Maisie Dobbs

by Jacqueline Winspear

  Mrs. Crawford reached under the table and took out a large flat box, which she passed down the table to Carter with one hand, while the other rubbed at her now tearful eyes with a large white handkerchief.

  “From all the staff at Chelstone Manor and the Compton residence in London—Maisie, we’re proud of you.”

  Maisie blushed, and reached for the plain brown cardboard box. “Oh, my goodness. Oh, dear. Oh—”

  “Just open it, Mais, for Gawd’s sake!” said Enid, inspiring a scowl from Mrs. Crawford.

  Maisie pulled at the string, took off the lid, and drew back the fine tissue paper to reveal a butter-soft yet sturdy black leather document case with a silver clasp.

  “Oh . . . oh . . . it’s . . . it’s . . . beautiful! Thank you, thank you. All of you.”

  Carter wasted no time in taking his glass and continuing with the toast.“To our own Maisie Dobbs . . .”

  Voices echoed around the table.

  “To Maisie Dobbs.”

  “Well done, Mais.”

  “You show ‘em for us, Maisie!”

  “Maisie Dobbs!”

  Maisie nodded, whispering, “Thank you . . . thank you . . . thank you.”

  “And before we sit down,” said Carter, as the assembled group were bending halfway down to their seats again.“To our country, to our boys who are going over to France. Godspeed and God save the King!”

  “God save the King.”

  The following day Maisie stood on the station platform, this time with an even larger trunk of books that far outweighed her case of personal belongings. She clutched her black document case tightly, afraid that she would lose this most wonderful gift. Carter and Mrs. Crawford had chosen it, maintaining that Maisie Dobbs should not have to go to university without a smart case for her papers.

  On her journey up to Cambridge, when Maisie changed trains at Tonbridge for the main service to London, she was taken aback by the multitude of uniformed men lining up on the platform. Freshly posted handbills gave a hint of things to come:

  LONDON, BRIGHTON & SOUTH COAST RAILWAYS

  MOBILIZATION OF TROOPS

  PASSENGERS ARE HEREBY NOTIFIED THAT IT MAY BE NECESSARY TO SUSPEND OR ALTER TRAINS WITHOUT PREVIOUS NOTICE

  It was clear that the journey to Cambridge would be a long one. Sweethearts and the newly married held tightly to each other amid the crush of bodies on the platform. Mothers cried into sodden handkerchiefs; sons assured them, “I’ll be back before you know it,” and fathers stood stoically silent.

  Maisie passed a father and son standing uncomfortably together in the grip of unspoken emotion. As she brushed by, she saw the older man clap his son on the shoulder. He pursed his lips together, firmly clamping his grief in place, while the son looked down at his feet. A small Border collie sat still between them, secure on a leash held by the son. The panting dog looked between father and son as they began to speak quietly.

  “You mind and do your best, son. Your mother would have been proud of you.”

  “I know, Dad,” said the son, moving his gaze to his father’s lapels.

  “And you mind you keep your head out of the way of the Kaiser’s boys, lad. We don’t want you messing up that uniform, do we?”

  The boy laughed, for he was a boy and not yet a man.

  “All right, Dad, I’ll keep my boots shined, and you look after Patch.”

  “Safe as houses, me and Patch. We’ll be waiting for you when you come home, son.”

  Maisie watched as the man pressed his hand down even harder on the young man’s shoulder.“Listen to that. Your train is coming in. This is it, time to be off. You mind and do your best.”

  The son nodded, bent down to stroke the dog, who playfully wagged her tail and jumped up to lick the boy’s face. He met his father’s eyes only briefly, and after passing the leash to the older man, was suddenly swallowed up in a sea of moving khaki. A guard with a megaphone ordered, “Civilians to keep back from the train” as the older man stood on tiptoe, trying to catch one last glimpse of his departing son.

