Maisie Dobbs (12 page)

“Don’t worry about me, Dad. I’m doing very well, you know. Now then, where shall we go for our walk? I’ve got some nice sandwiches and a couple of bottles of ginger beer for us.”

T
hree days after her visit with Frankie, Maisie walked briskly toward the library for her early-evening lesson. She saw Maurice Blanche on alternate Wednesday evenings, meeting promptly at half past five in the library, for three hours, until Dr. Blanche left to join the Comptons for an informal supper in the dining room. She studied alone until he had finished supper, when both he and Lady Rowan joined Maisie in the library to review her work. Lady Rowan was well pleased with the education of Maisie Dobbs, asking questions and suggesting new areas of study. But this evening a new possibility was discussed.

“Maisie, I think it is time for us to embark on some fieldwork.”

Maisie looked first at Blanche, then at Lady Rowan. Botany. It had to be botany.

“Lady Rowan has spoken with Mr. Carter, and next week, on Wednesday, we will be taking an excursion. In fact, I have several such outings planned, and on those afternoons we must meet a little earlier than usual.”

“What sort of outings? Where are we going?”

“Various places,” said Blanche, “Of historical, social, or economic interest.”

Little more was said, but in the following weeks Maisie was taken by Blanche to meet people with whom she would spend time alone in conversation. At first Maurice would remain with her, but as time went on, he would quietly leave the room to allow for conversation between Maisie and his friend, for each person who met with Maisie was considered a “friend” by Maurice Blanche. As far as Maisie was concerned, some of them were a strange lot altogether, and she wasn’t sure what Frankie Dobbs would have to say about it all.

“Today we will be meeting with my dear friend Dr. Basil Khan,” Maurice Blanche informed Maisie as they journeyed to Hampstead by taxi-cab. “An extraordinary scholar, born in Ceylon, into a very-high-caste family. His first name was given as a mark of respect to one of his father’s former colleagues, an Englishman. Khan, as he prefers to be known, is completely blind. He lost his sight in an unfortunate accident, but as these things do, it became the foundation for his life’s work.”

“What’s his life’s work?”

“Khan, as you will see, is a man of great wisdom, of insight. His work uses that insight. He grants audiences to politicians, people of commerce, men of the cloth. He came to England as a young man, sent by his parents to see ophthalmic specialists, to no avail. While in England he gained his doctorate in philosophy at Oxford. Then he returned to Ceylon, and later traveled throughout the Indian subcontinent, himself seeking the counsel of wise men. To do this he had to give up the life he had once enjoyed in London and Oxford, which he had ceased to enjoy. Now he resides in Hampstead.”

“So why am I to see him?”

“Maisie, we are visiting for him to see
you.
And for you to learn that seeing is not necessarily something one does with the eyes.”

The visit to Khan was illuminating for Maisie. His apartments in a grand house were furnished in a simple manner: plain wooden furniture, curtains without pattern or texture, candlelight, and a strange smell that made her cough at first.

“You will get used to it, Maisie. Khan uses incense to bring a fragrant atmosphere to the house.”

At first Maisie was timid when led into a large room with only cushions on the floor and an old man sitting with legs crossed. He was positioned by the long French window as if contemplating the view, so that as Maisie and Maurice Blanche walked toward him, Khan was framed by shafts of light, and appeared to have been borne into the room by some mystical means of transportation. Without turning, Khan gestured toward Maisie with his hand.

“Come, child, come sit with me. We have much to speak of.”

To her surprise Maurice Blanche motioned Maisie to step forward, and moved toward Khan himself. He leaned down toward Khan, took the old man’s bony brown hands in his own, and kissed his lined and furrowed forehead. Khan smiled and nodded, then turned to Maisie.

“Tell me what it is you know, child.”

“Um . . .”

Both Khan and Maurice laughed, and the old man with long gray hair and almost colorless eyes smiled kindly at Maisie.

“Yes, a good start. A very good start. Let us talk of knowing.”

So Maisie Dobbs—daughter of a costermonger from Lambeth, just south of the water that divided London’s rich and poor—began to learn in the way that Maurice had intended, from the centuries of wisdom accumulated by Khan.

With Khan she learned to sit in deliberate silence, and learned too that the stilled mind would give insight beyond the teaching of books and hours of instruction, and that such counsel would support all other learning. When she first sat with Khan, she asked what it was she was to do as she sat with legs crossed on the cushion in front of him. The old man lifted his face to the window, then turned his clear white eyes toward her and said simply,“Pay attention.”

Maisie took the practice of sitting with Khan seriously and to heart, with an instinctive knowledge that this work would serve her well. In just a few short years, the lessons learned in the hours with Khan would bring her calm amid the shellfire, the terrible injuries, and the cries of wounded men. But for now, Maurice Blanche told Maisie, it was no small coincidence that she often knew what a person was going to say before he or she spoke, or that she seemed to intuit an event before it had occurred.

