Maisie Dobbs (17 page)

“You may laugh, Maisie. But you’ve never seen me drive. I’m off to be a Fannie!”

“A what?”

“Fannie. F-A-N-Y. First Aid Nursing Yeomanry. An all-women ambulance corps. Actually they are not in France yet—although from what I understand, it might not be long, as Mrs. McDougal—she’s the head of FANY—is planning to ask the War Office to consider using women drivers for motor ambulances. Apparently you have to be twenty-three to go to France, so I am extending the truth a little— and don’t ask me how, Maisie, please.”

“When did you learn to drive?”

“Three brothers, Maisie.” Priscilla leaned forward to take the cigarette stub from the holder, and to press in a fresh cigarette, which she took from an engraved silver case drawn from her pocket.“When you grow up with three brothers you forget your cuts, scrapes, and bruises, and concentrate on your bowling arm, on coming back in one piece from the hunting field, and on not being run over by the lugworms when they come to the table. And unless you show that you are as good at everything as they are, you find that you spend virtually all your time running behind them screaming like a banshee, ‘Me too, me too!’”

Priscilla looked over her shoulder to the gardens beyond the window and bit her bottom lip. She turned and continued telling her story.

“The chauffeur taught us all to drive. At first it was only going to be the boys, but I threatened to tell all if I was not included. And now the fact is, my dear, I simply cannot have them in France without me. It’s ‘Me too, me too!’”

Priscilla wiped the hint of a tear from the inner corner of her left eye and smiled.

“So, what do you say to a party this evening? Despite my dismal record, I have permission to go out—probably because they will soon see the back of me, and also the hostess this evening is a benefactor. How about it, Maisie? You can go back to wherever it is you go to wash the ashes from your sackcloth tomorrow.”

Maisie smiled and looked at Priscilla, sparkling in defiance of what was considered good behavior for young women at Girton. There was something about her friend that reminded her of Lady Rowan.

“Whose party?”

Priscilla blew another smoke ring.

“Given by family friends, the Lynches, for their son, Simon. Royal Army Medical Corps. Brilliant doctor. Always the one who remained at the bottom of the tree just in case anyone fell from the top branches, when we were children. He leaves for France in a day or two.”

“Will they mind?”

“Maisie, I could turn up with a tribe and no one would turn a hair.

The Lynch family are like that. Oh, do come. Simon will adore it. The more the merrier for his send-off.”

Maisie smiled at Priscilla. Perhaps it
would
do her good. And Priscilla was leaving.

“What about permission?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of that—and I promise, all above board. I’ll telephone Margaret Lynch to make the necessary arrangements.”

Maisie bit her lip for just a second longer.

“Yes. I’ll come. Though I’ve nothing to wear, Pris.”

“No excuse, Maisie darling, absolutely no excuse. Come with me!”

Priscilla took Maisie by the arm and led her to her own adjacent room. Pointing to the chair for Maisie to take a seat, she pulled at least a dozen gowns of various colors, fabrics, and styles from her wardrobe and threw them on the bed, determined to find the perfect dress for Maisie.

“I think this midnight blue is really you, Maisie. Here, let’s just pull the belt—oh gosh, you are a skinny thing aren’t you? Now let me just pin this here . . .”

“Pris, I look like two penn’orth of hambone trussed up for the butcher’s window.”

“There. That’s just perfect,” replied Priscilla,“Now step back, step back. Lovely. Very nice. You shall have that dress. Have your Mrs. Whatever-Her-Name-Is at Chelstone hem it properly for you.”

“But, Priscilla—”

“Nonsense. It’s yours. And make the most of it—I saw a bill posted yesterday that I memorized just to remind myself to have some fun while I can.”

Priscilla stood to attention, mimicked a salute, and affected an authoritarian mode of speech: TO DRESS EXTRAVAGANTLY INWARTIME IS WORSE THAN BAD FORM. IT IS UNPATRIOTIC!

She began to laugh as she continued adjusting the blue silk dress on Maisie’s slender frame.

“I’ll have no need of evening dresses in France, and besides, there will be new styles to choose from when I get back.”

Maisie nodded and looked down at the dress. “There’s another thing, Pris.”

Priscilla took up her cigarette, placed her hand on her hip, and raised an eyebrow.“Now what’s your excuse, Maisie?”

“Priscilla, I can’t dance.”

“Oh, good Lord, girl!”

