A Dangerous Place (16 page)

That daring young man on the flying trapeze.

His movements were graceful, all girls he could please,

And my love he purloined away.

Rowan had adored her son. Maisie discovered later, when so much had come to pass in her life, and when she and James had started tentatively courting, that an older sister had been lost in childhood. She had died while trying to save her brother's life at a woodland swimming hole on the estate. It was likely that Lady Rowan's strength of character and ebullient no-nonsense approach to life had carried the family until their grief subsided. Now there was little to encourage a woman who had lost both her children. It was clear Lady Rowan needed Maisie at home as much as, if not more than, Frankie Dobbs yearned to have his daughter back. As Maisie thought about Brenda's words, a feeling of responsibility settled upon her, but instead of willing her back to England, it weighed upon her. She feared that much would be expected of her, and she felt she had so little to give.

She picked up Priscilla's letter, her name written with such boldness on the front of the envelope:

Lady Margaret

Maisie rolled her eyes. She wished no one had ever known her real name. It was the housekeeper at Chelstone who had persuaded her to have the wedding announcement issued with the name on her birth certificate. It was a name never used, not even on her enlistment documents in the war. She had always been Maisie. Margaret was someone else, though she sometimes wondered if it might not suit her better. Maisie was, after all, girlish and carefree. It was strange that as she became more of a Maisie, so the name her mother chose for her had been revealed. And now Priscilla was using it, though she knew her friend's intention was not respect, or an idle tease. It was meant to goad her—into replying, if nothing else. Priscilla could be an annoying woman at times.

Dear Maisie,

I, for once, do not know where to start. Of all the people in the world—well, in MY world—who I trusted never to do anything rash or worrisome, it was you. Miss Do Everything Right Dobbs. And now you are absolutely acting with no respect for your own safety, and thus (dare I say it) for the peace of mind of those who love you dearly. That includes me, and you know me—I'll be perfectly blunt, whereas your dear stepmother (and she is a dear) will probably dance around and not say right to your face (and I wish I could)—COME HOME NOW! What do you think you're doing, Maisie? It's one thing to want to go into hiding, and quite another to put yourself into a dangerous situation—and where you are right now is too close to someone else's war, for my comfort at least. I am a mother hen, Maisie, and I want all my chicks under my wing, even the big ones. You are my dearest friend, and I want you where I can see you. Apart from anything, you
cannot be well. How long did the doctors say it would take for you to recover? Over a year, and that is just your body. I know Dr. Hayden was very concerned when you left their home—I even placed an international trunk call to them to talk about it. Thank heavens for the telephone, that's all I can say!

When do you intend to grace all who love you with your presence? I think an answer is deserved, if for no other reason than respect for our deep sister-like friendship. If you don't want anyone to know you're here apart from your parents and I (though I do think the Comptons are entitled to know, and they will keep all others, including those awful newspaper people, away from you), then I will collect you from Southampton and drive you immediately to Dame Constance at Camden Abbey. I have been in touch with her—though goodness knows, she doesn't hold me in any high esteem—and she said you would find comfort and healing if you sought refuge at the abbey. As far as I'm concerned, the only Benedictine I want to have any proximity to is a drink, not a nun, but each to their own, and I think it wouldn't be a bad thing, just for a little while, to rest at Camden as a means of easing you into life in England again. You have gone through so much, Maisie—do not deprive those who love you of the chance to take care of you.

Maisie put down the letter and pressed her fingers to her eyelids. Perhaps it would be a good idea, when she returned, to go to Dame Constance. She continued to read. There was news of Priscilla's sons and her beloved husband, with tales of her middle son's sailing exploits, and her older son's pleas to be allowed to take flying lessons. At this, Maisie shuddered. The younger son seemed happy to follow the elder's lead, with Priscilla complaining that he rarely took off the leather aviator's helmet he had been given by “Uncle” James. Priscilla
complained that informing her son that his hair would fall out hadn't had the slightest effect.

I suppose I should bring my diatribe to a close. I wanted to tell you that we saw the Otterburns a few days ago, at a dinner party—rather boring, actually. I tried to avoid them, but Lorraine took me aside when the ladies retired to the drawing room. She said they had worried about you very much, and that if I was in touch (and I would bet they know exactly where you are), then I was to tell you that John is at your service to send an aeroplane to bring you home to England at your convenience. I said I would convey the message if at some point I knew your address, but that you had been very unwell and you were now resting overseas. I can only say, Maisie, I hope you are bloody well resting! Oh, and one more snippet—that daughter of theirs, Elaine, is engaged to be married—rather soon, I believe. The gossip is that it's rather a “have to” marriage, and that sometime in December a birth announcement will be made and Lorraine will be talking about how they're so pleased that mother and “premature” baby are doing well. Premature, my foot!

