Maisie Dobbs (7 page)

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."

"Yes, I know, Billy"

"0' course you do, Miss. You know, don't you? Blimey, when I think of what you nurses must've seen ... anyway, if the truth be told, we was all scared. You didn't know when you were going to get it. But some of 'em... "

Billy stopped, turned away from Maisie, and took the red kerchief from his neck and wiped his eyes.

"Gawd-sorry, Miss. Don't know what came over me"

"Billy. It can wait. Whatever you have to tell me. It can wait. Let me pour that tea."

Maisie went to the stove, poured boiling water from the kettle onto the tea leaves in the brown earthenware teapot, and allowed it to steep. She took two large tin mugs from the shelf above the stove, stirred the tea in the pot, then poured tea for them both, with plenty of sugar and a splash of milk. Since her time in France, Maisie had preferred an armyissue tin mug for her private teatimes, for the warmth that radiated from the mug to her hands and to the rest of her body.

"There you are, Billy. Now then ..

"Well, as you know, Miss, there were a lot of lads 'o enlisted that were too young. Boys tryin' to be men, and blimey, the rest of us weren't much more than boys ourselves. And you'd see 'eni, white as sheets when that whistle blew to go over the top. Mind you, we was all as white as sheets. I was barely eighteen meself."

Billy sipped his tea and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

"We'd 'ave to get 'em under the arms, shove 'eni over, and 'ope that the push would get 'em through. And sometimes one of 'em didn't make it over."

Billy's eyes misted over again, and he wiped them with the red kerchief.

"And when that 'appened, when a boy was paralyzed with fear, like, 'e could be reported for cowardice. If 'e'd been seen afterwards, not 'avin' gone over with the rest of his mates, the brass didn't ask too many questions, did they? No, the poor sod's on a charge and that's it! So we 'ad to look out for each other, didn't we?"