A Lesson in Secrets (20 page)

“But we needed the money.”

“We certainly did, and now look at us—getting on our feet again. It’s Alfie who worries me now, though. He’s doing so well in school—he’ll go to the university, if we can get the money.”

Maisie stepped back. She closed her eyes and framed words of introduction. It would be a difficult conversation, so she wanted just a moment or two to compose herself, to hold her hand to her heart so that she might speak from that place. There was fragility in this household, a lingering sickness that each member of the family worked hard to counter each day—Maisie could see it in the way they had clustered around a much-adored mother. But, of more urgency, Maisie knew she had found Rosemary Linden, for she still knelt alongside her mother, and was held in her arms. And there had been a greater recognition, as the children—now grown—brought the chair, then the blankets and writing materials. Maisie could see in her mind’s eye the photograph she had taken from the room in which Greville Liddicote had died. A woman surrounded by her children, the youngest on her outswung hip with the older ones close by, smiling into the camera. Except one, as Maisie now remembered. The eldest girl stood just behind her sister and brother, and she was frowning at the camera, or more likely at the man who was trying to capture that moment.

Chapter Fifteen

T
he woman and her daughter did not see Maisie at first. Her approach was partly hidden by the sweet peas, their multicolored pastel blooms bobbing in a warm breeze, while white cumulus clouds seemed to linger above, before moving on to cast a shadow across another garden. Soon she was close enough to offer a greeting, but wanted to do so in a manner that gave the daughter time to gather her thoughts.

“Hello there, Alice—at last I’ve found you!” Maisie smiled at the young woman she had known as Rosemary Linden, who now stood before her in a sensible brown cotton skirt and a white blouse with a lace-edged sailor collar. She wore sturdy lace-up shoes on her feet, and an apron over the skirt. She gasped when she first saw Maisie standing before her. Yet it seemed that Maisie’s open smile had indeed helped Alice collect herself, for she smiled in return, and her reply was composed.

“Miss Dobbs—Maisie—how lovely to see you here.” She turned to her mother, and though her color heightened the second she called Maisie by her Christian name, she was quick with a story to mask the truth. “Mother, I met Miss Maisie Dobbs while I was working in Cambridge; we were both members of a readers’ club.”

“Mrs. Thurlow, I am so pleased to meet you. I was in Ipswich seeing a friend, and I thought I would take a jaunt out here to see Alice. We quite miss her opinion on the latest books.”

“Please, do call me Ursula. Any friend of my children is welcome to our house at any time—especially lovers of literature. One always has riches when one has a book to read.” She turned to her daughter. “Alice, go and get Alfie to bring a couple of chairs out, so we can sit together, and tell Amber to bring another cup. Then I am sure you and Maisie have things to talk about.”

Alice went into the cottage and soon the younger boy brought the chairs, one held in each hand, bumping the door frame as he came out.

“Careful, Alfie, I think I’ve already taken a chip or two out of that wood with my head this morning!”

The boy was on the cusp of manhood, with a fluff of beard almost ready for the razor, and a way of walking as if he had grown too fast for his limbs to take account of themselves. He set down chairs for both his sister and her guest, and informed his mother that Amber had put the kettle on for a fresh pot of tea and Alice would be back out in a moment.

“If it weren’t for my children, I don’t know what I would do, Maisie.” Ursula Thurlow’s manner was inclusive and open, as if she had known Maisie for a long time.

“Alice only mentioned that you were dependent upon the wheelchair—she didn’t really tell me about your condition. Have you not found a doctor to help you at all?”

“The expense of going to the doctor has prevented me from seeing more than just one or two physicians, though there was a doctor in Ipswich who referred me to a colleague in Cambridge who was interested in my case for ‘research’ purposes. I went to see him once, but I didn’t want to go again. It was exhausting, just getting there, and the symptoms did not seem to be deteriorating at any great rate—it has taken since 1917 for me to be so crippled, and at least I still have my mind and my hands, though they wobble at times.” She paused, and sipped her tea. Alice joined them, bringing a tray with more tea and a cake. Amber followed and made as if to remain with them, but when she realized the subject of their conversation, she left to go back into the house, informing them that her older brother had gone back to the farm.

