Maisie Dobbs (21 page)

W
earing a plain gray day dress, her hair up in a bun, and accompanied by Iris, Maisie walked down the wide sweeping staircase of the hotel. She had tried not to anticipate meeting with Simon again, in case she imagined too much, in case the expectation of excited conversation, of hands held, of feelings expressed, was to clash with reality.

Iris was accompanying Maisie, but had already made up her mind to retire early. Not that she should, really. Fraternizing between men and women in uniform was frowned upon. But with a bit of luck, Maisie’s young man would have a nice friend for company. Chaperone, my eye! thought Iris. Nothing like being the piggy in the middle.

Maisie and Simon Lynch saw each other at exactly the same time, and moved quickly through the throng of visitors. The thumping of Maisie’s heart seemed to radiate to her throat, and stopped the words of greeting she had so carefully planned. Simon simply stood in front of her, took both her hands in his and looked into her eyes.

“I thought I would never see you again, Maisie.”

Maisie nodded and looked down at their hands held together.

A deep, throaty “Ahem!” brought Simon and Maisie’s attention back into the room. Iris was looking at her feet, inspecting the soles of her shoes, when the man accompanying Simon spoke.

“Think you could introduce us, Lynch? Don’t know how you folks do things, but where I’m from, we try to get acquainted.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Please forgive me. Maisie, Iris, may I introduce Captain Charles Hayden. Currently sporting a British uniform, but as you can hear, he’s an American. Good man came over here with the Massachusetts General Hospital contingent to do his bit. God bless them all. We’ve been exchanging notes about dealing with gas poisoning. Charles—Miss Maisie Dobbs and Miss Iris Rigson.”

“And delighted to meet you. It was worth coming all this way. And Lynch was becoming a bit of a bore, as you might say. Well, are we going to eat, or stand here all evening? Personally I’m for eating.”

“Me too,” said Iris.

Charles Hayden provided the group with a much-needed dose of humor at dinner, and as time passed the waves of conversation shifted, so that the voices of Hayden and Iris could be heard above all others, laughing loudly, teasing, and generally exchanging good cheer. Instinctively they had assumed the task of allowing their friends the intimacy that can be had, even in a crowded room, when two people want only to be with each other.

“I have longed to see you, Maisie, and yet now that you are here, I hardly know what to say.”

“Yes, I know.”

Simon turned his body toward Maisie and reached for her hand.

“Talk to me about anything, Maisie. I want to know everything about you. Even if you’ve already told me in a letter. I want to hear your voice. Start anywhere, but not with the war. Tell me about London, Kent, about your father, your mother—and what about that funny little man Maurice Blanche? Tell me about it all, Maisie.”

Maisie smiled, looked briefly across the table at Iris laughing with her head back.

“I’ll tell you about my father. Francis. Known to just about everyone as Frankie. He has three loves in his life. My mother, who died when I was a child, me, and Persephone, his horse.”

M
aisie and Simon each unfolded tales of their lives that transported them from the memory of more recent experiences. Even after dinner had ended, the two walked close together along a cobblestone street that led to nowhere in particular and back again. For two days Simon and Maisie were almost exclusively with each other, apart only when Simon kissed her hand at the end of each day and watched as she climbed the stairs to the room she shared with Iris.

“Well, we’re off tomorrow, Maisie. Back to the delightful Maison Tent.”

“Have you enjoyed yourself, Iris?”

“Thank God for Chuck—that’s what he calls himself—Hayden. Nice man, good company. We swapped sweetheart stories while you collected stars in your eyes.”

“Iris, I’m sorry. I can’t thank you enough.”

“Oh, Maisie, don’t get me wrong. It was a very nice time I had. Seriously, like I said, he was good company. Left his wife and young son behind to come over here with other American doctors and nurses. Misses his family something rotten. I told him all about my Sid. Blimey, I dunno if I would’ve come over here if I didn’t have to.”

“You didn’t have to come here, Iris.”

“I know. But there again I did, because it’s my country that’s here in this war. They’re our boys and I’m a nurse. But they didn’t; the Americans didn’t have to come here. Though Charles seems to think it won’t be long before they’re in.”

