Elegy for Eddie

by Jacqueline Winspear

  “I still can’t seem to get things right, Pris. Today I wanted to let some people know I was aware that they’d done something dreadful, and how dangerous it had been; the consequences could have been unthinkable. I judged them and let them know it, but the fact is, I blame myself. I should have seen it coming. I know these people well, I know how they think, and I might have guessed what they would do—and if I had, I could have stopped it.” She rubbed her forehead. “And I’m so terribly confused—there’s a man who’s doing something quite . . . quite alarming, but truly honorable at the same time. He’s caused such pain while trying to keep it all under wraps, but at the same time I cannot dislike him, nor can I say he’s making a mistake, because I think he might help us all in time, and—”

  “You’re talking about John Otterburn. I know. I can’t see how Lorraine stands him for one moment, myself.”

  “Yes, I am talking about him, and—”

  “Maisie, stop. You will drive yourself mad.” Priscilla poured more wine. “You’re suffering, and you’re the only person who can help yourself. Don’t worry, it’s only a blip, you won’t sink as you did before. But you have to get used to the fact that you have the intense vigilance of one who has seen some dreadful things in the war. We both do it. I feel as if I’m always waiting for the most painful thing in the world to crop up all the time. And I’m trying terribly hard to rid myself of the habit.” She twisted her wineglass by the stem. “I don’t know what’s happened over the past week or so, but I do know something’s going on with you. You can’t stop the world, Maisie. You can’t stop Billy Beale from getting hurt, you can’t save Sandra from the grief of widowhood, and you can’t stop your father from falling in the stables again if he chooses to do half the things he shouldn’t do at his age. And if you can’t do that, then you can’t expect to have a hand in stopping all the other disasters happening in the world, no matter how vigilant you are.”

  Maisie nodded. “I suppose I’ve become tired with trying.”

  “Yes, I suppose you have.” Priscilla took a sip of wine. “Do you have anything wonderful to report, Maisie?”

  She thought for a while. “Against my better judgment, I had a lovely ride out with James yesterday, at Chelstone. It was quite beautiful.”

  “That’s my girl!” said Priscilla. “And are you finished with this latest case now?”

  Maisie shook her head. “No, not quite. Soon, though. I’ll be finished soon. Just one more loose end to tie up.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Maisie rose later than usual, and was woken again by Priscilla moving crockery in the kitchen. Putting her arms into the sleeves of her dressing gown as she walked towards the kitchen, she could already smell the pungent aroma of fresh coffee, with a hint of chicory.

  “Good morning.” Priscilla held up a coffeepot. “Luckily, I came prepared; I brought coffee from home, which was just as well, because like a poor old lady, when I looked there, your cupboard was bare.”

  They sat together in front of the gas fire, one at either end of the sofa.

  “You’ve a busy day ahead then,” said Priscilla, sipping her coffee, steam rising from the hot liquid.

  “Probably more, well, intense than busy would be a better way to put it. Not as full as some days, but more intense.”

  “Right. I see.” Priscilla sipped again. “And what about you and James?”

  Maisie sighed. “I think we could best be described as going through a somewhat uneven tear, rather than a clean cut, in terms of parting. It’s hard to explain. He loves me, and I have love for him, but it’s just not all fitting into place, if there is such a thing. And frankly, I don’t think I want to bumble along, as if someone has put a new part in my motor car that looks like the right part, and does the job it should, but it scrapes here and there, and the engine doesn’t ever go properly again. I think we both want something more than that. Something that fits.”

  “He’s not the one, then,” offered Priscilla.

  “I don’t know if there is such a thing for me.” She sipped her coffee. “But we’ve talked about it, and James is rather . . . rather busy with all sorts of things at the moment, and has plans to return to Canada soon.”

  “Has he asked you to go with him?”

  “In so many words, yes.”

  “And you won’t.”

  “I don’t believe so, but you never know, do you, what might come to pass when the time comes?” Maisie looked at the clock. “I had better be off, Pris.”

  “Oh, heavens, me too. Where are you going this morning?”

  “Lambeth,” said Maisie.