  Maisie moved away to allow the soldiers to board their train, and watched the man bend down, pick up the dog, and bury his face in the animal’s thick coat. And as his shoulders shook with the grief he dared not show, the dog twisted her head to lick comfort into his neck.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Upon arrival at Girton College, Maisie registered with the Porter’s Lodge and was directed to the room that had been assigned to her for the academic year. Assured that the trunk of books would be brought up to her room in due course, clutching her bag, she began to leave the lodge, following the directions given by the porter, who suddenly called her back.“Oh, Miss! A parcel arrived today for you. Urgent delivery, to be given to you immediately.”

  Maisie took the brown paper parcel and immediately recognized the small slanted writing. It was from Maurice Blanche.

  Few women were already in residence when Maisie arrived, and the hallways were quiet as she made her way to her room. She was anxious to unwrap the parcel, and paid hardly any attention to her new surroundings after opening the door to her room. Instead she quickly put her belongings down by the wardrobe and, taking a seat in the small armchair, began to open the package. Under the brown paper, a layer of tissue covered a letter from Maurice, and a leather-bound book with blank pages. Inside the cover of the book, Maurice had copied the words of Søren Kierkegaard, words that he had quoted to her from memory in their last meeting before her journey to Cambridge. It was as if Maurice were in the room with her, so strong was his voice in her mind as she read the words:“There is nothing of which every man is so afraid, as getting to know how enormously much he is capable of doing and becoming.” She closed the book, continuing to hold it as she read the letter in which Maurice spoke of the gift:

  In seeking to fill your mind, I omitted to instruct you in the opposite exercise. This small book is for your daily writings, when the day is newborn and before you embark upon the richness of study and intellectual encounter. My instruction, Maisie, is to simply write a page each day. There is no set subject, save that which the waking mind has held close in sleep.

  Suddenly the loud crash of a door swinging back on its hinges, followed by the double thump of two large leather suitcases landing one after the other on the floor of the room next door, heralded the arrival of her neighbor. Amplified by the empty corridor, she heard a deep sigh followed by the sound of a foot kicking one of the cases.

  “What I wouldn’t give for a gin and tonic!”

  A second later, with wrapping paper still between her fingers and her head raised to follow the audible wake of her neighbor, Maisie heard footsteps coming toward her room. In her hurry to open the parcel from Maurice, she had left her door ajar, allowing the young woman immediate access.

  A fashionably dressed girl with dark chestnut hair stood in front of her, and held out her finely manicured hand. “Priscilla Evernden. Delighted to meet you—Maisie Dobbs, isn’t it? Wouldn’t happen to have a cigarette, would you?”

  It seemed to Maisie that she lived two lives at Cambridge. There were her days of study and learning, which began in her room before dawn, and ended after her lectures and tutorials with more study in the evening. She spent Saturday afternoons and Sunday mornings in the college chapel, rolling bandages and knitting socks, gloves, and scarves for men at the front. It was a cold winter in the trenches, and no sooner had word gone out that men needed warm clothes than every woman suddenly seemed to be knitting.

  At least Maisie felt that she was doing something for the war, but it was her studies that were always at the forefront of her mind. If anything, the endless talk of war seemed to her a distraction, something that she just wanted to be over, so that she could get on with her life at Cambridge—and whatever might come after.

  There were times when Maisie was thankful that a very bright spark was resident in the next room. Priscilla seemed to gravitate toward Maisie and, surprising Maisie herself, appeared to
enjoy her company.

  “My dear girl, how many pairs of these infernal socks must one knit? I am sure I have kitted out an entire battalion.”

  Another sharp observation from Priscilla Evernden. In truth Maisie loved Priscilla’s theatrical tone as much as she had loved Enid’s down-to-earth wit, and she was only too aware that, though miles apart in their upbringing, the two girls shared a ready exuberance that Maisie envied. Despite her early fumblings with the language of the aristocracy, Enid was sure of who she was and sure of what she wanted to be. Priscilla was equally sure of herself, and Maisie loved the sweep and flourish of her language, punctuated as it was by exaggerated movements of her hands and arms.

  “You seem to be doing quite well, really,” said Maisie.