Iris began packing her small bag ready for the journey back to the casualty clearing station. “Made a nice job of the uniforms they did, here in the hotel laundry. And in double-quick time. Enjoy the clean dress, my girl;we’ll be in mud up to our knees before long. And fighting off the lice again.”

“Oh don’t, Iris. . . .”

S
imon accompanied Maisie and Iris to the station, and while Iris walked along to the platform for their train, Simon and Maisie stood together. Maisie shivered.

“I’ll write as usual.”

“That would be lovely, Simon. Gosh, it’s cold.”

Simon looked at her and without thinking put his arms around her.

“Please,” Maisie protested weakly.

“Don’t worry. No nasty sisters around to report you for dawdling with an unscrupulous RAMC captain.”

Maisie laughed and shivered at the same time, moving her body closer to Simon. He held her to him and kissed her first on her forehead, then, as she looked up at him, Simon leaned down and kissed Maisie again on her cheek, then her lips.

“Simon, I—”

“Oh dear, will I get you into terrible trouble?”

She looked up at him, then around at the other travelers, none of whom seemed to notice the pair, and giggled nervously.

“Well, you might if someone sees us, Simon.”

The guard signaled a loud whistle to alert passengers that the train would soon be leaving. Steam from the heavy engine was pushed up and out onto the platform. It was time for Simon and Maisie to part.

“Maisie. Look, I have a leave coming up again in a few months. Back to England. When’s your leave? Perhaps it will be at the same time.”

“I’ll let you know, Simon. I’ll let you know. I must run. I’ll miss the train.”

Simon held Maisie to him, and as the train signaled the “all aboard,” she pulled herself away and ran along the platform. Iris was leaning out of the window of their carriage waving to her. She clambered aboard and sat down heavily on the seat just as the train began to move.

“I thought I’d be leaving without you, Dobbs.”

“Not to worry, Iris. I’m here.”

“Yes. You’re here, Dobbsie. But I think you’ve left your heart behind with a certain young man.”

Catching her breath as the train pulled out of the station, Maisie closed her eyes and thought of Simon. And as she saw his face in her mind’s eye, the pressure returned to her chest. Rain slanted down across the windows as the fields of France seemed to rumble past with the movement of the train. Maisie looked out at this country she had willingly come to, so close to home, yet so far away from all that she loved. Almost. Simon was near.

CHAPTER TWENTY

O
n a cold, wintry morning in February 1917, with the sun barely visible through the morning fog, Maisie pulled the wool cape around her shoulders and walked back to the tent she shared with Iris. Burning a hole in her pocket were two letters. One was from Simon. The other contained her leave papers. Her fingers were crossed.

“So, did you get it?” asked Iris, as Maisie tore at the small buff-colored envelope.

“Wait a minute, wait a minute. Yes! Yes! Yes!”

Maisie jumped up and down. She was going on leave. Areal leave. Allowing two days for travel, she would have three days at home. Three days! One whole day more than her last leave, which was— she couldn’t even remember. She immediately opened Simon’s letter, scanned the lines of fine, right-slanted handwriting and jumped up and down again.

“Yes, Yes! He’s got it, he’s got leave!”

And the dates, April 15 to 20, were almost the same as hers. They would have two days together. Two whole days.

Iris smiled and shook her head. Oh, how that girl had changed. Not in her work. No, the skill and compassion she brought to her work were as unquestionable as ever. But this joy, this excitement, was something new.

“Dobbsie, I do believe you are becoming a normal young woman!”

“Nonsense. I’ve always been normal,” said Maisie, continuing to read Simon’s letter.

“No, you haven’t. I can tell. Taken life far too seriously, you have.”

Iris reached for her cape and shivered. “And you can’t do that in these times, Maisie. Take your work seriously, yes. But the rest of it, it’ll drive you mad.”

Iris carefully positioned her cap so that the red cross was in the center of her crown, and the point of the linen square was centered at the back of her head, just grazing the area between her shoulder blades.

“Ready, then?”

