Maisie Dobbs

by Jacqueline Winspear

  Finally Maisie placed a towel on her cot and leaned over it to brush her hair, looking carefully for lice falling out. She and Iris checked each other’s hair every night or, if they were on duty at night, whenever they were both in the tent and awake at the same time. But Maisie always checked again in the morning, brushing her hair over a towel until her head spun. Then she quickly pinned her hair up into a bun, and placed her cap on her head.

  “I’m all finished, Iris.”

  “Right you are, Dobbsie.” Iris shivered under her bedclothes.“Lord knows what this will be like in the real winter.”

  “At least we’re not up to our waists in mud in the trenches, Iris. Least we’re not piling up bodies to make a wall to protect us. Not like the boys.”

  “You’re right there, as always,” said Iris as she leaped from bed and began the morning ritual that Maisie had just finished. “Brrrr . . . I ‘spect you’re going over to see if there’s a letter from your young man.”

  Maisie rolled her eyes. “I’ve told you, Iris. He’s not—”

  “Yes, I know, I know. He’s not your young man. Well then, go and get your letter from your special friend of a friend then, and leave me to my delousing, if you don’t mind!”

  The young women laughed, as Maisie pulled back the tent flap, leaving Iris to her morning ablutions. Picking her way across wooden boards covering mud and puddles, Maisie made her way to the cooks’ tent to get tea and bread for breakfast.

  “There you are, Sister, get this down you.” The orderly on duty held out a large enamel mug along with a slice of bread and dripping for Maisie, addressing her as “sister” in the way that soldiers called all nurses, regardless of rank, “sister.”

  “And a little something else for you, passed on to me this morning.” He reached into his pocket and brought out a simple brown envelope that clearly contained a long letter, such was the thickness of the packet. The envelope was crumpled and bore stains of the four sets of dirty hands it had passed through before reaching its destination.

  The letters from Simon Lynch to Maisie Dobbs would never travel through the censor’s office, passed as they were from orderly to ambulance driver to stretcher bearer to cook. Her letters in return were passed in the same way, from person to person. And each time a letter changed hands, there would be a comment exchanged, a remark about young love, or that it was all very well for him, Captain Romantic over there.

  The writers said nothing of love when the first letter, from Simon to Maisie, was sent and received. But in the way that two people who are of one mind on any subject move closer, as if their heads were drawn together by thoughts that ran parallel toward a future destination, so the letters of Simon and Maisie became more frequent, one hardly waiting for the other to reply before setting pen to paper again. Bearing up under exhaustion that weighed on their backs and pushed like a fist between their shoulder blades, Simon and Maisie, each in a tent several miles apart, and each by the strained light of an oil lamp, would write quickly and urgently of days amid the detritus of war. And though both knew that war, and the ever-present breath of despair might have added urgency to their need to be together again, they began unashamedly to declare their feelings in the letters that were passed from hand to hand. Feelings that, with each shared experience and story, grew deeper. Then Simon wrote:

  My Dearest Maisie of the Blue Silk Dress,

  I have been on duty for 30 hours without so much as sitting down for five minutes. Wounded started coming in again at eleven yesterday morning. I have bent over so many bodies, so many wounds that I fear I have lost count. I seem to remember only the eyes, and I remember the eyes because in them I see the same shock, the same disbelief, and the same resignation. Today I saw, in quick succession, a man and his son. They had joined up together, I suspect one or both lying about their age. And they had the same eyes. The very same. Perhaps what I see in each man is that no matter what their age (and by golly, some of them shouldn’t be out of school), they seem so very old.

  I am due for a short leave in three weeks. I will receive orders soon. I plan to go back to Rouen for two days. I remember you said that you would be due for leave soon, too. Would it be too presumptuous for me to ask if we might possibly meet in Rouen? I so long to see you, Maisie, and to be taken from this misery by your wonderful smile and inspiring good sense. Do write to let me know.

  Iris had leave at the same time as Maisie, providing Maisie with a female companion. The journey to Rouen seemed long and drawn out, until finally they reached the Hotel St. Georges.