  Jennie was wiping her hands on the hem of her apron as she greeted Maisie at the door of the small, smoke-stained house. The curtains had not been drawn since Eddie’s death, and would remain closed for some weeks as a mark of respect, and to let callers know the occupants were in mourning.

  “Maisie, this is a surprise. Come in, come in. Maud was just talking about you—bet your ears were burning, eh? Go through, into the kitchen.”

  Maisie thanked Jennie and walked along the dark passageway that led to the kitchen. Maud was sitting at the table, a plate of toast in front of her, along with a cup of tea. She was dressed in black.

  “Maisie! Did Jennie tell you? We were just talking about you, wondering how you were, and—don’t get too big for your boots—we were saying what a lovely woman you turned out to be. Very proud of you, we are.”

  Maisie came to the woman, put an arm around her shoulder, and kissed her cheek. “You’re a gem, Maudie.”

  “We’re off to the cemetery, to lay some flowers on the grave, put fresh water down, make sure it’s kept nice. What with that storm we had a few nights ago, we’re hoping the vase I left there hasn’t broken.” Jennie put the kettle on to boil. “I’ll make a fresh pot.”

  “Thanks, Jennie.” Maisie turned to Maud. “I’ve come to talk about Eddie, and Jimmy Merton.”

  “I’ve got nothing to say about the man who killed my Eddie, though I hope for his sake he rests in peace,” said Maud.

  Maisie took a seat at the table.

  Jennie pulled out a chair and sat down opposite her. “What’s on your mind, Maisie?”

  She looked from Maud to Jennie, considering how she might begin. She could, of course, leave words unspoken; she didn’t have to pick at this particular wound, for she knew that even truth could bleed. Yet at the same time, she believed there might be healing for Maud, and for Jennie, if the story were brought out from the dark shadows of Maud’s memory.

  “Maud, everyone around here knew that Jimmy Merton hated Eddie. Most people looked out for your boy; and for all his slowness, he grew up to be a good man, and he was one of us. But it was different for Jimmy. They were in the same class at school, exactly the same age, give or take a few months, I would imagine. The other children accommodated Eddie—perhaps a bit of teasing here and there, and though it was difficult for Eddie, he coped with it well enough. Jimmy was a different kettle of fish, wasn’t he? As if he was on a quest to make Eddie as miserable as he could; as if Eddie had to pay for something. Eh?”

  Maud nodded, and took a handkerchief from her apron pocket. “He was a nasty, mean little boy, and an even nastier, meaner man.”

  Maisie took her time. “He didn’t have a good life at home. Many of the children in these parts have it hard; they’re out to work before they should be, and half of them haven’t shoes on their feet or warm coats in winter—yet Jimmy had it especially hard, didn’t he?”

  Jennie spoke up. “He certainly did, there’s no lie there. Poor little scrap, he was. I remember seeing him once with bruises all down the side of his face, and a few stripes on his leg from his father’s belt.”

  “That don’t excuse the way he treated my Eddie,” said Maud.

  “Maud,” said Maisie. “Why do you think he was like that with Eddie?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know. How would I know, Maisie? What’re you asking me that for?”

 
Maisie could see the woman was shaking and reached for her hand. “Maud, I think you know. And I think I know, too. You’ve never talked about it, and you can’t keep it bottled up forever. You were just a young, young girl. It’s not too late to shed a burden, ever.”

  Jennie looked at Maisie, her brow furrowed, concern giving an edge to her voice. “What are you talking about, Maisie? What’s this all about?”

  “Maud?” said Maisie.

  The woman’s breathing became faster, and tears began to fall. “Jimmy Merton hated my Eddie.” Sobs came with every breath. “He . . . he hated him because he knew. He knew, even though he had never been told. Jimmy knew that Eddie was his brother. His half brother.”

  “What?” said Jennie. “Maudie, love, what are you saying? You always said you never saw the man who took you. How could you know . . . oh, dear.” She clutched a handkerchief to her mouth. “Oh dear . . .”

  “It was Jimmy Merton’s father who had me as I was walking home in the dark. He was well in his cups, and I’d never even been kissed by a boy, never been with a boy. He grabbed me and dragged me up the alley, and he . . . he was . . . cruel to me.” She folded her arms and began rocking backwards and forwards in her chair.