Maisie stood up and walked to the window, not bothering to read Priscilla's final signing-off, with much love expressed. A crushing weight of anger and grief was pressing down on her chest. So Elaine Otterburn—the dilettante daughter who should have been flying instead of James, but had instead been nursing a hangover—was to be married soon and was expecting a child. Maisie felt as if she were on the edge of the precipice again, looking down into the abyss, panicking, at once fearful of the slide and compelled to give in to it, as if to be buried were the very best thing that could happen to her.

She turned from the window, opened the wardrobe door, and was tugging at the straps of the leather suitcase, ready to reach inside for the bottle of pills—the small round white pills that would lift her up and take the pain away—when there was a knock at the door.

“Miss Dobbs! Miss Dobbs! Your supper!”

Maisie took a deep breath. Another knock at the door.

“Miss Dobbs? Are you there?”

She cleared her throat.

“Yes, Mrs. Bishop. Just a minute! I'm just washing my face. You can leave the tray there if you like.”

“Right you are,” called Mrs. Bishop. “Oh, and dear—can you hear me? Well, Mr. MacFarlane came again. I told him you were resting, and you'd see him tomorrow, in all likelihood.”

Maisie had stepped across to the washbasin and was running water.

“Thank you! And thank you for the soup!”

“All right then. I'll put it down outside your door.”

Maisie turned off the tap and heard the woman's steps as she descended to the courtyard. Only then did she turn on the tap again to splash water on her face. She looked at her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes were red-rimmed and her cheeks were hollow, despite having caught the sun in recent weeks. But there was something there in her eyes, something she recognized, as if it were an old friend to be welcomed. It was a certain resolve, a knowledge that the only way she could fight her way out of the abyss was to prove something to herself—that she could be brave, that she could survive and be strong. She had looked in the mirror so many times, hoping to see something of her former self.

She pushed the leather case back into the wardrobe and opened the door to the landing. She picked up the tray, brought it into the room,
and set it on the table. Soup, fresh bread, a wedge of cheese, and a small carafe of wine. The food would comfort her, and the wine would lull her to sleep. Then tomorrow she would go to Mr. Salazar and ask him to send a message to Professor Vallejo. Her inquiry into the death of Sebastian Babayoff could wait a few days. Indeed, she had almost all the cards in her hand, ready to lay down. But there was something more important for her to do. A compulsion, she thought—if she had courage enough.

T
he day began with a soft humidity in the air, the sky overhead ashimmer as sun reflected through a fine silk-scarf layer of cloud. Maisie pulled out her knapsack and packed her wallet, plus a leftover piece of bread and cheese from the previous evening's supper wrapped in a clean handkerchief. She did not want to encounter her landlady, so she planned to stop at Mr. Salazar's café for a bottle of water. She had dressed in a linen walking skirt, her leather sandals, and a light cotton blouse of white broderie anglaise. She rubbed cold cream into the skin of her face and arms and placed a straw hat on her head. Last, but not least, she put on her sunglasses and cardigan. Doubtless she would soon be folding the cardigan into the knapsack, but she would benefit from it for the next hour.

Opening the door, she looked down the staircase and onto the silent courtyard below. She closed the door without a sound, and with a sure, soft step, made her way out onto the street. As far as she knew, she had not been seen. As far as she knew.

As she approached the café, Salazar was at the front of his premises, bidding good-morning to passersby—each one represented potential business—and either waving them on their way, or guiding them into the café. Then he returned to the street. When he saw Maisie walking toward the café, he raised his hand and set off toward her.

“Miss Dobbs! Miss Dobbs! Good morning to you, señora.”

Señora.
A married woman.

“Hello, Mr. Salazar—and a good morning to you, too,” said Maisie.

“Will you come in for coffee, and a—what did you name it? Custard doughnut?”

Maisie laughed and shook her head. “Well, it was an apt description, was it not? And no, I cannot stop today, but I will buy a bottle of water from you, if I may.”

“Buy water? Buy water? Since when is water for sale? I will
give
you a bottle of water, Miss Dobbs.”

He led her into the café, where she sat on a stool at the bar while Salazar stepped behind the bar, filled a thick glass bottle with water, and stoppered it.

“There you are, Miss Dobbs.” He looked around the restaurant and beckoned her closer. “I have a message for you, from the professor. He will meet you here later.” Salazar looked behind him at the clock, then turned his attention to Maisie. “About two hours' time. Can you come?”

Maisie nodded. “Yes, of course.” She paused. “Is he well? You seem concerned.”

“The professor has become my friend. He is an honorable man, but a man who has taken risks for his beliefs. So, yes, señora—I worry about him.”

Maisie placed the bottle in her knapsack. “Thank you, Mr.
Salazar—and tell the professor I will see him later. Around one.” She slipped from the stool, smiled once more, and left the café. She did not look back, yet felt certain that Salazar had taken up his place outside the café, and was watching her until she was out of sight.