  “Oh, sod it!” said Priscilla as she fumbled with her knitting needles, “I fear, dear Maisie, that you are clearly made of knitting stock, one only has to look at that plait hanging down your back. Good Lord, girl, that plait could be a loaf at Harvest Festival! Obviously you have been bred for knitting.”

  Maisie blushed. Over the years the edges had been knocked away from her London accent. She might not pass for the aristocracy, but she could certainly be taken for a clergyman’s daughter. And not one bred for knitting.

  “I hardly think so, Pris.”

  “Well, I suppose not. One only has to look at your academic work, and those books that you read. Anyone who can read those turgid tomes can make short work of a sock. Dear God, give me a drink that bites back and good tale of love and lust any day of the week.”

  Maisie dropped a stitch, and looked up at Priscilla.“Now, don’t tell me that, Pris. Why did you come up to Cambridge?”

  Priscilla was tall, giving the impression of strength, though she carried no extra weight. Her chestnut hair hung loose around her shoulders, and she wore a man’s shirt with a pair of man’s trousers, “borrowed” from her brother before he left for France. She claimed that they wouldn’t be in fashion by the time he returned anyway, and swore that she would only wear them indoors.

  “Dear girl, I came to Cambridge because I could, and because my dear mother and father were ready to fling themselves burning into the lake rather than have me roll in through the window at two in the morning again. Out of sight, out of mind, darling. . . . Oh my dear Lord, look at this sock! I don’t know what I am doing wrong here, but it’s like knitting into a funnel.”

  Maisie looked up from her work.

  “Let me see.”

  “Whoopee! M. Dobbs to the rescue.”

  Priscilla got up from her place on the old armchair, where she had been sitting sideways with her legs dangling over the arm, while Maisie sat on the floor on a cushion.

  “I’m going out now, and to hell with Miss What’s-Her-Name downstairs’ curfew.”

  “Priscilla, what if you get caught? You’re not supposed to be out late. You could be sent down for this.”

  “Dear Maisie, I will not get caught, because I will not be coming in late. If anyone asks, I know you will say that I’ve taken to my bed. And of course, when I come in at the crack of dawn tomorrow—well—I needed the early morning fresh air to clear the mind after myindisposition.”

  Minutes later Priscilla reappeared, dressed from head to toe in evening wear, and carrying a small bag.

  “One thing you have to admit about war, darling—there’s nothing quite like a man in uniform. See you at breakfast—and for heaven’s sake do stop fretting!”

  “Good Lord, Maisie Dobbs, where do you think you are going with those books?”

  Priscilla Evernden was leaning out of the window of Maisie’s room, and turned back to draw upon the cigarette she gamely smoked through a long ivory holder. It was the end of her second term at Girton, and Maisie was packing to go back to Chelstone for Easter.

  “Well, Pris, I don’t want to fall behind in my work, so I thought it wouldn’t hurt—”

  “Tell me, Maisie, when do you ever have fun, girl?”

  Maisie reddened and began to fold a cotton blouse. The intensity of her movements as she ran the side of her hand along the creases and patted down the collar revealed her discomfort.

  “I enjoy reading, Priscilla. I enjoy my studies here.”

  “Hmmm. You’d probably enjoy it a lot more if you went out a bit. You were only away for a few days at Christmas.”

  Maisie smarted, remembering her return to a depressed household at the end of her first term. The war had not ended by Christmas— as predicted—and, though nothing was said, Maisie felt that others found her studies frivolous at a time when so many women were volunteering for jobs previously held by men who had enlisted to serve their country.

  Holding a woolen cardigan by the shoulders, Maisie folded it and placed it in her case before looking up at Priscilla. “You know, Priscilla, life is different for some people. I don’t go back to my horses, cars, and parties. You know that.”

  Priscilla walked toward the armchair and sat down, folding her legs to one side. Once again she drew heavily on the cigarette, leaned her head back, and blew smoke rings toward the ceiling. Then, holding her cigarette to one side, she looked at Maisie directly. “For all my strange, peculiar privileged ways, Maisie, I am quite acute. You wear your sackcloth and ashes a little too proudly at times. We both know that you will do terribly well here. Academically. But I tell you this, Maisie—we are all a long time dead when we go, if you know what I mean. This is our only ride on the merry-go-round.”