Priscilla stubbed out the cigarette in the overflowing ashtray, walked over to her gramophone near the window, selected a record from the cabinet below, placed it on the turntable, wound it up using the small handle at the side of the machine, and set the arm across the record. As the needle caught the first spiral ridge in the thick black disc, Priscilla danced toward Maisie.

“Keep the dress on. You’ll need to practice in what you’ll be wearing tonight. Right. Now then, start by watching me.”

Priscilla positioned her hands on imaginary shoulders in front of her, as if held in the arms of a young man, and as the music began she continued.

“Feet like so, and forward, side, together; back, side, together;watch me, Maisie. And forward, side, together . . .”

A
Car
had been sent to collect Priscilla and Maisie, and as they climbed aboard for the journey to the Lynches’ large house in Grantchester, Maisie felt butterflies in her stomach. It was the first time she had ever been to a party that had not been held in a kitchen. There were special Christmas and Easter dinners downstairs at the Belgravia house and at Chelstone, and of course she had been given a wonderful sendoff by the staff. But this was a real party.

Margaret Lynch came to greet Priscilla as soon as her arrival was announced. “Priscilla, darling. So good of you to come. Simon is dying for news of the boys. He can’t wait to get over there, you know.”

“I have much to tell, Margaret. But let me introduce my friend, Maisie Dobbs.”

“How lovely to meet you, my dear. Any friend of Priscilla’s is welcome here.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Lynch.” Maisie started to bob, only to feel a sharp kick from Priscilla.

“Now then, you girls, let’s see if we can get a couple of these young gentlemen to escort you in to the dining room. Oh, there’s Simon now. Simon!”

Simon. Captain Simon Lynch, RAMC. He had greeted Priscilla as one would greet a tomboy sister, asking for news of her brothers, his childhood friends. And as he turned to Maisie, she felt a shiver that began in her ankles and seemed to end in the pit of her stomach.

“A pleasure to meet you, Miss Dobbs. And will the British Army be at your mercy as you sit behind the wheel of a baker’s lorry, converted and pressed into service as an ambulance?”

Priscilla gave Simon a playful thump on the arm as Maisie met his green eyes. She blushed and quickly looked at the ground. “No. I think I would be a terrible driver, Captain Lynch.”

“Simon. Oh, do call me Simon. Now then, I think I’d like a Girton lass on each arm. After all, this is my last evening before I leave.”

As a string quartet began to play, Simon Lynch crooked an elbow toward each girl and led them into the dining room.

Simon had completely drawn Maisie from her shell of shyness and embarrassment, and had made her laugh until her sides ached. And she had danced. Oh, how Maisie Dobbs had danced that evening, so that when it was time to leave, to return to Girton, Captain Simon Lynch made a gracious sweeping bow before her and kissed her hand.

“Miss Dobbs, you have put my feet to shame this evening. No wonder Priscilla kept you locked up at Girton.”

“Don’t take my name in vain, Lynchie—you brute! And it’s a book of rules that keeps us all locked up, remember.”

“Until we meet again, fair maiden.”

Simon stepped back and turned toward Priscilla. “And I’ll bet my boots that any wounded in your ambulance will go running back to the trenches rather than put up with your driving!”

Simon, Priscilla, and Maisie laughed together. The evening had sparkled.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

T
he young women arrived back at the college in the nick of time before their extended curfew—arranged at the request of The Honorable Mrs. Margaret Lynch— expired. Just six hours later, standing on the station platform waiting for the early train that would take her to London for her connection to Chelstone, Maisie replayed, yet again, the events of the evening. In her excitement she had not slept a wink, and now that same excitement rendered her almost oblivious to the chilly air around her. Maisie held her coat closer to her body and up to her neck, feeling only the memory of sheer silk next to her skin.

As Maisie reflected upon the three of them laughing just before they left the party, she realized that it was laughter that held within it the sadness of a bigger departure. The gaiety of Simon’s party had an undercurrent of fear. She had twice looked at Margaret Lynch, only to see the woman watching her son, hand to her mouth, as if any minute she would rush to him and encircle his body in her protective arms.

Her fear was not without cause, for the people of Britain were only just receiving news of the tens of thousands of casualties from the spring offensive of 1915. From a land of quiet farms in the French countryside, the Somme Valley was now a place writ large in newspaper headlines, inspiring angry and opinionated debate. The Somme was indelibly enscribed on the hearts of those who had lost a son, a father, brother, or friend. And for those bidding farewell, there was only fearful anticipation until the son, father, brother, or friend was home once again.