  Jennie moved to put her arm around Maud but was pushed away.

  “No, she’s right,” said Maud. “The girl’s right, I’ve got to get it out and I can’t have you stopping me with your concern. It’s been eating me up. Ever since then, it’s been eating me up. He took me, he took my girlhood, he took my . . . oh, Maisie, what’s the word?”

  “Innocence?”

  Maud nodded. “He took my innocence. He was a brute and he made me bleed and he left me scarred, and he left me . . . with a baby. A lovely, precious, special little boy, who I loved so much, never mind how he came into the world, and all his slowness.” She gasped for breath.

  Maisie went to the sink and ran water into an earthenware cup, which she put in front of Maud, who was talking quickly now, her words breaking through the dam of silence she had begun to build, stick by stick, the night Jimmy Merton’s father had raped her.

  “And he told me, after he’d dragged me up that alley and was about to leave me, that if I ever said a word to a soul about what he’d done, I’d find myself at the bottom of the water. And I don’t know how that poor little mite, Jimmy, ever cottoned on that Eddie was his brother, but I always thought he just knew; just knew because blood can recognize its own. It was as if he wanted to destroy Eddie for not being right, for him being slow, as if it would show up on him too, one day. And Eddie never took a swing back, he just turned away, as if he could feel it, as if there was something inside him, telling him that they were joined.”

  “Perhaps, Maud, Jimmy wanted to destroy Eddie because he was loved, and Jimmy wasn’t,” said Maisie.

  “Oh, Maud. You’ve even kept it from me, all these years. You poor girl.” Jennie went to the stove and poured water from the boiling kettle, scalding the tea and leaving it to brew. “You should have got that off your chest a long time ago.”

  Maud wiped her eyes. “I was scared, Jen. I was always scared of that man, and scared of his family. And even after he died, I was so used to the fear, I didn’t know what it would be like to stop being frightened.” She looked at Maisie. “It sort of wraps itself around your insides, like a snake, I reckon.”

  Maisie nodded. “I couldn’t describe it better myself, Maud.”

  “And it’s not as if we can all just up and go, is it? I mean, you’re born on these streets, and this is where you stay, unless of course you get called up to fight like Wilf, God rest his soul. Or if you’ve got something about you—like you, Maisie—you can probably get away.”

  Jennie put three cups of tea on the table, and a packet of biscuits. “We’ve had a man round, about money. So we spent a bit more this week—some nice biscuits.”

  “I hope you’re being looked after,” said Maisie.

  “I reckon we are,” said Jennie. “Tell her, Maud.”

  Maud’s eyes were still red-rimmed, and Maisie knew there remained much to tell; much for the elderly woman to reveal of the snake that was now loosening its grip on her soul. “The man told us we’d be sent money regular—very nice, wasn’t he, with his bowler hat and pressed suit? He said we could move somewhere nicer, if we wanted to, and he would arrange everything. He told us to think about it. But we don’t know. This is far from being a palace, but we know these streets, and the people know us, so we’d never be short of someone to come in and lend a hand. You can’t take a plant from the shade and put it in the sun, not if it’s been used to the shadows and done all right there.”

  “I’m not very good at gardening, Maud,” said Maisie.

  “I bet you’d be good at anything you turn your mind to, young lady.” She took Maisie’s hand. “The only thing I won’t mind never seeing again is that workhouse. Terrible, terrible memories—eh, Jen? And they say there’s people pouring in again, not able to pay their way.”

  Jennie nodded.

  “I reckon that when all’s said and done, we’ll think about moving. After all, you never know. It’s not against the law to change your mind, is it?”

  “No. And there’s no need to rush into anything,” said Maisie.

  “The other thing is that we wouldn’t want to leave Eddie,” said Maud. “Not alone in the cemetery like that.” She paused. “Reckon that Jimmy Merton won’t have a proper burial, what with him taking his own life.”

  “I don’t know what arrangements are being made, but he won’t be buried in consecrated ground,” said Maisie.