CHAPTER TWELVE

"So have you, Enid, and you aren’t anywhere near asleep yet.”

“Don’t you be worrying about me. I’ve told you that.”

Maisie slipped a page of notes into the book to mark the place, closed the book, and placed it to one side on her small table. She looked directly at Enid.

“And don’t you look at me with those eyes either, young Maisie Dobbs. Gives me the willies, it does.”

“You are being careful, aren’t you, Enid?”

“’Course I am. I told you not to worry.”

Khan might be teaching her many things about the human mind, but as far as Maisie was concerned, it didn’t take much in the way of foresight to see that Enid was going to get into some trouble before long. In truth it was a surprise that the older girl was not only still as slim as a whip but was still employed at the house in Belgravia at all. But Enid, who was now almost eighteen, was loved by everyone downstairs. Her efforts at correct enunciation still fell short, and sometimes Maisie thought she sounded more like a music hall act than a maid in service. But she, too, had come to love Enid, for her laughter, for the unsought advice she gave so freely, and most of all for her unselfish support of Maisie.

Enid slipped a thick cotton nightdress over her head, pulled on woolen socks, and proceeded carefully to fold her clothes into the chest of drawers by the wall. Shadows cast by the oil lamp flickered on the sloping ceiling of the top-floor bedroom as Enid brushed out her thick hair with a hardy bristle brush.

“One hundred strokes for a good thick head of hair—have I told you that, Mais?”

“Yes, many a time.”

Maisie ensured that her books and papers were carefully put away, and clambered into bed.

“Brrrr. It’s cold in here.”

Enid took an old silk scarf that had been hanging over the cast-iron bedpost, wrapped it around the head of her brush, and began brushing the silk over her hair to bring it to a lustrous shine.

“No, and it ain’t getting any warmer. I tell you, Maisie, a chill wind blows through ’ere sometimes, a chill wind.”

Maisie turned to face Enid.

“Enid, why don’t you like it here?”

Enid stopped brushing, held the brush in her lap, and fingered the scarf. Her shoulders drooped, and when she looked up at Maisie, it was with tears in her eyes.

“Enid, what is it? Is it James? Or that Arthur?”

Maisie had guessed that the reason for Enid’s absences over the past year resided in rooms on the third floor. Though it might have been Arthur, the young footman who had come to work at the house a month before Maisie. His position had been elevated since then. He had been given the task of ensuring the good health of the Comptons’ Lanchester motorcar, keeping it polished, oiled, and spick and span. She thought that he had taken a shine to Enid, too.

“No, it’s not ’im. That one’s full of the old bluster, all mouth and trousers, that’s Arthur. No, it’s not ’im.” Enid picked at the hairbrush, taking out long hairs and rolling them between her fingers.

“Come on, Enid. Something makes you sad.”

The older girl sighed, the familiar defiance ebbing as Maisie’s eyes sought her confidence.

“You know, Maisie, they’re all very nice here until you overstep the line. Now you, you’ll land on your feet; after all, ’avin’ brains is like ’avin’ money, even I know that. But me, all I’ve got is ’oo I am, and ’oo I am i’n’t good enough.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, come on, Maisie, you must’ve heard talk—they love to talk in the kitchen of this place, ’specially that old Mrs. Crawford.” Enid put down the brush, pulled back her bedsheets, and climbed into bed. She turned to face Maisie. “I don’t know what it is about them eyes of yours, Mais, but I tell you, the way you look at me makes me want to spill my insides out to you.”

Maisie inclined her head for Enid to continue.

“It’s James. Master James. That’s why His Lordship is talking about sending him away.To Canada. As far away from the likes of me as they can get ’im. It’s a wonder they don’t send me off too, to look for another job, but ’er Ladyship isn’t a bad old bird, really. At least she can keep an eye on me if I’m ’ere—otherwise, who knows? I might just go to Canada meself!”

“Do you love James, Enid?”

Enid rolled to face the ceiling, and in the half-light, Maisie saw a single tear run from the corner of her eye onto the pillow.

“Love ’im? Gawd, Maisie, what business ’ave I got, going in for all that nonsense?”

Enid paused, dabbing at her eyes with a corner of the sheet.“Love don’t put food on the table, does it?” She looked at her crumpled handkerchief, dabbed her eyes, and nodded.“I suppose I do, love him, that is. I do love James, but—”

“But what? If you love him, Enid, you can—”

“Can what, Maisie? Can what? No, theres no ‘buts’ in the matter. He’s going, and when he’s gone, I’ve got my life to get on with. And in some way or another, I’ve got to get out of this ’ere job. I’ve got to get on, like you’re getting on. But I’ve not got your cleverness.”

“Dr. Blanche says that having a mental picture works. He said once that it’s good to have a vision of what the future may hold. He says it’s important to keep that in mind.”

