by Unknown
"Was he reckless?"
"If it's the fella I'm thinking of, not reckless with 'is men. No, 'e was reckless with 'imself. Got so as 'e would just climb out of the bunker, no 'ehnet, to go up and look around for the Kaiser's boys. Reckon they were more surprised than us when they copped sight of 'im walking around without a care in the world."
"Ever hear about him again, Billy?"
"Miss Dobbs, it's not like I talk about it much. Best left behind. But you know that, don't you? You saw enough, must've done"
"Yes, I saw enough for this lifetime, Billy."
Maisie buttoned her coat, secured her hat in place, and pulled on her gloves.
"But tell you what, Miss. I'll ask around down the Prince ofWales, some of the lads might know something. This Weathershaw, he a client, like?"
"No, Billy. No, he's not. He's dead. Two years ago. See what you can find out, Billy."
"Right you are, Miss," replied Billy. Maisie ushered Billy out of the office and locked the door behind her as she left with him.
"It's confidential, Billy. Just bring it into the conversation," instructed Maisie.
"Yes, Miss. Don't worry. Like I said when you moved in. Anything you want, you just ask Billy Beale."
Maisie decided that a brisk walk to Piccadilly Circus would be just what she needed to clear her head for the next part of her task: information gathering, as Maurice would say.
Fortunately there had been several new clients since she had moved into the office in Warren Street. Christopher Davenham's appearance had represented the beginning of a respectable stream of visitors. There were a couple of referrals from Lady Rowan's solicitors, along with three of Maurice's former clients who finally overcame any reticence they might have had about completely confiding in his former assistant, who happened to be a woman.
The work ranged from simple analysis of correspondence to reveal anomalies in funds paid to a company to a report on a "missing" daughter. As Maisie expected, there had not yet been the requests for assistance from government or from the legal or judicial services that Maurice had enjoyed, but she knew that such business would come in due course. She was qualified to consult on matters far beyond those that had come to her. Maurice had seen to that.
Maisie was now busy, and more to the point, had the money to research matters that presented themselves for investigation without initiation by an actual client. Unless you could call Vincent Weathershaw a client.
The restaurant at Fortnum & Mason's was busy, but as she walked in and feigned interest in the menu, Maisie quickly scanned the room and immediately saw Celia Davenham sitting by a window She was looking out at the rooftops as if in a dream, with her hands clasped around a cup of tea.
"May I have a seat by the window?" requested Maisie of the tall waiter with slicked-back, brilliantined hair who greeted her.
Taking the table next to Celia, Maisie deliberately sat facing the woman, although she did not look at her as she removed her gloves, placed them on top of her bag, and set the bag on the chair next to her. Maisie opened the menu and read down the list of dishes until she felt the woman's eyes upon her, then she looked up, meeting Celia's gaze. Maisie smiled. Her "planetary" smile, as Simon had once said. She quickly banished all thought of Simon; her concentration had to be on the job in hand.
"Hello," said Maisie in greeting. "Such a lovely day today, isn't it?"
"Yes. Yes it is," responded Celia. She smiled at Maisie. "Forgive me ... but, have we met?"
"You know, I must say, you look very familiar, but I ... I can't think where." Maisie smiled again.
"Nether Green. I've seen you at Nether Green " Color flushed Celia Davenham's cheeks as she recognized Maisie.
"Why, yes, yes. Look, would you like to join me?" Maisie moved her bag and gloves from the seat next to her, an invitation to Celia Davenham.
A waiter quickly came to assist Celia, and placed her teacup, saucer, and place mat on Maisie's table. The perfectly dressed woman sat down opposite Maisie, who held out her hand.
"Blanche. Maisie Blanche. How do you do"
"Celia Davenham. I'm very well, thank you"
For a while the two women talked of small matters. The price of flowers at the stall, the late arrival of trains this past winter. Before Celia could ask, Maisie offered the story of her visits to the cemetery.
"Donald was a cousin. Not close, but family all the same. I thought that now I'm here in town, it would be easy to go out to Nether Green. One doesn't like to forget, does one?"