Ursula Thurlow reached out for her older daughter’s hand, and continued with her story. “It all started with tingling in my fingers, and a sort of giddiness—the room would spin, then come back into place. I had young children then, so I could not allow it to hamper me. And I was alone; my husband had died, and I believed the shock of his death had likely set off the symptoms, and they would go in time. But they didn’t.” She reached out to touch the petals on one of the sweet peas. “Sometimes I can feel the soft touch of a flower, and sometimes I can’t, which tells me that this hand might be the next to go.”

Maisie nodded. “I know you only spent a short time with the consultant in Cambridge, but did he mention anything to do with myelin? There was some research a few years ago that won a Nobel award; it was to do with the way in which our nerves use something called myelin; lack of the substance leads to the sort of sclerosis that you describe.” She looked at Alice, then at Ursula once again. “I should have mentioned—I was once a nurse, so these things interest me.”

The woman shrugged. “Myelin? It sounds familiar, Miss Dobbs, but I have ceased to pay attention. Much as I would like to think that one day someone will say, ‘Take up your bed and walk,’ I have come to realize that, each day, I have only that day. I live for the present, Miss Dobbs, and the joy I can leach out of every moment with my children, in my garden, with my books and in my writing.” She reached out towards Alice, pulling her close so that she might kiss her forehead.

“I think you are perfectly right to live each day as you choose, Ursula. I can understand how wearing endless visits to the doctor can be.”

“It was bad enough when Alice chose to go to work with the family in Cambridge, but she’s back now. It was a few years in which I would love to have seen more of her, but she insisted upon working to bring more money into the household.” The woman seemed to tire. “I think I might just sit in the sun here while you two young women go off for a chat.” She paused and looked up at Maisie, who was now standing. “I am sure we will speak again before you leave, Maisie. May I ask what it is you do, for you are a working woman, that much is clear to me, though you are no longer a nurse.”

“No, I am no longer a nurse. I am a teacher, and I have another job as well, though that is more difficult to describe.”

The woman smiled, and then closed her eyes, her hands resting on the tray with her books and writing materials.

“Let’s walk down to the stream,” offered Alice Thurlow.

The two women walked for a while without speaking, then Maisie took the lead. “Tell me why you lied, Alice. Tell me why you have lived a lie while working for Greville Liddicote.”

“I didn’t kill him.”

“I know. But you wanted to, didn’t you?”

Alice laughed. It was a short laugh. “I don’t know how I thought I would harm him, though I wanted to see him as deeply wounded as he left my family—and we were already in so much pain, every one of us, especially mother.”

“Would you tell me what happened?”

“My mother could tell you what happened before my father was taken away. I was not a child, but probably not quite old enough to see anything but the black and white of it all.” She sighed. “Sometimes, it makes me so tired, so exhausted, just thinking back over those years.”

“Let’s sit over here, on this bank.”

Maisie took off her jacket and laid it on the ground. She sat down on one side, patting the remaining fabric for Alice to sit next to her. “There, that works very well.”

“It won’t do your jacket any good, though, will it, Miss Dobbs?”

“Maisie. Please continue to call me Maisie. Now, tell me about your father.”

Tears came into the young woman’s eyes, tears that she brushed away with the back of her hand.

“They were very happy, my parents. Very much in love. But if I was to look back on it, I think they were very idealistic. I didn’t realize how different we all were until I started seeing my friends’ parents, who seemed so ordinary. My parents were always involved in something, and even before the war they had become quite vocal about their support of peace among nations. My father went to a peace march in 1912, and we all went along, too. If one of us couldn’t walk, then they carried us.” Alice stopped speaking. She pinched at the grass, pulling up small clumps and throwing them aside. “My parents truly believed in what they saw as an increasingly aggressive tone in government. To tell you the truth, we—my brother and I—picked up the argument, the discussion we heard around the table, and took it to school, which made us stand out a bit. So, later, Mother started teaching us at home. And she told stories. Both Mother and Father told stories for us, and they said that if you could teach children about peace, there would be no more wars. We were taught never to fight, never to raise a hand towards another, and to turn the other cheek. I think that was especially hard for Adam, because he was such a big lad for his age—every boy in school wanted to pick on him for a fight, but he just walked away. I think we were all relieved when we came home for school, and my mother had quite a row with the school board man.”

“I’m sure she did,” offered Maisie. “What happened to your father, in the war?”