“Oh, he does, does he? Well, then, I’ll start seeing myself all dolled up like a lady, with a nice husband, and a nice house. How about that for a picture?”

“I’ll picture that for you too, Enid!”

Enid laughed and rolled over.“I tell you, Maisie Dobbs, you’re one of a kind! Now then, you just turn off that thinking and imagining mind of yours, and let’s get some kip.”

Maisie did as she was told, but as she settled into the quiet of the night, she was sorry that the conversation had ended. It was always like that with Enid, as soon as you got a little closer to her, she moved away. Yet Maisie knew that at this very moment Enid was thinking of James Compton, hoping that if she held on to a picture of them together, it would come to pass. And Maisie thought of them together, too. Of seeing them on the landing, not long after she had come to work at 15 Ebury Place. She had seen them since, once in Brockwell Park when she was walking with her father. They must have thought that no one would recognize James on the south side of the river— his sort rarely ventured across the water. Enid was in her Sunday best: her long deep-lavender coat, which she kept hanging in the wardrobe covered in a white sheet and protected by mothballs. Her black woolen skirt poked out underneath, and you could just about see her laced-up boots, polished to a shine. She wore a white blouse with a high neck and a little sprig of lavender pinned to the front of the collar, right where a brooch might have been, if Enid had owned one. She wore black gloves and an old black hat that Maisie had seen her hold over a steaming pot of water in the kitchen, then work with her hands to mold it into shape, before making it look just like new with a band of purple velvet ribbon. Oh, she did look lovely, with her red hair tied in a loose knot so that you could see it beneath her hat. And James, she remembered him laughing when he was with Enid, and just before she managed to steer her father in another direction, so that Enid and James wouldn’t see her, she watched as he took the glove off Enid’s right hand and lean over to press his lips to her thin knuckles, then turn it over to the palm and kiss it again. And as he stood up, Enid reached up and flicked back his fair hair, which had flopped into his eyes.

And though she was now snuggled down into the bedclothes and blankets, a hot-water bottle at her feet, Maisie shivered and was frightened. Perhaps she should speak to Dr. Blanche about it, this strange feeling she had at times, as if the future had flashed a picture into her mind, like being at the picture house and seeing only a few seconds’ worth of the show.

“I do wish you would turn out that bloomin’ light so that I can get some shut-eye. I’m sick of it, I am. ’Alfway through the night and all I can hear is you turnin’ those bloomin’ pages over and over.”

Maisie looked up from her book, over to the lump that was Enid in the adjoining bed. She could not see Enid’s face, for she was curled sideways with her back to Maisie, and the blankets over her head.

“I’m sorry, Enid, I didn’t realize—”

Suddenly one arm came over the blankets as Enid pulled herself up into a sitting position, her face furiously red. “Well, you
wouldn’t
bloomin’ realize,
would
you, Miss Brainy? Always got yer ’ead in a book round ’ere when everyone else is workin’.”

“But Enid, I pull my weight. No one else has to do my work for me. I can manage my jobs.”

“Oh yes? You can manage your jobs, can you? Well, next time you go over to that mirror to do ’yer ’air, take a look at the sacks of coal under yer eyes. Your idea of pullin’ weight is just a bit different from mine. And what with all that other stuff you ’ave to think about, it’s a wonder you can get up in the morning. Now then. I’m off t’sleep, and it’d be a good idea if you did the same thing.”

Maisie quickly marked her place in the book Maurice had given her earlier in the week, and extinguished the lamp at her bedside. Pulling the covers up to her shoulders and pressing her hands to her sore, watering eyes, she sought refuge from Enid’s words. It seemed to Maisie that since Enid confided in her, she had become standoffish and unpleasant, as if her frustrated aspirations to become a lady had caused an unbearable resentment to grow. Maisie had begun to avoid her when Enid lost her temper at being asked to replenish coal in one of the upstairs rooms, and was reprimanded by Carter. But something must have sparked in Carter, for he called Maisie into the butler’s pantry next to the kitchen.

“Maisie, I am worried about your ability to manage both your routine in the house and the schedule set by Dr. Blanche.”

“Oh, Mr. Carter, I am managing.”

“I want you to know that I will be watching, Maisie. I must obviously support Her Ladyship’s wishes, but I must also bring it to her attention if changes should be made.”

“No, you don’t have to do that. I’ll manage, sir. I promise.”

“Right you are, Maisie. You may continue with your duties. But do make sure, doubly sure, that your work is complete at the end of the day.”

“Yes, Mr. Carter.”

“There you are. Bit late today, young Maisie, aren’t you?”

“Yes, Dad. I was late getting up, then had to stay to finish some jobs, and missed the bus. I had to wait for the next one.”

“Oh, so you couldn’t get up in time on the one day you come to see your poor old dad?”