“Yes, I’m ready.”

“Good. Let’s get to work.”

The weeks seemed to drag on, yet when Maisie looked back at the time between the arrival of her leave papers and the moment when which she walked onto the boat for the crossing back to Folkestone, it seemed that time had flown. As she stowed her bags, sought out hot cocoa and cake, Maisie almost dreaded the start of her leave, for by this time next week, she would be back in France. It would be over.

The crossing was calmer than last time, and though the sea was not quite like a millpond, the boat did not seem to pitch and toss as violently as before, and the tops of waves did not suddenly rear up and cover the deck. The nausea of her previous journey was not repeated to the same extent, yet a band of pressure around her forehead caused her to lean against the rail, counting off the quarter hours until land came in sight. She breathed in, waiting for sea saltiness to give way to the clear air of the county of Kent.

Oh, how she ached to see her father, to be drawn into the warm, steamy atmosphere of Mrs. Crawford’s kitchen. In France she had dreamed of Kent, of apple orchards in full blossom, primroses and bluebells carpeting the woodland, and the soft countryside stretching out before her.

She longed to be home. She could hardly wait to see Simon.

Maisie disembarked, walking down the gangway and toward the port buildings. As she came through into the main waiting area, she saw her father, cap in hand, anxiously searching the sea of faces for her. Pushing her way through people jostling for extra height to see over the heads of others to the line of weary passengers, Maisie pulled at her father’s arm.

“Dad! What are you doing here?”

“Darlin’ girl. Couldn’t wait for you to get to Chelstone, could I? So, I took the day off, like, and came down to meet you off the boat. Gawd, this ain’t ’alf a busy old place! Come on, let me get that bag of yours, and let’s get out of this lot. Never could stand a crowd, even at the market.”

Maisie laughed and, still holding tightly to his arm, followed as he pushed his way through the surging throng making their way to the station.

The journey to Chelstone took another two hours, first by train to Tonbridge, then by the small branch line down to Chelstone. In a field across from the station, Persephone was grazing, her cart resting just inside the gate.

“Just a minute, love. Won’t take me long to get old Persephone ready for you. Stationmaster let me leave the old girl here. I know it’s not a fancy motorcar, but I thought you’d appreciate a ride home on the old cart with Persephone.”

“That I do, Dad.”

They rode in silence for a while, Frankie Dobbs with his arm around his daughter’s shoulder.

“’Ard to know what to say to you, love. Bet you don’t really want to talk about it, do you?”

“No. Not now, Dad. I’m not home for long. I’ll be back there soon enough.”

“And how long will I see you for?”

Frankie looked sideways at Maisie.

“Well, I’ll be seeing a friend while I’m on leave. But we’ve got all day tomorrow.”

“Is that all I get? Blimey, this Captain Lynch must be an interestin’ fella.”

Maisie swung round to her father.

“How do you know—?”

“Now then, now then. Just you ’old your ’orses, young lady. You’re still my girl, and that’s a fact.”

Frankie grinned at Maisie. “There’s a letter waiting indoors for you. Just sent to Miss Dobbs at Chelstone Manor. Got ’is name printed on the back of the envelope. Very posh. Knows your old Dad’s the groom, does ’e?”

“Yes. He does, Dad. He knows who you are and who I am.”

“Good. That’s all right then. Look forward to meeting the man.”

“Well, I don’t know . . . .”

Frankie put his arm around Maisie again, and in the security of her father’s embrace and his love for her, she slept as she had not been able to sleep since she left for France.

Mrs. Crawford drew Maisie to her, then pushed away to inspect her from head to toe.

“A good dinner, that’s what you need, my girl. Thank heavens we are all down here now, have been ever since her ladyship said it was too dangerous in London, what with the Zeppelin raids. Anyway, at least I can get a good dinner down you. That’s what you need—a good dinner.”

Maisie had hardly stepped from Frankie Dobbs’s cart before the “welcome homes” began. And it seemed that one welcome was followed by another. She had been immediately summoned to the drawing room to meet with Lady Rowan. Already the short leave was turning into a whirlwind, but the next day Maisie spent time only with her father, alone.