“He protested against conscription, and he registered as a conscientious objector.” She swallowed, and rivulets of tears ran down either side of her face. “My father was a very, very clever man, Miss Dobbs. He had been a teacher, and a writer of political essays, all of which were published. He was firm in his resolve, and he could argue his point with clarity and without resorting to rancor or sarcasm; he didn’t need to be disrespectful. Even though I was young, I remember that listening to him argue a point was like watching a concert pianist dance his fingers across the keyboard, or a ballerina execute her steps to perfection. The men at his hearing clearly despised him. I am sure he angered them simply by the way he expressed himself—he was quite imperturbable. So instead of being sent to do hard labor, such was the vehemence—and, I think, the sense—of his argument, that he was sent to Wandsworth Prison, which had a terrible reputation. And we had no means of support in the family. We were living in a cottage close to the school where he taught at the time, and after his hearing, my mother was given notice to leave. She was very worried, so for a short time we went to live with my father’s aunt.”

“Rose Linden.”

The drying tears had left water marks across Alice Thurlow’s skin, and her eyes were red-rimmed. “Oh, yes, of course, that’s how you found us. Rose was so kind, and so was her husband, though they ended up losing the regard of her husband’s family. We were like the unclean, you see—the family of a conchie. My mother told me she would have to get us away as soon as she could, as it wasn’t fair on Aunt Rose.”

Maisie allowed a silence to descend before asking another question. “How did Greville Liddicote come into your lives?”

“My mother had a book—actually she had a couple of books—that she and my father had written together. They had a way of working that really seemed to be fruitful for them, and they took so much joy in the process. They would talk about a story idea, then my father would set to and write the first draft, after which he would give the pages to my mother; then she would go through them and write the story again—and she’d paint little pictures with her watercolors along the way. Then when my father was sent to prison, she wrote a story for us—it was called
The Peaceful Little Warriors
. We loved that story, and she illustrated it.” She sighed. “We needed money, so Mother thought she would try to get them published. She was naïve, Maisie. She asked her friends, one of whom vaguely knew Greville Liddicote, and that he had written some children’s books. So she wrote to him and enclosed one chapter of the first book. He came to visit and began paying attention to my mother. She was a striking woman, Maisie. Though she can barely move now, you should have seen her before this wicked disease claimed her.”

“What did your aunt and uncle think of him, calling on a married woman?”

“Liddicote was circumspect, and soon he helped us out—well, it seemed as if he was helping us out. Mother was about to give birth to Alfie, and I think, even though she was pregnant, he seemed to be drawn to her like a moth to a light—even in the worst of times, she had such laughter about her. He found us a cottage to live in, and he offered to purchase the manuscripts—five pounds each for three, which was a fortune to my mother. She was so grateful. He had already paid the rent for several months—he stayed at the house as often as he liked—and the extra money would help out even more. And, to be fair, we needed that sort of support, especially after my father was murdered.”

“Murdered?”

“Yes, he was murdered, Miss Dobbs, though the men who took his life will never stand trial, for they were protected by the war and their position. We heard the truth a few years later, when one of his fellow prisoners came to visit and told us what he understood had happened. The conscientious objectors were treated as if they were the worst of common criminals. If thirsty, they were made to drink their own urine. If hungry, they were starved. If they cried, they were kicked. A man who stands up for what he believes in instead of fighting for what someone else believes in is a threat—people cannot bear someone who has that sort of strength and fortitude.”

Alice Thurlow’s passionate description of her father took Maisie by surprise. The woman beside her bore little resemblance to the Rosemary Linden who had diligently gone about her duties at the College of St. Francis.

“And I take it that Greville Liddicote published not only
The Peaceful Little Warriors
, but the two other books written by your parents—and all under his own name. He took all the royalties for himself—and the renown—leaving your family with only enough to pay the rent, if you were lucky.”

“Yes. And he never came back again after the first book was published. In truth, I don’t think it was out of spite, but embarrassment. He was probably afraid that someone would find out and he would lose everything, so he didn’t even send a penny more. My mother made an attempt to press her claim after she’d realized what had happened, but due to her beliefs, she didn’t exactly fight for what was hers—and no one really wanted to listen, anyway. You see, Greville Liddicote had left my mother with a reputation—she was the wife of a conchie who had been kept by another man. But she was pressed to that point by a country that saw a true conscientious objection to the war as reason to cast a family aside with no support. It would have been so easy for my father to take the King’s shilling, to offer to drive ambulances, for example. But if he was to be true to his beliefs—and the values my mother held with him—he could not support men killing each other in any way. How might that have seemed to his children? Especially when he and Ursula believed that the future of a peaceful world lay with those who were not yet grown.”