To Die but Once

by Jacqueline Winspear

  Priscilla ran back around the motor car to take her seat once again. “Come on, Maisie. Hurry up. Hurry!”

  The policeman addressed Maisie. “Best if you follow me, miss. Best all-around.”

  “Yes, thank you, Sergeant,” said Maisie. She placed a hand on his arm, and felt her eyes fill with tears. “Really—I can’t thank you enough.”

  “All part of the job. Much prefer being the bearer of good news—and it’s not me to thank, but Constable Sheering down at Rye. He’s the one who put out the call. Now then, before your friend becomes a casualty, let’s be on our way. You follow—I’m the one with the bell.”

  Two ambulances were standing by at Rye Harbor, and members of the local Women’s Voluntary Service, with their distinctive green uniforms, had set up a table with sandwiches and flasks of tea. Another woman was folding a pile of blankets. As soon as Maisie had parked the motor car, Priscilla ran across the road toward Constable Sheering. He held out a hand as if to steady her. In the meantime, Maisie stopped to speak to the coastguard.

  “According to Mick Tate over there—in the fishing boat—he saw the Cassandra being towed back toward Rye by the Mistress Mollie, another of the fishing boats. They’d found her out there, making her way back from France, but she had almost run out of fuel. She had been attacked by them bloody Germans.” He looked up at Priscilla. “She one of the mums?”

  Maisie nodded. “Yes, her son is a very good friend of the owner’s son—they sail together a lot.”

  “I heard. Those lads took out the Cassandra without anyone knowing; went off and joined the flotilla of boats going to Dunkirk to help bring our boys off the Mole there. Bloody little fools—but you’ve got to hand it to them, haven’t you?” He paused, but before Maisie could reply, he continued. “Young Gordon’s mother is in Ramsgate, and as soon as we’ve found her, we’ll get her here—she’s looking out for her husband as well as her son.”

  “Poor woman—to have that worry.”

  The coastguard nodded toward Priscilla again. She had begun walking along the embankment as if to follow the River Rother out to sea, her hand to her forehead looking toward the point where the estuary met the sea, though it was far in the distance and not visible.

  “You’re going to have to keep an eye on your friend. Mick said they’d had a good number of soldiers on board, but some went onto the other boat towing them. One of the boys was down, so the other lad was working himself silly to keep her going, and he’s been injured himself, quite badly.”

  “What do you mean—one of the boys is down?” asked Maisie.

  The coastguard shook his head and half turned away. “I mean he’s gone. He’s dead.”

  Maisie brought her hands to her mouth. She had become light-headed, yet her feet felt as if they were indeed made of lead, as if it would take every ounce of her resolve to move.

  “You all right, madam?” said the coastguard.

  “Tim is my godson. Oh heavens—this is terrible. I must go to Priscilla, to stand with her.”

  “P’rhaps I shouldn’t’ve said anything,” said the coastguard.

  “No—no, you did the right thing. I’m prepared now. I’ve got to be Priscilla’s strength. And I must telephone her husband, to get him down here. I know where to contact him—I can get him here soon.”

  The coastguard directed her from the harbor to a telephone kiosk. Maisie ran along the road, rummaging in her pockets for change. As the door closed, the odor from every human being who had ever stood in the kiosk seemed to be leaching up from the floor and enveloping her. Struggling for breath, she opened the door, keeping it ajar with her foot as she asked the operator to connect her call.

  “Chelstone Manor.” The butler answered the call.

  “Simmonds! Simmonds, is Lord Julian at home?”

  “Yes, indeed, Your Ladyship. Just one moment please, hold the line.”

  One minute. Two minutes. Maisie made a small cylindrical pile with her coins on top of the telephone box, ready for use if the pips sounded. She adjusted the pile, counting the coins once more. Then a click on the line.

  “Hello, Maisie—how are you?”

  “Lord Julian—thank you, yes, I’m all right. Well, no, not quite. You are the only one I can trust to keep calm. Douglas Partridge should have just arrived at the Dower House with Tarquin. I would like George to collect him and bring him to Rye Harbor as soon as possible. But not with Tarquin. You must find a means of drawing Douglas away from his son to tell him the reason.” She recounted the news she had been given by the coastguard.