  “I swear I cannot wait to get into that bath, Maisie Dobbs.”

  “Me too, Iris. I wonder if we can get our dresses cleaned. I’ve another day dress with me that I haven’t worn. How about you?”

  “Yes, me too. Not supposed to be out of uniform, but for goodness sake, this dress will walk to the laundry if I don’t take it.”

  Maisie and Iris hurried immediately to their assigned room. The ceilings seemed extraordinarily high and there was chipped paint on the walls and doorframe. The room itself was small and simple, containing two single beds and a washstand, but after several months of living with the roof of a leaking tent barely six inches above their heads, they saw only grandeur. Two bathrooms were situated along the red-carpeted corridor, and the ever vigilant Iris immediately checked to see whether either was already occupied.

  “One already gone, I’m afraid, and he’s singing at the top of his voice.”

  “Golly, I am just aching for a nice hot bath,” said Maisie.

  “Tell you what. I’ll put on my day dress and see if I can get our laundry done, while you draw a bath. We can top and tail it—check for the dreaded lice at the same time. It’ll save waiting. Did you see the officers coming in after us? Bet they’ll be bagging the bathrooms a bit sharpish.”

  “Don’t some officers get rooms with bathrooms?”

  “Oh, yes. Forgot that. Privilege and all that.”

  Iris and Maisie had discarded their uniform dresses quickly, and Iris gathered the laundry and walked toward the door.

  “Never know, Maisie, p’raps your Captain Lynch will let you use his bathroom.”

  “Iris!”

  “Only joking, Dobbsie. Now then, go bag us a bathroom.”

  The bathtub easily accommodated the two women, who lay back in the steaming water and audibly allowed the tension of the past few months to drain away.

  “Bit more hot water, Maisie. Another five minutes and we’ll swap ends.”

  “And about time!”

  Maisie turned on the hot tap and pulled the plug to allow some of the cooler water out at the same time. After wallowing for another five minutes, they swapped ends, giggling as they moved, and continued to linger in the soothing steamy heat.

  “Maisie,” said Iris, as she leaned back, trying to comfortably position her head between the heavy taps,“Maisie, do you think your Captain Lynch will ask you to marry him, then?”

  “Iris—”

  “No, I’m not kidding you on now. I’m serious. What with the war and all. Makes you a bit more serious, doesn’t it? Look at Bess White—gets a letter from her sweetheart, says he’s going home on leave, she goes on leave, and boom! There they are—married, and him back at the front.”

  Maisie leaned forward, dipped her head in the water and sat up, sweeping back the long dark tresses.

  “Here’s what I do know, Iris. I know that when this is over, when the war is done with, I’m going back to university. That’s what I know. Besides, when the war’s over, I don’t know if I’ll be . . . well, Simon comes from a good family.”

  Iris looked at Maisie, then sat up and took hold of her hand.

  “I know exactly what you are just about to say, Maisie, and let me tell you this, in case you haven’t noticed. We are living in different times now. This war has made everything different. I’ve seen the letters from your dad, and from that Carter and Mrs. Whatsername with the pies. Those people, Maisie, are your family, and th
ey are every bit as good as Simon’s. And you are every bit as good as anyone Captain Simon Lynch will ever meet.”

  Maisie held on to Iris’s hand, bit her bottom lip, and nodded. “It’s just that—I can’t explain it, but I have a feeling here,” she held her hand to her chest,“that things will change. I know, I know, Iris, what you’re going to say, ‘It’s the war. . . .’ But I know this feeling. I know it to be true. And I know that everything will change.”

  “Come on. This water’s going to your head, Maisie Dobbs. You are a grand nurse, Dobbsie, but I tell you, sometimes I wonder about all your wondering.”

  Iris put her hands on either side of the bath and levered herself up. She stepped out onto the tiled floor, grabbed one of the sturdy white towels, and began to dry herself. Maisie continued to sit in the rapidly cooling water while Iris dressed.

