"Tell you the truth, looking at this landscape now, it's best if we don't mess around with telephone lines coming too near the 'ouse. Draw more attention. No one's goin' to question an old soldier what wants to go off by 'imself for a jaunt of an evenin'. But they might question an old sapper fiddling around with a telephone line in the dark. And you know, Miss, I might be good at that sort of thing, but I never did say I was invisible. And I can't run like I used to, not with the leg 'ere." Billy slapped the side of his leg for emphasis. "But 'ere's what I can do now. I can rig up a line to that telephone box we just passed back there, on the corner as you leave the 'amlet back there. I 'ad a quick look as we drove by--not that I 'ad much time, what with the speed and all--"
Maisie grimaced at Billy, who continued. "It's one of them new ones, a Kiosk Number Four, I think. They 'ave em in places where there ain't no post office--did y'see? It's got a stamp machine on the back, and a pillar-box for letters. Sort of all purpose--mind you, me mate what works on the things says that the stamps get soggy when it rains, and then they all stick together and make a right old mess. So, anyway, getting' back to me and the old lines 'ere, if I need to get 'old of you urgent, like, or if I'm in an 'urry to get out of 'ere, I can always jump through this fence--well, sort of jump, what wiv the leg and all--and use the box and line what I rig up to connect with the outside line at that box up the road. D'you see what I mean, Miss? Then I'll run like a nutter, bad leg an' all!"
Maisie laughed nervously. "Right you are, Billy, I think I follow you. It sounds like a good idea."
Billy opened the car door, pulled himself out of the low seat, and walked around to the luggage compartment. He carefully took out two large old canvas kit bags and placed them on the ground. Taking out spools of cable, "small, so's I can work with them on me own," Billy walked over to the ditch at the base of the perimeter fence.
Moving aside grasses and wildflowers growing innocently at the side of the road, Billy began to unwind the cable into the ditch, moving away from Maisie, who remained in the car. It was a quiet thoroughfare, so they had little to fear from passing traffic, but nevertheless, country folk were apt to be inquisitive about two strangers lingering on the road. Especially if one were seen unraveling cable.
Maisie got out of the car and walked over to the fence, looking out over the land belonging to The Retreat. The perimeter fence, six feet tall and topped with barbed wire, would merge into a stone wall just half a mile along in the opposite direction to the line being laid out by Billy. The main gate was situated another half mile away from the beginning of the wall. Eventually Billy returned.
"Nicely done, and quick too. Managed to save meself some work by using the bottom wire of this 'ere fence." Billy pulled back the grass to point to the wire in question. "I hear that's what they've done over there in America, y'know--used the fences on farms to make connections between places, like." Billy pushed back his cap, and wiped the back of his hand across his forehead."Stroke of luck it bein' there--the telephone--see more of them in the towns, don't you? S'pose it's used by them what live in the terraced cottages in the 'amlet. I tell you, no one will see that line, mark my words."
Billy caught his breath, and for the first time Maisie heard the wheezing that revealed gas-damaged lungs. "You shouldn't be running like that, Billy."
"I'm awright, Miss. Now to this end." Billy held up a telephone receiver."The old 'dog and bone,' Miss. We used to say in the trenches that them as is on the end of the line only bloomin' 'ear 'alf of what's said--and then only what they want to 'ear anyway. Personally, meself, I reckon it's a poor old situation when you 'ave to make out a person's intentions from their voice in a tin cup."
Billy worked on as he spoke, wiring the receiver to a metal box he placed in the ditch before leaning in and connecting lines. He picked up the receiver, turned the dial, and listened. The operator responded at his request for a connection, charges to go to the recipient of the call, and put him through to Maurice's telephone number. They spoke briefly before Billy replaced the receiver on its cradle.
"I know it's not perfect, and it takes a bit o' time, but it might come in 'andy, you never know."
After ensuring that their makeshift telephone was hidden and secure, Billy then cut into the wire of the perimeter fence, forming a "door" through which he could escape, should escape become necessary. He secured the door with spare wire to camouflage the fact that the fence had been tampered with.
The first part of their task finished, Maisie and Billy loaded up the motor car again and drove slowly toward the main entrance to The Retreat. They said little, only speaking to confirm the time at which they would meet each evening.
Billy would take a solitary stroll at seven o'clock, which would bring him to the fence by the large beech tree at half past seven. Maisie would be waiting to meet with him for just a few moments, then he would make his way back to the main house. In all other dealings with the residents of The Retreat, there was to be nothing about him that could be remarked upon. He was to be invisible but for the bed he slept in and the food he consumed. But he was to watch, and listen and report back to Maisie.
"Welcome back to The Retreat, Miss Dobbs," said Archie as he opened the gate.
He walked toward the car, leaned down so that his face was alongside the passenger window, and addressed Billy.
"William, isn't it? The major is waiting to welcome you personally to The Retreat."
Billy Beale took the proffered hand and seemed not to see the terrible scars that had changed Archie's countenance forever. Maisie nodded to Archie, and moved the car slowly along the driveway.
"Poor bleedin' bugger--oh, I am sorry, Miss--I forget meself at times. Least I can get about and no one worries about a bit of a limp. Blimey, that poor fella, with that face. Not that I 'aven't seen worse. Just not seen it for a long time, not close up. That's all."
Maisie slowed the car even more."Billy, if you have any doubts--"
"Not likely," said Billy, straightening his shoulders. "If there's any funny business going on here that can cause any more damage to these blighters, then I want to do my bit to stop it."He paused to look at Maisie."Can't blame them for wanting to get away, can you?"
"No, you can't. But there's a lot that can be done for them now."
"Not when you've been through what they've been through. Just want to be left alone 'alf the time, I should think, never mind being messed around with by newfangled ideas of skin medicine and what 'ave you."
The car drew alongside the main building as Adam Jenkins, the major, came through the front door and down the steps toward them.
"Ah, William. Welcome to The Retreat. I am sure you will be comfortable here. Come into my study for tea, then we can get you settled later."
Adam Jenkins led the way, his white shirt once again crisply laundered, leather riding boots polished to a blinding shine, and not a hair out of place. He invited Maisie and Billy to take a seat, standing behind Maisie's chair to hold it for her, then indicating, with a nonchalant sweep of his hand, the seat by the window for Billy.
How strange, thought Maisie, that he should direct Billy to a seat that took the full strength of the late-afternoon sun, rays that would cause Billy to become hot and uncomfortable, and to have to shield his eyes with the hand that he would need to reach out for the teacup as it was offered to him. Strange to unsettle a person so.
Billy met Maisie's look and raised an eyebrow. He knows, thought Maisie. He knows that Jenkins has placed him by the window on purpose.
Ten minutes of seemingly purposeless conversation had been exchanged between Jenkins and Maisie. As befitting his character-- the tired veteran of a war over ten years past--Billy was silent. And hot. Maisie looked at Billy again. She saw the perspiration on his brow, his discomfort as he ran the forefinger of his right hand along the edge of his shirt collar.