  “Right you are. It will be done exactly as you’ve asked. Leave it with me, Maisie. I will also let your father know what’s happened—I am sure Mr. Dobbs will find an enjoyable means of distracting the boy.” There was a second of silence, and the pips sounded. With shaking hands Maisie pushed more coins in the slot, cursing when a coin dropped to the floor.

  “Lord Julian, are you still there?” she asked.

  “Yes, still here.” She heard a catch in his voice. “I imagine George could get him there in about forty minutes, at a fair clip. And Maisie—do keep us informed.”

  “Yes, of course. I must go now.”

  She replaced the receiver, and stepped out into the fresh air. Priscilla had walked back and was standing on the harbor wall, binoculars to her eyes. Constable Sheering gently placed his hand to one side of her, not touching her clothing, but close. Maisie saw Priscilla nod, and move back to a safer point from which to keep her vigil.

  “See anything yet?” said Maisie as she approached her friend.

  “You can’t see anything much from here, but when I walked alongside the river, I saw a little speck in the distance. But it’s difficult—the marshes can give you an optical illusion, so what you think is a boat, is probably a farmer crossing his field with a horse and plough.” She tapped the binoculars. “The coastguard kindly loaned these to me.”

  At that point the coastguard called out. “I can see them. They’re coming in.”

  Priscilla drew the binoculars up to her eyes again. “Where? Where? I can’t see them. Where are they?”

  “Let me look, Pris.”

  Priscilla passed the binoculars to Maisie, and stepped closer to the water again. And again the policeman drew her back. “You don’t want your son to see you in the drink when he brings that boat in, do you?”

  Maisie trained the binoculars into the distance. At first she could see nothing, not even a farmer with his team of horses drawing the plough. Then a speck appeared, glistening mirrorlike in the mid-afternoon sunshine. Yet instead of anticipation, she felt dread—for until the boat docked, until the lines had been drawn in and the vessel tethered, the wheel of fate would continue spinning. Only when those on board were home would it stop—and for one mother the terror would not end.

  The dot in the distance continued to grow in size as time passed. Two fishing boats cast off in the direction of the Cassandra and her savior, the Mistress Mollie. Soon another motor car was parked alongside the Alvis, and as Maisie looked up, she could see the effort with which Douglas Partridge wielded his cane as he limped toward his wife.

  “Oh, darling! You’re here!” Priscilla rushed to her husband’s side. He allowed his cane to drop and pulled her to him. “Tim’s coming home. Tim’s coming home and he’s almost here.”

  “I know. I know, my love. He’s almost here.”

  Maisie knelt to retrieve the cane.

  “Thank you, Maisie,” said Douglas. “And thank you for sorting everything out—for getting me here.”

  “You spoke to Lord Julian?” asked Maisie.

  “Yes. He brought me up-to-date—I know what’s happening.”

  “What’s happening is that our son is almost home, Douglas!” She took his arm and began leading him toward the harbor wall. “I promise I will not admonish him in front of everyone for this escapade. I may have to fling my arms around him, though.”

  Maisie and Douglas exchanged glances.

 
; “Don’t embarrass the boy, whatever you do, Priscilla.” He pointed his cane toward a cluster of people waiting alongside the women with their tea and sandwiches. “There’s a newspaper reporter and photographer over there, and I am sure Tim would not want to be on the front page with his mother clinging to him. Whether you like it or not—our son is a hero.”

  Priscilla shook her head. “I never wanted heroes.”

  It was late in the afternoon when at last the Cassandra drew into full view, behind the fishing boat towing her in. The two vessels seemed to stop their progress, as another fishing boat joined them. People around began muttering, speculating about what might be happening. Douglas grabbed Priscilla’s arm to stop her running in the direction of the boats. Then a fisherman pushed back his cap and smiled.

  “Good on ’em. Good on ’em.”

  “What is it? What’s going on?” Priscilla called out.