As she passed along the street, she noticed Solomon's haberdashery shop was still closed. She wondered how long the shopkeeper could afford to let business slip through his fingers.

Walking along Gibraltar's streets had, she thought, been good for her. At first she had felt the weakness in her body, as if the sadness had spread into every cell, every fiber and ligament, but as she stepped out along the road now, she felt stronger. Of course, when she put her idea to the professor, he might refuse her, but she'd made sure she was at least fitter in body and mind, thus less likely to represent a burden.

The village of Catalan Bay appeared picture-postcard perfect as Maisie rounded the curve of the path down to the beach. The sun was higher in the sky, and the morning coastal mist had burned off—she had shed her cardigan soon after leaving Main Street. She thought she might wander the streets of the village for a while, perhaps buy postcards for Priscilla and Brenda. She'd send one to Billy and his family, too. There was nothing like a postcard of a sunnier clime to convey the idea of ease and enjoyment.

Once again the women were clustered in a circle close to the rocks, mending nets. Most of the fishing boats were in, lying on their sides like beached whales waiting for the tide to bring them breath and life. As Maisie walked toward the women, she noticed one of their number catch sight of her, and warn the others. A couple of the black-clad fishermen's wives looked around, and they seemed to cluster closer together, as if she were an interloper to be feared. And perhaps she was.

Maisie smiled as she continued on, and when she reached their circle, she sat down at the edge, leaning in as if she belonged.

“Good morning,” she said. The women understood English, of that she was sure.

The women all nodded their acknowledgment at the same time, with the woman who had spotted her first replying, “Good morning” in heavily accented English. She set down her long thick needle, poking it through the net to mark her place.

“I wonder, do you know where I can find Rosanna?”

The woman laughed, and her companions giggled like nervous schoolgirls. She shrugged. “Not here, not today.”

Maisie smiled again, inclining her head as she held the woman's gaze. “But you know where she is, don't you?”

The woman's face hardened. She shook her head and shrugged again. “She is a girl. She is late today—it will show her she should be working.” The woman rubbed her finger and thumb together.

Maisie laughed. “Oh, she'll be sorry then.”

The woman understood—and so did the others, their heads nodding in knowing accord.

“And you don't know where she's gone?” asked Maisie again.

The woman looked at her with the same stone-faced expression. “She is busy. That is all. She is busy.” And with that comment, she looked out to sea.

Maisie followed her gaze and turned back to the woman, though this time she raised her chin, just a little, to show she understood. She thanked the women, who went on with their work and chatter, weaving their long, hooked needles in and out of the nets.

Maisie left the beach and, after wandering through the village and purchasing several postcards of Catalan Bay, began to make her way back toward Main Street.

So Rosanna Grillo was not among the women, had not been seen by them of late, and was—if that one glance across the sea could be
taken as evidence—well away from home. But where was she? Could she have gone into hiding somewhere? Maisie had assumed she had remained after helping to load the boat in the dead of night—surely she would not have ventured into Spain.

Maisie wanted to go to the cave again, but having looked at her watch, she realized it was time to return to Mr. Salazar's café, and at a brisk clip, if she didn't want to miss Professor Vallejo.

T
he professor was waiting for her when she arrived, seated on the banquette underneath the mural depicting Gibraltar's history.

He stood as she approached. “Miss Dobbs.”

Maisie was taken aback. Vallejo's eyelids were drooping with fatigue, and the fine skin above his cheekbones appeared dark and paper-thin. His lips barely moved as he spoke, as if he were trying to conserve whatever energy he had left.

“Professor, but why—”

“Sit down, Maisie.” He paused. “May I call you Maisie? I fear I may have taken a liberty.”

“Of course that's all right.” She slid into the banquette.

“You need proper food.” She looked around for Mr. Salazar.

“He's in the kitchen, making me something special to eat.”

“Are you ill?”

Vallejo shook his head. “Just tired, Maisie. I have been busy.”

“Across the border.” It was not a question.

He nodded. “Yes. I was in Madrid, close to the front lines, in University City.”

“You are helping the Republican Army?”

“Inasmuch as I am able. Not all fighting goes on in the trenches, but sometimes it is necessary to go to the edge of the terror.”

“Madrid is being bombed almost daily—I know that much,” said Maisie, looking back toward the kitchen again.

“Yet life goes on, in the strangest of ways. Franco is determined to take Madrid—it is the jewel in the crown of this war.”

“Will you go back?”

Vallejo sighed. “In two days.”

“Why, Professor? Why did you come here, anyway? Could you not have found rest in Spain, away from the fighting?”