  “I still hate him, and I don’t think I’ll ever forgive him. But I do reckon he had it hard, growing up. That don’t make it right. But if he had half the snake, here, that’s been wrapped up inside me, then I reckon he must’ve been a very sad boy. Sad becomes bad too easy, eh, Maisie?”

  Maisie squeezed Maud’s hand. “I think I’d better be off. I’m sure you’ve got a lot to talk about with Jennie.”

  “We’ve always got a lot to talk about, haven’t we, Maud?” said Jennie. “I’ll come to the door with you, Maisie.”

  They walked along the passageway again, and to the door.

  “How did you know about Eddie’s father?” asked Jennie.

  Maisie shrugged. “I just thought about it a lot. Some things you can’t know definitely, but you have a feeling that points you in a certain direction. And someone said something to me, about Jimmy Merton having an ax to grind as far as Eddie was concerned, and I remembered seeing him, his face, his way of walking, and I realized that it reminded me a bit of Eddie, though Eddie was bigger.”

  Jennie nodded. “Gentle giant, wasn’t he?”

  “One of the best,” said Maisie. “Now, you get back to Maud. It’ll have done her good to get that off her chest, but I think you should do something for the rest of the day. Go to the cemetery, then catch a bus across the water—there are lovely flowers blooming in Hyde Park, so a stroll would be just what you both need. Treat yourself to a bite to eat, somewhere posh. You’ve been given some money—enjoy it.”

  Once across Lambeth Bridge, Maisie drove along the Embankment, stopping when she saw a telephone kiosk. She dialed the office in Fitzroy Square.

  “Sandra? Good. Look, I’m not coming into the office this morning. I’m going to be away for a few days, perhaps a week. So could you hold the fort? I’ll keep in touch and let you know when I’m coming back, and you can telephone the house if something urgent comes in.”

  Maisie spent her days at The Dower House alone with her thoughts for much of the time. She joined the gardeners when they came to her house, and worked alongside them, asking questions about this plant and that shrub, and where it might be best to grow some vegetables. She had a few words with Dawkins, the new apprentice gardener. He was enjoying his job and did not mention the fading bruises on his cheek and around his eye, and Maisie did not ask.

  Each evening she went down to the Groom’s Cottage for supp
er, or she sat in the kitchen at The Dower House and thought about the ease with which they had fallen into habit whereby Mrs. Bromley was both a companion to her father and someone whom she could count on, not simply as an employee, but one who sometimes volunteered a point of view. It was an opinion that usually gave food for thought, and for that she was grateful. Maisie suspected the housekeeper had done the same for Maurice, and she was gaining a new appreciation of their relationship. Some people were at their best, she realized, when relating to each other in a manner that was not in line with the accepted norm.

  Upon her return to London, she felt a growing warmth in her heart for James. They began to establish something neither had expected at the outset, when they came together with the excitement of new love. They no longer had a courtship, though they continued to present themselves as a couple, yet they had something more than friendship. Neither one was seeing anyone else, and it seemed to suit them both. They did not argue as they had, and found much to laugh about, to talk about, and they enjoyed a certain companionship that could not easily be pigeonholed. When she tried to explain to Priscilla how things were, her friend sighed and responded, “Sounds awfully like a marriage to me, Maisie. You slip into step with one another, you have someone to talk to, to be with, to socialize with, but neither of you gets crabby if one wants to do something else for a change—at least that’s how it is with Douglas and me.”

  It was to be some time before Maisie felt ready to go back over the many notes she had made on the case of Eddie Pettit—an investigation she could never quite get out of her mind. She had no need to provide a formal report to her original clients, but she felt drawn to putting down her thoughts in writing, to recount the case and the many tributaries she’d followed to discover who was responsible for Eddie’s death. She read through the pages again and again, making corrections and alterations, and soon realized she was ready to embark upon the ritual of her final accounting. She had learned the importance of this step when she was first apprenticed to Maurice. He had instructed her that it was important to reflect upon each stage in the process of solving a case, perhaps to visit certain people again, or to walk a given route that she’d followed during her investigation. The final accounting was key to coming to the next new case renewed and ready for another challenge. It was not a means of forgetting, but of assigning completed work its place, as if it were freshly laundered linen—starched, ironed, folded, and put away in the airing cupboard.