"No. Absolutely. No. Not that I could," replied Celia.
"Did you lose your brother?" asked Maisie.
"Yes, one of them. In the Dardanelles. The other was wounded. Seriously wounded."
"I'm sorryYou were lucky to have your brother come home from the Dardanelles," said Maisie, knowing that often brother fought alongside brother, which led to many a mother grieving the loss of not one child but two or three.
"Oh, no. No. My brother's body was never found. He was listed missing. I visit the grave of my other brother's friend. Vincent" Celia fussed with her handkerchief.
"I see. Is your brother, your other brother, recovered?"
"Um.Yes, yes, in a way."
Maisie held her head to one side in question but added, "Oh, this is such a difficult subject-"
"No, I mean, yes.Yes. But ... well, he has scars. Vincent had scars too."
"Oh. I see"
"Yes. George, my brother who survived, is like Vincent. His face-"
Celia slowly moved her finely manicured hands and touched her cheek with delicate fingers. She flinched and tears filled her eyes. At that moment Maisie saw her chance for connection. A connection that was deeper than she would admit. She reached out and touched Celia lightly on the arm until the other woman's eyes met hers. Maisie nodded her understanding.
"I was a nurse," said Maisie, her voice lowered, not to avoid being heard but to draw Celia toward her. "In France. When I returned from France I nursed again in a secure mental hospital. I understand the wounds, Mrs. Davenham. Those of the body-and of the soul."
Celia Davenham took Maisie's hand. And at that moment Maisie knew she was in the woman's confidence, that she was trusted. Maisie had anticipated that it would take no longer than the twenty minutes that the women had sat together at the same table. Such was Celia's hunger for connection to someone who understood. And the depth of Maisie Dobbs's understanding of her situation was greater than Celia Davenham could possibly imagine.
Celia Davenham sat for a moment before speaking again. Wave upon wave of grief seemed to break across her heart with such force that she made a fist with one hand, and gripped Maisie's offered hand of understanding with the other.A waiter coming toward the table to inquire if more tea was required stopped suddenly and moved away, as if repelled by the force of her emotion.
Maisie closed her eyes, concentrating her calming energy on the woman who sat opposite her. The moment passed, and Maisie opened her eyes to observe Celia relax her shoulders, arms, and the tight grasp on her hand. But she did not let go.
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be, Mrs. Davenham. Don't be. Take some tea"
Keeping Maisie's hand in hers, the woman took the cup in her other hand and, shaking, lifted it to her lips to sip the still-hot tea. The two women sat in silence for several more minutes until Maisie spoke again.
"Tell me about Vincent, Mrs. Davenham"
Celia Davenham placed the fine bone china cup in its saucer, took a deep breath, and began to tell her story.
"I fell in love with Vincent-oh, dear nie-it must have been when I was about twelve. I was just a girl. He came to the house with my brother George. It was my brother Malcolm who died. George was the oldest. Vincent was one of those people who could make anyone laugh-even my parents, who were very stiff indeed. It was as if the sun shone upon Vincent and everyone felt compelled to look at him, just to warm themselves."
"Yes, I have known such people. I expect he was quite the cha
rmer," said Maisie.
"Oh yes, quite the charmer. But he didn't realize it. He just went through his life bringing out the best in people. So, he was definitely officer caliber. His men would have followed him to death's door"
"And no doubt beyond"
"Yes. And beyond. Apparently when he wrote to the parents or wives of men who had fallen, he always mentioned some small detail about them-a joke they had told, an act of courage, a special effort made. He didn't just say, `I'm sorry to tell you this, but . . . .'He cared."
Celia took up her cup again, keeping one hand on Maisie's. Maisie, for her part, made no move to withdraw, realizing the strength her touch gave the other woman. She moved only to pour more tea and to bring her own cup to her lips.