“Questions I cannot answer, Maisie. I am a professor, but suffice it to say—” Vallejo shook his head and signaled toward the kitchen. Salazar was now approaching bearing a plate filled with food that Maisie would have been hard pushed to identify.

“Professor.” Salazar set the plate before Vallejo and stepped back. “A glass of wine, perhaps? Something stronger? Have what you want.”

Vallejo nodded. “I'll have a glass of rioja.” He nodded in Maisie's direction.

“And for you, Miss Dobbs? Perhaps a tortilla?” Salazar laughed, noticing Maisie's expression. “Don't be afraid—it's just potato, sliced and cooked with eggs.”

“Oh, sorry—of course, I've had it before. Yes, that would be lovely—and a glass of rioja for me too, please.” She waited for Salazar to be beyond earshot, and turned back to Vallejo. “So you leave in two days.”

Vallejo nodded.

“And you have no trouble going back and forth across the border?”

“I have the papers. I am welcome in both places, though there is another border within Spain to be negotiated.”

“You must be a valuable person, Professor.”

“To too many people, at times.” He turned to his food again, slowing down only after three more mouthfuls.

Salazar approached with two glasses of rioja. He placed one each in front of Vallejo and Maisie. Vallejo, mouth full, nodded his thanks and reached for the glass.

“So, you leave in two days, perhaps three,” repeated Maisie.

“As soon as I can, and as soon as I have had some—let us say,
conversations
with certain people.”

Maisie nodded, then took a sip of the rich Spanish wine.

“I want to come with you.”

Vallejo looked up, leaned back, and shook his head. “Don't be ridiculous. There might be your British fact-finding politicos over there, the well-meaning with socialist sympathies, but you don't know what it's like.”

“I think I do, Professor. I do know what it's like. I would like to come with you.”

“But you will need papers, and—”

“I do not envisage a problem, but perhaps you can help me.” She paused, reaching into her knapsack for her passport, and placed it on the table in front of Salazar. “I have more than one legal name, and one carries more weight than the other at times like this. I read in the newspaper that the Duchess of Rathbone was visiting Madrid, along with other British women. If a duchess can be given leave to enter Spain, so can a lady.”

Salazar approached the table with Maisie's freshly cooked tortilla and a basket of warm bread. They thanked the café owner, who left them to converse.

“You should eat up, Miss Dobbs.”

Maisie met Vallejo's eyes, as if willing him to continue.

“You'll need your strength for Madrid.” He took up her passport and placed it in the inside pocket of his jacket.

She smiled and raised her glass. Vallejo in turn lifted his glass and
touched hers with an audible clink that caught the attention of other patrons. Vallejo sipped and set down his glass, pointing to her food with his fork.

“Eat, Miss Dobbs. An army always marches on its stomach.”

Maisie cut into the tortilla and lifted a forkful, inhaling the the aroma of warm herbs and the promise of nourishment provided by the simple dish. In truth, she did not feel like eating, for her insides were turning with anticipation. She was choosing to walk into a war, onto a battlefield. Perhaps it was, after all, the only way to face down the dragon of memory. She had felt it rise up within her again at the very second she witnessed a small aeroplane tumble from the sky above an escarpment in Canada.

T
wenty-four hours later, at the end of the working day, Maisie went to Mr. Salazar's café, where the proprietor handed her a small brown-paper-wrapped package. It contained her passport and the necessary paperwork. Facilitated by Vallejo's contacts, she had been given leave to depart for Spain at her earliest opportunity. She did not want MacFarlane to learn of her plans; with time, she knew someone, somewhere, would tell him. Vallejo had given Maisie exact instructions regarding where they should meet his driver, close to the border before sunrise the following morning. His note informed her that their journey would be circuitous. He would never take the same route to Madrid twice in a row, and care had to be taken to avoid Nationalist soldiers.

M
aisie avoided crossing paths with MacFarlane, though she had received another message via Mrs. Bishop that he wanted to see
her. And she had drawn back from further approaches to Miriam Babayoff and Mr. Solomon. As Billy would have said, she was laying low.

Following the meeting with Vallejo, Maisie had remained in the café stirring the dregs of her post-lunch coffee and staring into the grounds. Now, on the morning of her departure, in the darkness, she reflected upon a conversation she'd had with Mr. Salazar.

“There are those who can read the coffee grounds,” said the café proprietor, standing alongside her with his coffeepot and jug of hot milk. “The future is not only written in English tea leaves, you know.”

Maisie looked up into his eyes and saw there an understanding, as if he had intuited what had come to pass between two of his customers.

“Oh, I don't think I want to know, Mr. Salazar. The present is quite enough to deal with at times, without having to worry about what is coming around the corner. I've done my best not to be too afraid of the corners in life.”

The proprietor nodded. “Yes, it is best to remain in this moment—you never know what might happen.” He paused. “More coffee?”