didn't know when you were going to get it.
But some of 'em. . . ."
Billy stopped, turned away from Maisie, and took the red kerchief from his neck and wiped his eyes.
"Gawd--sorry, Miss. Don't know what came over me."
"Billy. It can wait. Whatever you have to tell me. It can wait. Let me pour that tea."
Maisie went to the stove, poured boiling water from the kettle onto the tea leaves in the brown earthenware teapot, and allowed it to steep. She took two large tin mugs from the shelf above the stove, stirred the tea in the pot, then poured tea for them both, with plenty of sugar and a splash of milk. Since her time in France, Maisie had preferred an army-issue tin mug for her private teatimes, for the warmth that radiated from the mug to her hands and to the rest of her body.
"There you are, Billy. Now then . . ."
"Well, as you know, Miss, there were a lot of lads 'o enlisted that were too young. Boys tryin' to be men, and blimey, the rest of us weren't much more than boys ourselves. And you'd see 'em, white as sheets when that whistle blew to go over the top. Mind you, we was all as white as sheets. I was barely eighteen meself."
Billy sipped his tea and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
"We'd 'ave to get 'em under the arms, shove 'em over, and 'ope that the push would get 'em through. And sometimes one of 'em didn't make it over."
Billy's eyes misted over again, and he wiped them with the red kerchief.
"And when that 'appened, when a boy was paralyzed with fear, like, 'e could be reported for cowardice. If 'e'd been seen afterwards, not 'avin' gone over with the rest of his mates, the brass didn't ask too many questions, did they? No, the poor sod's on a charge and that's it! So we 'ad to look out for each other, didn't we?"
Drawing the red cloth across his brow, the young man continued his story for Maisie.
"Court-martialed, they were. And you know what 'appened to a lot of 'em, don't you? Shot. Even if some of 'em weren't quite so innocent, villains getting up to no good when they should've been on the line, it ain't the way to go, is it? Not shot by their own. Bloody marvelous, ain't it? You pray your 'ead off that the Kaiser's boys don't get you, then it's your own that do!"
Maisie allowed silence to envelop them and held the steaming mug to her lips. This was no new story. Only the storyteller was new to her. Happy-go-lucky Billy Beale.
"Well, this Vincent Weathershaw, as far as the brass were concerned, was a soft one with 'is men. Said it was enough with the trenches and shells killing 'em without their own 'avin' it in for 'em. Apparently they wanted to 'arden this Weathershaw up a bit. I don't know the 'ole story, nowhere near, but from what I've been told, 'e was commanded to do a few things 'e didn't want to. Refused. There was talk of strip-pin' 'im of 'is commission. The word is that no one quite knows what 'appened, but apparently, it was after these rumors went about, that 'e sort of lost 'is 'ead and started to do all that daft business, walkin' around without the 'elmet on in front of the other lot. Then, o' course, they got 'im--at Wipers--Passchendaele. Not far from where I copped it, really, but it seemed like 'undreds of miles at the time."