  “I know what he’s doing,” said the policeman. “He’s giving the Cassandra enough fuel to get to the harbor. He’s letting her come in under her own steam.”

  And as the crowd became silent, the rumble and fail of an engine trying to start echoed along the river, until after a chug-chug-chug the engine fired and began running. A cheer went up and the boats began moving again toward the harbor.

  Priscilla screamed out her son’s name. People clustered together to watch the launch pull in to dock, the young man at the helm calling out instructions to soldiers on board, who threw out lines from the bow and stern to waiting fishermen. The soldiers’ faces were stained and drawn, their exhaustion evident in the way they half-stumbled toward hands waiting to receive them. Maisie could see the skipper, his face black with oil, his shirt red with blood and bandages wrapped around his left shoulder and arm. A fisherman from one of the boats was standing behind him, as if to support the boy should he fall. The coastguard clambered on board to reach him, turning off the engine, then joining the fisherman to help the young man remain upright.

  “I can’t see who that is,” said Priscilla. “He’s hurt. I hope it’s not Tim, I hope he’s not been wounded.”

  Maisie looked at Douglas, who rested his hand on his wife’s shoulder.

  “You should wait here.” He walked toward the Cassandra, just as two ambulance men made their way on board with a stretcher.

  “Maisie, what is it? What’s happening?” As Priscilla struggled to speak, it was as if she were learning every word anew.

  Maisie held on to Priscilla’s arm. “There are wounded on board, Priscilla. The man at the helm will not leave until everyone has left the boat—even if he’s falling down with exhaustion, he will not leave. He may be young, but he is the captain.” And in that moment, she felt a glimmer of hope.

  Priscilla watched as the ambulance men began to leave the boat. And with movements that showed a deep respect and—Maisie thought—gentleness, they brought a blanket-draped body ashore. The crowd moved aside for them to continue on.

  “Oh my God.” Priscilla turned to Maisie. “Is that Tim. Is that my son, Maisie?”

  “We mustn’t think like that. Let’s wait and see.” She felt her voice crack, as she again drew her attention toward the Cassandra.

  The two ambulance men approached the boat once more, this time without a stretcher. They made their way on board, then stopped and stood aside. Instead, Douglas was helped onto the boat by a fisherman. Maisie squinted, watching Douglas approach the coastguard and the young man who had brought the Cassandra home. And as Douglas allowed his cane to fall a second time, to pull the young man toward him, she felt Priscilla begin to give way.

  “Don’t fall, Priscilla. Don’t fall. He’s home. Tim’s home.”

  The coastguard handed Douglas his cane, and guided him off the vessel. He turned back to watch as Tim began to walk toward the stern.

  Priscilla ran toward the Cassandra, with Maisie following. Reaching the vessel, she opened her arms to her son, yet as she witnessed the reunion, Maisie saw the blood running down Tim’s arm, his hand limp as his mother relinquished her grasp.

  “Priscilla—hold on to him! He’s going down!”

  And as Maisie knelt alongside Tim, she pulled back the dressing on his arm and saw the extent of his wounds.

  “He was hit, miss,” said one of the soldiers. “The same one that got his mate. They came out of the sky right at us, and them two couldn’t get down in time because they were trying to get us home. Pair of bloody heroes, them boys. I don’t know how that one got us so far, but he kept saying he had to get Gordon home, that it was his job.”

  Chapter 16

  As soon as Tim had been placed on a stretcher and lifted on board the ambulance, Maisie gave instructions for him to be taken to the Royal East Sussex Hospital in Hastings, then she ran to the telephone kiosk once again. George, the Comptons’ chauffeur, pulled out to follow the ambulance, and as the two vehicles drew onto the main road, a cheer went up from the soldiers for the two boys who had fought to bring them home to England.

  Once again Maisie piled her coins onto the telephone kiosk and began to dial a number she knew by heart.

  “Andrew Dene.” The greeting was short, with no reference to the number called.

  “Andrew! I am so glad you’re home.”

  “Maisie, hello! And I’m only just home—I almost remained in London. Had soldiers with some terrible wounds being brought in. We’ve been operating around the clock since the evacuation began.”