From Liverpool Street, Maisie traveled to Charing Cross for the journey to Kent. The station was a melee of khaki, ambulances, red crosses, and pain. Trains brought wounded to be taken to the London hospitals, nurses scurried back and forth, orderlies led walking wounded to waiting ambulances, and young, new spit-and-polished soldiers looked white-faced at those disembarking.

As she glanced at her ticket and began to walk toward her platform, Maisie was suddenly distracted by a splash of vibrant red hair in the distance. She knew only one person with hair so striking, and that was Enid. Maisie stopped and looked again.

Enid. It was definitely Enid. Enid with her hand on the arm of an officer of the Royal Flying Corps. And the officer in question was the young man who loved ginger biscuits: James Compton. Maisie watched as they stopped in the crowd and stood closer together, whispering. James would be on his way down to Kent, most probably on the same train as Maisie, except that she would not be traveling first class. From there Maisie knew that James would be joining his squadron. He was saying good-bye to Enid, who no longer worked for the Comptons. Mrs. Crawford had informed Maisie in a letter that Enid had left their employ. She was now working in a munitions factory, earning more money than she could ever have dreamed of earning in service.

Though she knew it was intrusive, Maisie felt compelled to stare as the two said good-bye. As she watched, she knew in her heart that Enid and James were truly in love, that this was not infatuation or social climbing on Enid’s part. She lowered her head and walked away so that she would not be seen by either of them. Yet even as she walked, Maisie could not help turning to watch the couple once again, magnetized by two young people clearly speaking of love amid the teeming emotion around them. And while she looked, as if bidden by the strength of her gaze, Enid turned her head and met Maisie’s eyes.

Enid held her head up defiantly, the vibrant red hair even brighter against her skin tone, which was slightly yellow, a result of exposure to cordite in the munitions factory. Maisie inclined her head and was acknowledged by Enid, who then turned back to James and pressed her lips to his.

Maisie was sitting at a cramped table in the station tea shop when Enid found her.

“You’ve missed the train to Chelstone, Mais.”

“Hello, Enid. Yes, I know, I’ll just wait until the next one.” Enid sat down in front of Maisie.

“So you know.”

“Yes. But it doesn’t make any difference.”

“I should bloody ’ope not! I’m away from them all now, and what James does is ’is business.”

“Yes. Yes, it is.”

“And I’m earning real money now.” Enid brushed her hair back from her shoulders. “So, how are you my very clever little friend? Cambridge University treating you well?”

“Enid, please. Let me be.” Maisie lifted the cup to her lips. The strong tea was bitter, but its heat was soothing. The sweet joy of meeting Simon Lynch seemed half a world away as she looked once again at Enid.

Suddenly Enid’s eyes smarted as if stung, and she began to weep. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Mais. I’ve been so rotten to you. To everyone. I’m just so worried. I lost him once. When ’e went to Canada. When they sent him away because of me. And now ’e’s going to France. Up in one of them things—I’ve ’eard they only last three weeks over there before they cop it, them flyin’ boys—and if God ’ad wanted us to leave the ground, I reckon we’d ’ave wings growin’ out of our backs by now, don’t you?”

“Now then, now then.” Maisie moved around to sit next to Enid and put her arms around her. Enid pulled out a handkerchief, wiped her eyes, and blew her nose.

“Least I feel as if I’m doing something. Making shells, like. Least I’m not just sitting on my bum while them boys get shot to bits over there. Oh, James . . . .”

“Come on, Enid. He’ll be all right. Remember what Mrs. Crawford says about James—he’s got nine lives.”

Enid sniffed again. “I’m sorry, Maisie. Really I am. But it just gets me ’ere sometimes.” Enid punched at her middle. “They look down their noses at me, think I’m not good enough. And ’ere I am working like a trooper.”

Maisie sat with Enid until she became calm, as the ache of farewell gave way to anger, tears, and eventually calm and fatigue.

“Maisie, I never meant anything. Really, I didn’t. James will come back, I know he will. And this war is changing everything. ’ave you noticed that? When the likes of me can earn a good living even in wartime, the likes of the better-offs will have to change, won’t they?”

“You could be right there, Enid.”