  She drew again on the cigarette and continued. “I have three brothers in France now. Do you think I’m going to sit here and mourn? Hell, no! I’m going to have fun enough for all of us. Enough fun for this time on earth. And just because it took a tremendous leap for you to be here doesn’t mean that you can’t enjoy life along with all this—this—studying.” She waved a hand toward the books.

  Maisie looked up from her packing.“You don’t understand.”

  “Well, perhaps I don’t. But here’s what I do know. You don’t have to rush back to wherever it is you are rushing back to. Not this evening, anyway. Why not go tomorrow? Come out with me tonight. We may not have a chance again.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Oh, look at me, Maisie. I really am not cut out for all this. I received a severe reprimand when I arrived back here after my last evening out, and was reminded that when I took up my place, I had denied another, more deserving young woman the opportunity to study. Which is true, no getting away from it. So, I’m leaving—and quite frankly, I’m sick of sitting on the sidelines either listening to crusty old dons or knitting socks when I can do something far more useful. And who knows, I might even have an adventure!”

  “What are you going to do?”

  Maisie walked over to the chair and sat on the arm, next to Priscilla.

  “Got to find yourself a new person to share rooms with, Maisie. I’m off to France.”

  Maisie drew breath sharply. Priscilla was the last person she thought would enlist for service.“Will you nurse?”

  “Good Lord, no! Did you see my church hall bandages? If there’s one thing I cannot do, it’s walk around playing Florence Nightingale in a long frock—although I will have to get a First Aid Nursing Certificate. No, I have other arrows to my bow.”

  Maisie laughed. The thought of the dilettante Priscilla having skills that could be used in France was worthy of mirth.

  “You may laugh, Maisie. But you’ve never seen me drive. I’m off to be a Fannie!”

  “A what?”

  “Fannie. F-A-N-Y. First Aid Nursing Yeomanry. An all-women ambulance corps. Actually they are not in France yet—although from what I understand, it might not be long, as Mrs. McDougal—she’s the head of FANY—is planning to ask the War Office to consider using women drivers for motor ambulances. Apparently you have to be twenty-three to go to France, so I am extending the truth a little— and don’t ask me how, Maisie, please.”

  “When did you learn to drive?”

  “Three
brothers, Maisie.” Priscilla leaned forward to take the cigarette stub from the holder, and to press in a fresh cigarette, which she took from an engraved silver case drawn from her pocket.“When you grow up with three brothers you forget your cuts, scrapes, and bruises, and concentrate on your bowling arm, on coming back in one piece from the hunting field, and on not being run over by the lugworms when they come to the table. And unless you show that you are as good at everything as they are, you find that you spend virtually all your time running behind them screaming like a banshee, ‘Me too, me too!’”

  Priscilla looked over her shoulder to the gardens beyond the window and bit her bottom lip. She turned and continued telling her story.

  “The chauffeur taught us all to drive. At first it was only going to be the boys, but I threatened to tell all if I was not included. And now the fact is, my dear, I simply cannot have them in France without me. It’s ‘Me too, me too!’”

  Priscilla wiped the hint of a tear from the inner corner of her left eye and smiled.

  “So, what do you say to a party this evening? Despite my dismal record, I have permission to go out—probably because they will soon see the back of me, and also the hostess this evening is a benefactor. How about it, Maisie? You can go back to wherever it is you go to wash the ashes from your sackcloth tomorrow.”

  Maisie smiled and looked at Priscilla, sparkling in defiance of what was considered good behavior for young women at Girton. There was something about her friend that reminded her of Lady Rowan.

  “Whose party?”

  Priscilla blew another smoke ring.

  “Given by family friends, the Lynches, for their son, Simon. Royal Army Medical Corps. Brilliant doctor. Always the one who remained at the bottom of the tree just in case anyone fell from the top branches, when we were children. He leaves for France in a day or two.”