  “Come on, dreamer. We’d better get a move on. That’s if you want to see young Captain Lynch for dinner this evening. What time did he say to meet him?”

  “The note said seven o’clock. By the desk in the main corridor as you come into the hotel.”

  Wearing a plain gray day dress, her hair up in a bun, and accompanied by Iris, Maisie walked down the wide sweeping staircase of the hotel. She had tried not to anticipate meeting with Simon again, in case she imagined too much, in case the expectation of excited conversation, of hands held, of feelings expressed, was to clash with reality.

  Iris was accompanying Maisie, but had already made up her mind to retire early. Not that she should, really. Fraternizing between men and women in uniform was frowned upon. But with a bit of luck, Maisie’s young man would have a nice friend for company. Chaperone, my eye! thought Iris. Nothing like being the piggy in the middle.

  Maisie and Simon Lynch saw each other at exactly the same time, and moved quickly through the throng of visitors. The thumping of Maisie’s heart seemed to radiate to her throat, and stopped the words of greeting she had so carefully planned. Simon simply stood in front of her, took both her hands in his and looked into her eyes.

  “I thought I would never see you again, Maisie.”

  Maisie nodded and looked down at their hands held together.

  A deep, throaty “Ahem!” brought Simon and Maisie’s attention back into the room. Iris was looking at her feet, inspecting the soles of her shoes, when the man accompanying Simon spoke.

  “Think you could introduce us, Lynch? Don’t know how you folks do things, but where I’m from, we try to get acquainted.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Please forgive me. Maisie, Iris, may I introduce Captain Charles Hayden. Currently sporting a British uniform, but as you can hear, he’s an American. Good man came over here with the Massachusetts General Hospital contingent to do his bit. God bless them all. We’ve been exchanging notes about dealing with gas poisoning. Charles—Miss Maisie Dobbs and Miss Iris Rigson.”

  “And delighted to meet you. It was worth coming all this way. And Lynch was becoming a bit of a bore, as you might say. Well, are we going to eat, or stand here all evening? Personally I’m for eating.”

  “Me too,” said Iris.

  Charles Hayden provided the group with a much-needed dose of humor at dinner, and as time passed the waves of conversation shifted, so that the voices of Hayden and Iris could be heard above all others, laughing loudly, teasing, and generally exchanging good cheer. Instinctively they had assumed the task of allowing their friends the intimacy that can be had, even in a crowded room, when two people want only to be with each other.

  “I have longed to see you, Maisie, and yet now that you are here, I hardly know what to say.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  Simon turned his body toward Maisie and reached for her hand.

  “Talk to me about anything, Maisie. I want to know everything about you. Even if you’ve already told me in a letter. I want to hear your voice. Start anywhere, but not with the war. Tell me about London, Kent, about your father, your mother—and what about that funny little man Maurice Blanche? Tell me about it all, Maisie.”

  Maisie smiled, looked briefly across the table at Iris laughing with her head back.

  “I’ll tell you about my father. Francis. Known to just about everyone as Frankie. He has three loves in his life. My mother, who died when I was a child, me, and Persephone, his horse.”

  Maisie and Simon each unfolded tales of their lives that transported them from the memory of more recent experiences. Even after dinner had ended, the two walked close together along a cobblestone street that led to nowhere in particular and back again. For two days Simon and Maisie were almost exclusively with each other, apart only when Simon kissed her hand at the end of each day and watched as she climbed the stairs to the room she shared with Iris.

  “Well, we’re off tomorrow, Maisie. Back to the delightful Maison Tent.”

  “Have you enjoyed yourself, Iris?”

  “Thank God for Chuck—that’s what he calls himself—Hayden. Nice man, good company. We swapped sweetheart stories while you collected stars in your eyes.”

  “Iris, I’m sorry. I can’t thank you enough.”

  “Oh, Maisie, don’t get me wrong. It was a very nice time I had. Seriously, like I said, he was good company. Left his wife and young son behind to come over here with other American doctors and nurses. Misses his family something rotten. I told him all about my Sid. Blimey, I dunno if I would’ve come over here if I didn’t have to.”