  Maisie had once walked out with Andrew Dene, but friendship had replaced courtship, with cards exchanged at Christmas and Easter, and birthdays remembered. Andrew was now married with two children, and had risen to become not only a renowned orthopedic surgeon, but also a professor of orthopedic medicine in London.

  “Andrew, I know you’re exhausted, but this is terribly urgent. It’s Tim—Priscilla’s son.” She explained what had happened, and gave Dene her assessment of Tim’s wounds.

  “Right. Consider me on the way. I’ll telephone the hospital now and have a theater prepared and Tim made ready as soon as he’s brought in. I know the best vascular man to assist, and I’ll get him over there. I’ll be at the hospital by the time you arrive, Maisie.”

  In the hospital waiting room Maisie, Priscilla and Douglas spoke little, each immersed in their own thoughts. As she sat, and stood, and paced, Maisie remembered Billy, and his prescient words. “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.” Soon enough, though, the door opened and Andrew Dene beckoned them into a private office. Once they were seated, he ran his hand through hair slicked back with perspiration.

  “First of all, I have no idea how Tim managed to garner enough strength to bring a boat back from France—his resolve was a miracle in itself, as is the fact that he is alive.”

  “But how is he, Andrew? And when can we see our son?” Priscilla’s hands were balled into fists.

  Douglas reached out to cover one hand with his own. “Go on, Andrew—please tell us how Tim is faring.”

  “I will tell you now that, having examined him when I arrived, I took Tim into that theater not knowing if I would be able to bring him out alive. The operation was a long one—you know, you’ve been waiting—but he endured the anesthetic and the procedure.” He cleared his throat. “The fact is that the humerus bone in the left arm was shattered. He had sustained vascular damage and various connective tissue was all but lost. I am afraid devastation to the limb, together with the huge risk of spreading infection, meant that the arm could not be saved—I had to amputate just here.” With his finger he drew a line across his arm just below the shoulder.

  Maisie heard both Priscilla and Douglas gasp.

  Andrew Dene sighed. “I’m so very sorry—if I could have saved the arm, I would have. In the meantime, infection remains a great risk, but I have used something very new—a purified type of fungus known as Penicillium, though it’s now known as penici
llin.”

  “Fungus? You’ve put a fungus into my son?” said Priscilla.

  “It’s terribly new, as I said—well, it’s new for use in the medical field—and I was fortunate to have been asked to contribute to research regarding its application in hospitals, as a tool to use against possible sepsis. It’s not available to most doctors yet, but I have great faith in it—and in my work so far it seems to far exceed the results we’ve had with the usual sulphur-based compounds.”

  “When my arm was amputated, it was in France, at a casualty clearing station,” said Douglas. “I remember that terrible smell of sulphur.”

  “But better than gangrene,” said Maisie.

  “And I’ll never forget that smell,” added Priscilla. “It was the odor of death in the back of my ambulance.”

  “If there is a saving grace, it is this,” said Dene, looking at Douglas. “Tim has a strong family, and a father who knows exactly how he is going to feel. He will require all your support and guidance as he emerges from this trauma.” He paused, drawing his attention to Maisie, then to Tim’s parents. “What Tim witnessed during the evacuation will remain with him forever—it’s something we cannot imagine, and those memories cannot be taken away. This is all more in Maisie’s line of work than mine—but he will have many mountains to climb, especially the weight of survival because his friend was killed. He will regain dexterity—as you know, Douglas, the other arm becomes stronger—but he will be forever changed.” Dene stood up, his shoulders rounded with fatigue. “I am a surgeon, and when operating I have to be dispassionate, seeing the body as a machine. It is my task to give the machine every chance of working properly again, though the cogs might look a little different. But I also know the difficulties involved in true recovery—and it can take a long time. Tim has an advantage I cannot prescribe—his spirit.”

  “When can we see him?” asked Douglas.

  “Not before tomorrow. My suggestion is that you all go home to Chelstone and get a very good night’s sleep, if you can. Tim will prevail—the fact that he came home, that he kept his wits about him when the pain would have felled a lesser man, is testament to his ability to endure.”