Occasionally she would look out of the window, and as dusk drew in saw the reflection of Celia Davenham in the windowpane as she told her story. In this way Maisie observed her as an onlooker might, rather than as a confidante. As Celia spoke, releasing the weight of hoarded memory, she seemed to gain strength. She sat straighter. Celia was an attractive woman, and in the reflected scene, Maisie saw the faces of other people in the tearoom occasionally looking toward them, drawn to a conversation they could not overhear but could not help observe.
Maisie knew well, more than the onlookers, that they were drawn by the power of revelation. They were witnesses to the unfolding of Celia Davenham's story, to the unburdening of her soul, though they might not be aware of it. And she knew that once outside, wrapping a scarf around a neck to shield it from the biting wind, or holding on to a hat, a woman might say to her companion, "Did you see that woman, by the window, the well-dressed one?" and her companion would nod and they would speak for a while of what might have been said by the woman near the window to the woman who allowed her hand to be held so tightly. And the picture of Celia Davenham squaring her shoulders to tell her story would come back to them on occasion, especially when they were sad and looking for the answer to a question of the heart.
Celia Davenham paused, as if to summon the fortitude to continue. Maisie waited, then asked, "Tell me what happened to Vincent"
"It was at Passchendaele."
"Ah yes. I know. .. "
"Yes, I think we all know now. So many-
-and Vincent?"
"Yes, although some might believe him to be lucky. He came home"
Celia stopped again, closed her eyes, then continued. "I try, sometimes, to remember his face before.When it was complete. But I can't. I feel awful, that I can only remember the scars. I try at night to close my eyes and see him, but I can't. I can see George, of course; his injuries weren't so bad. But I can't think of exactly how he was before the war either."
"Yes, it must be very hard"
"There was something about Vincent, his enthusiasm for life, that turned into something else, as if it had another side. His company came under intense enemy fire.Vincent was hit in the face by shrapnel. It is a miracle he lived. George lost an ear and has scars on the side of his face, which you would think were unbearable but seem light compared to Vincent's"
Maisie looked at the woman, whose grip had relaxed as she told Vincent's story. Celia was exhausted. Maurice had counseled her, in the early days of her apprenticeship, when she was the silent observer as he listened to a story, gently prodding with a question, a comment, a sigh, or a smile, "The story takes up space as a knot in a piece of wood. If the knot is removed, a hole remains. We must ask ourselves, how will this hole that we have opened be filled? The hole, Maisie, is our responsibility."
"Mrs. Davenham, you must be tired. Shall we meet again another day?" she asked.
"Yes, Miss Blanche, do let's meet"
"Perhaps we might walk in Hyde Park, or St. James's; the lake is so lovely at this time of year."
The women made arrangements to meet the following week, for tea at the Ritz, then a stroll through Green Park to St. James's. But before they parted, Maisie suggested, "Mrs. Davenham, you probably have to rush home soon, but I wonder. Liberty has some lovely new fabrics, just arrived from India. Would you come with me to look at them?"
"Why, I'd love to"
ater, when Celia Davenham reflected upon her day, she was surprised. For though she still felt sadness, the memory she reflected upon most was that of huge bolts of fabric being moved around at her behest by willing assistants who could sense in her the interest that led to a purchase. With an enthusiastic flourish, yards of vibrant purples, yellows, pinks, and reds of Indian silk were pulled out, to be rubbed between finger and thumb, and held against her face in front of the mirror. And she thought of the person she knew as Maisie Blanche, who suddenly but quietly had to take her leave, allowing her to indulge her love of texture and color for far longer than she had intended. Thus a day that had seen so many tears ended in the midst of a rainbow.
CHAPTER S I X
Maisie made her way back to her office. It was dark by now, and although she was gasping for a cup of tea much stronger than the light Darjeeling served at Fortnum & Mason's, she needed to work. She reflected upon the Davenham story, knowing only too well that there was a lot more to elicit. But by leaving much of the story untold, Maisie allowed the door to remain open. Instead of being exhausted by her own revelations and memories, Celia Davenham was being helped to shed her burden gradually, and Maisie was her guide.
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 ofArt, 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 'iniself. Took it all upon 'is shoulders, as if 'e was the one that killed them. But what I also 'card 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."