  “You didn’t have to come here, Iris.”

  “I know. But there again I did, because it’s my country that’s here in this war. They’re our boys and I’m a nurse. But they didn’t; the Americans didn’t have to come here. Though Charles seems to think it won’t be long before they’re in.”

  Iris began packing her small bag ready for the journey back to the casualty clearing station. “Made a nice job of the uniforms they did, here in the hotel laundry. And in double-quick time. Enjoy the clean dress, my girl;we’ll be in mud up to our knees before long. And fighting off the lice again.”

  “Oh don’t, Iris. . . .”

  Simon accompanied Maisie and Iris to the station, and while Iris walked along to the platform for their train, Simon and Maisie stood together. Maisie shivered.

  “I’ll write as usual.”

  “That would be lovely, Simon. Gosh, it’s cold.”

  Simon looked at her and without thinking put his arms around her.

  “Please,” Maisie protested weakly.

  “Don’t worry. No nasty sisters around to report you for dawdling with an unscrupulous RAMC captain.”

  Maisie laughed and shivered at the same time, moving her body closer to Simon. He held her to him and kissed her first on her forehead, then, as she looked up at him, Simon leaned down and kissed Maisie again on her cheek, then her lips.

  “Simon, I—”

  “Oh dear, will I get you into terrible trouble?”

  She looked up at him, then around at the other travelers, none of whom seemed to notice the pair, and giggled nervously.

  “Well, you might if someone sees us, Simon.”

  The guard signaled a loud whistle to alert passengers that the train would soon be leaving. Steam from the heavy engine was pushed up and out onto the platform. It was time for Simon and Maisie to part.

  “Maisie. Look, I have a leave coming up again in a few months. Back to England. When’s your leave? Perhaps it will be at the same time.”

  “I’ll let you know, Simon. I’ll let you know. I must run. I’ll miss the train.”

  Simon held Maisie to him, and as the train signaled the “all aboard,” she pulled herself away and ran along the platform. Iris was leaning out of the window of their carriage waving to her. She clambered aboard and sat down heavily on the seat just as the train began to move.

  “I thought I’d be leaving without you, Dobbs.”

  “Not to worry, Iris. I’m here.”

  “Yes. You’re here, Dobbsie. But I think you’ve left your heart behind with a certai
n young man.”

  Catching her breath as the train pulled out of the station, Maisie closed her eyes and thought of Simon. And as she saw his face in her mind’s eye, the pressure returned to her chest. Rain slanted down across the windows as the fields of France seemed to rumble past with the movement of the train. Maisie looked out at this country she had willingly come to, so close to home, yet so far away from all that she loved. Almost. Simon was near.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  On a cold, wintry morning in February 1917, with the sun barely visible through the morning fog, Maisie pulled the wool cape around her shoulders and walked back to the tent she shared with Iris. Burning a hole in her pocket were two letters. One was from Simon. The other contained her leave papers. Her fingers were crossed.

  “So, did you get it?” asked Iris, as Maisie tore at the small buff-colored envelope.

  “Wait a minute, wait a minute. Yes! Yes! Yes!”

  Maisie jumped up and down. She was going on leave. Areal leave. Allowing two days for travel, she would have three days at home. Three days! One whole day more than her last leave, which was— she couldn’t even remember. She immediately opened Simon’s letter, scanned the lines of fine, right-slanted handwriting and jumped up and down again.

  “Yes, Yes! He’s got it, he’s got leave!”

  And the dates, April 15 to 20, were almost the same as hers. They would have two days together. Two whole days.

  Iris smiled and shook her head. Oh, how that girl had changed. Not in her work. No, the skill and compassion she brought to her work were as unquestionable as ever. But this joy, this excitement, was something new.

  “Dobbsie, I do believe you are becoming a normal young woman!”

  “Nonsense. I’ve always been normal,” said Maisie, continuing to read Simon’s letter.