“Gaw, lummy . . . look at that time. I’ve got to get back to the arsenal. I’m not even s’posed to leave the ’ostel without permission. I’m working in a special section now, handling the more volatile—that’s what they call it—the more volatile explosives, and we earn more money, specially as we’re ’avin’ to do double shifts. All the girls get tired, so it gets a bit tricky, tapping the ends of the shells to check ’em, and all that. But I’m careful, like, so they promoted me. Must’a bin workin’ for that Carter for all them years. I learned to be careful.”

“Good for you, Enid.”

The two women left the tea shop and walked together toward the bus stop just outside the station, where Enid would catch a bus to work. As they were bidding farewell, a man shouted behind them. “Make way, move along, make way, please.”

A train carrying wounded soldiers had arrived, and the orderlies were hurriedly trying to bring stretchers through to the waiting ambulances. Maisie and Enid stood aside and looked on as the wounded passed by, still in mud-caked and bloody uniforms, often crying out as scurrying stretcher-bearers accidentally jarred shell-blasted arms and legs. Maisie gasped and leaned against Enid when she looked into the eyes of a man who had lost most of the dressings from his face.

After the wounded had passed Enid turned to Maisie to say goodbye. The young women embraced, and as they did so, Maisie felt a shiver of fear that made her tighten her hold on Enid.

“Come on, come on, let’s not get maudlin, Mais.” Enid loosened her grasp.

“You mind how you go, Enid,” said Maisie.

“Like I always said, Maisie Dobbs, don’t you worry about me.”

“But I do.”

“You want to worry about something, Maisie? Let me give you a bit of advice. You worry about what you can do for these boys.” She pointed toward the ambulances waiting outside the station entrance. “You worry about whatever it is you can
do.
Must be off now. Give my love to Lady Bountiful for me!”

It seemed to Maisie that one second she was with Enid, and then she was alone. She walked toward the platform for the penultimate part of her journey home to her father’s cottage next to the stables at Chelstone. With trains delayed and canceled due to troop movements, it would once again be many hours before she reached her destination.

The journey to Kent was long and arduous. Blackout blinds were pulled down, in compliance with government orders issued in anticipation of Zeppelin raids, and the train moved slowly in the darkness. Several times the train pulled into a siding to allow a troop train go by, and each time Maisie closed her eyes and remembered the injured men rushed into waiting ambulances at Charing Cross.

Time and again she fell into a deep yet brief slumber, and in her half waking saw Enid at work in the munitions factory, at the toil that caused her skin to turn yellow and her hair to spark when she brushed it back. Maisie remembered Enid’s face in the distance, reflecting the love she felt as she looked at James Compton.

She wondered about love, and how it must feel, and thought back to last night, which seemed so many nights ago, and touched the place on her right hand where Simon Lynch had placed his lips in a farewell kiss.

As the train drew in to Chelstone station late at night, Maisie saw Frankie standing by his horse and cart. Persephone stood proudly, her coat’s gloss equaled only by the shine of the leather traces that Maisie could see even in the half-light. Maisie ran to Frankie and was swept up into his arms.

“My Maisie, home from the university. My word, you’re a sight for your dad.”

“It’s grand to be back with you, Dad.”

“Come on, let me have that case and let’s get going.”

As they drove back to the house in darkness, dim lanterns set at the front of the cart swinging to and fro with each of Persephone’s heavy footfalls, Maisie told Frankie her news and answered his many questions. Of course she mentioned the meeting with Enid, although Maisie left out all mention of James Compton.

“The arsenal, eh? Blimey, let’s ’ope she wasn’t there this afternoon.”

“What do you mean, Dad?”

“Well, you know ‘is Lordship is with the War Office and all that. Well, ’e gets news before even the papers, you know, special messenger, like. He’s very well—”

“Dad, what’s happened?”

“’is Lordship received a telegram late this afternoon. The special part of the factory went up this afternoon, the place where they ’andle the ’eavy explosives. Just as the new shift came on. Twenty-two of them munitions girls killed outright.”

Maisie knew that Enid was dead. She did not need the confirmation that came the next morning, as Lord Compton told Carter that Enid had been among the young women killed and that he should take care of informing the staff in a manner that he saw fit. Not for the first time, Maisie considered how so much in life could change in such a short time. Priscilla enlisting for service, the wonderful evening, meeting Simon Lynch—and Enid. But of the events that had passed in just three days, the picture that remained with Maisie Dobbs was of Enid, swishing back her long red hair and looking straight at Maisie with a challenge. A haunting challenge.

“You worry what you can do for these boys, Maisie. You worry about whatever it is you can
do
.”