Frankie Dobbs and Maisie groomed the horses together, walked across farmland, and speculated on the apple crop that would surely be the result of such fine hearty white blossom. And sitting alone in the gardens at Chelstone, Maisie wondered about the war, and how it was that such blooms could give joy to the soul, when one only had to stand on cliffs overlooking the Channel to hear the boom of cannons on the battlefields of France.

On the second day of her leave, Maisie was to see Simon in London, a meeting arranged in letters passed between their respective medical stations in France. She would meet his parents at the family’s London home during their first day together. They both knew better than to have Simon suggest she stay at the house, as an overnight invitation would come only after a more formal luncheon meeting, the invitation for which had arrived from Mrs. Lynch, and along with Simon’s letter, had awaited Maisie’s return to Chelstone. Simon wrote that he couldn’t wait to see her.

Frankie Dobbs took Maisie to the station, and they stood awkwardly on the platform to wait for the local train, which would connect with the London train at Tonbridge.

“Now, you make sure you don’t overdo it. That Crawford woman was right. Skin and bone you are. You’re like your mother, a tall drink of water in a dress.”

“I’ll eat them out of house and home, Dad.”

“And you mind yourself, Maisie. I’ve not met this young man, but seeing as you’ve been invited by his people, I’m sure he’s a fine person. And a doctor. But you mind yourself, Maisie.”

“Dad, I’ll be back on the train this evening—”

“Maisie. It’s in ’ere that I’m talking about.”

Frankie Dobbs pressed his hand to the place that still held grief for his departed wife.

“I’m talking about your ’eart, Maisie. Mind out for your ’eart.”

T
he sun was shining by the time the engine met the end-of-the-line buffers at Charing Cross station. Maisie checked her face in the shell-shaped mirror on the bulkhead between the carriages. She had never been one to fuss over her appearance, but this was different. This was important.

Once again butterflies were holding court in her stomach, and once again she was filled with the joyous anticipation of seeing Simon Lynch. She opened the heavy wooden door and stepped down onto the platform.

“Maisie!”

“Simon!”

The young officer swept Maisie up into his arms and unashamedly kissed her, much to the delight of people rushing to catch trains, or anxiously waiting for loved ones on the platform. There was usually little cause for humor or delight at a wartime railway station, filled as they often were with war wounded, anxious farewells, and the bittersweet greetings of those who would have such a short time together.

“I have missed you so much. I can hardly believe we are here.”

Maisie laughed, laughed until the tears fell down her cheeks. How she would hate to say good-bye.

The time spent at the Lynches’ London house could not have been more perfect. Simon’s parents welcomed Maisie into their home with great affection, as if she were part of the family. Mrs. Lynch personally showed Maisie to a guest room to “repair after the long journey.”

Maisie’s fears that she might have to field questions about her father’s line of business proved to be unfounded, and she was asked only about her time at Cambridge and whether she might return when the war was over. Simon’s parents understood that talk of “intentions” was almost futile at such a time, and the joy of having a dear son home was not to be sullied by questions that might give rise to discord. Time was too short.

Simon and Maisie had one more day together, then Maisie would leave early on Sunday morning for France. After lunch Simon escorted Maisie to Charing Cross Station again, and spoke of what they would do the next day.

“So, I’ve managed to get the car, lucky, eh? I’ll leave early for Chelstone, then we can have a nice day out together—perhaps go on to the Downs.”

“That would be lovely.”

“What is it, Maisie?”

Maisie looked at her watch, and at the many men and women in uniform at the station.

“Remember to come to the groom’s cottage, Simon. Not to the main house.”

“Oh, I see. You’re worried about me coming to Chelstone, aren’t you?”

Maisie looked at her hands, and at Simon.“A little.”

“It doesn’t matter to me, Maisie. We both know that there are bigger things to worry about. Besides, it’s me that has to worry about Chelstone, what with the formidable Mrs. Crawford waiting to render judgment!”

Maisie laughed.“Yes, Simon, you may have a good point there!”