Maisie Dobbs

  “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.

  “Well, I never. Look at you. All skin and bone, Maisie, all skin and bone.”

  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.”

  The 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.
r />   “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!”

  Simon held her hand and escorted her to the platform. The arrival of her train had just been announced.

  “Tomorrow will be our last day together.” said Simon. “I wish I understood time, Maisie. It vanishes through one’s fingers.”

  He held her hands together in front of his chest, and touched each of her fingertips in turn.

  “Maurice says that only when we have a respect for time will we have learned something of the art of living.”

  “Ah, yes, the wise man Maurice. Perhaps I’ll meet him one day.”

  Maisie looked into Simon’s eyes and shivered. “Yes, perhaps. One day.”

  Simon arrived at Chelstone at half past nine the next morning. Maisie had been up since half past five, first helping Frankie with the horses, then going for a walk, mentally preparing for Simon’s arrival. She strolled through the apple orchards, heavy with blossom, then to the paddock beyond.

  Half of what was, before the war, grazing for horses, was now a large vegetable garden providing fresh produce not only for Chelstone Manor but also for a wider community. In a time of war, flowers and shrubs were seen to be an extravagance, so every cottage garden in the village was almost bereft of blooms. Even the smallest postage stamp of land was needed for growing vegetables.

  Maisie made her way back to the cottage and waited for Simon. Eventually the crackle of tires on gravel heralded his arrival. Frankie drew the curtains aside to look out the window in the small parlor.

  “Looks like your young man is here.”

  Maisie rushed from the room, while Frankie stood in front of the mirror, adjusted his neckerchief and pulled down the hem of his best waistcoat. He rubbed his chin, just to make sure, and took off the flat cap that almost never left his head. Before going to the door to meet Captain Simon Lynch, Frankie took up the cherished sepia photograph of a woman who looked so much like the girl who had run joyously to the door. She was tall and slender, dressed in a dark skirt and a cotton blouse with wide leg-o’-mutton sleeves. Though she had fussed with her hair in anticipation of having the photograph taken with her two-year-old daughter, there were still stray curls creeping onto her forehead.

  Frankie ran his finger across the glass, tracing the line of the woman’s face. He spoke to the image tenderly, as if she were in the room with him, for Frankie Dobbs had prayed for her spirit to be at his side today.

  “I know, I know . . . go easy on ’im. I wish you was ’ere now, Love. I could do with a bit of ’elp with this.”

  Frankie replaced the photograph, and with one last look in the mirror, just to make sure that he wouldn’t let Maisie down, he walked from the cottage to greet the man to whom his daughter had run so eagerly.

  For hours Simon and Maisie talked, first on the journey by motor car across to Sussex, then throughout lunch at a small inn. It was only after they had parked the car by a clump of trees and walked high up on the South Downs, seagulls whooping overhead, that they spent time in silence. Their pace aligned as they walked along the rough path on the crest of the hills overlooking the Channel. They moved closer together, hands brushing but not quite touching.

  The day was warm, but Maisie still felt cold. It was a cold that had seeped into her bones in France and now seemed never to leave her. Simon sat down on the grass under a tree, and beckoned her to sit next to him. As she sat down he took her hand and grimaced, then playfully reached for one of her walking shoes, untied the laces, and held her foot in his hand.

  “Goodness, woman, how can anyone be that cold and not be dead!”

  Maisie laughed along with Simon.

  “It’s that French mud that does it, gets right into your bones.”

  The laughter subsided, and seconds later they were both silent.

  “Will you definitely return to Cambridge after the war?”

  “Yes. And you, Simon?”

  “Oh, I think I’ll be for the quiet life, you know. Country doctor. Delivering babies, dealing with measles, mumps, hunters’ accidents, farmworkers’ ailments, that sort of thing. I’ll grow old in corduroy and tweed, smoke a pipe, and swat my grandchildren on their little behinds when they wake me from my afternoon snooze.”

  Simon leaned forward, plucked a blade of grass, and twisted it between his long fingers.“What about after Cambridge, Maisie?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  Conversation ebbed as Simon and Maisie looked out over the sea, both daring their imagination to wander tentatively into the future. Maisie sighed deeply, and Simon held her to him. As if reading her thoughts, he spoke.

  “It’s hard to think about the future when you’ve seen so many passing through who don’t have tomorrow, let alone next year. No future at all.”

  “Yes.”

  It was all she could say.

  “Maisie. Maisie, I know this is rather soon, possibly even presumptuous, but, Maisie, when this is all over, this war, when we are back here in England . . . would you marry me?”

  Maisie inhaled sharply, her skin prickly with emotion. What was that emotion? She wanted to say “Yes” but something stopped her.

  “I know, I know, you don’t have to say anything. It’s the thought of corduroy trousers and tweeds isn’t it?”

  “No, Simon. No. It was just a surprise.”

  “Maisie, I love you.”

  He took her hand and looked deeply into her eyes.

  “Yes. And I love you too, Simon. I love you too.”

  Simon drove Maisie back to Chelstone, and brought the car to a halt on the road at the end of the driveway that led to the manor. He leaned over and took Maisie’s left hand.

  “You never gave me an answer, Maisie.”

  “I know. It’s just me, Simon. And doing what we have to do. In France. I want to wait until it’s over. Until there’s no more . . . no more . . . death. I can’t say yes to something so important until we’re home again. Until we’re safe.”

  Simon nodded, his compassion for her feelings at war with his disappointment.

  “But Simon. I do love you. Very much.”

  Simon did not speak, but cuppe
d Maisie’s face in his hands, and kissed her deeply. At first, Maisie began to pull away, afraid that someone from the manor might see, but as Simon’s arms enfolded her, she returned his kiss, reaching for his neck to pull him closer. Suddenly Maisie was aware of moisture on her face and, pulling away, she looked into Simon’s eyes and touched her cheek where their tears had met.

  “God, I wish this war would end,” Simon wiped the back of his hand across his eyes, before facing her once again. He kissed her gently on the lips. “I love you, Maisie, and I want you to be my wife. I promise that as soon as this war is over, I will walk across miles of trenches to find you, and I will stand there in my muddy clothes until you say ‘Yes!’”

  They kissed once more. Then, taking up her bag, Maisie asked Simon to let her walk back to the house alone. She did not want to suffer a difficult farewell, possibly in front of her father and whoever else might be in the gardens to witness their parting. Simon objected, on the grounds that no gentleman would allow a lady to walk unaccompanied to her home, but Maisie was adamant, reminding Simon that she had walked along that lane many a time, and often with a heavy basket.

  Simon did not argue her decision. Instead of more words, they held each other close and kissed. She went swiftly from the motorcar and along the driveway, eventually hearing Simon start the engine in the distance and pull away onto the road.

  Maisie insisted that she travel alone back to Folkestone, and Frankie, seeing a new maturity and independence in his daughter, agreed to allow Lady Rowan’s new chauffeur, an older man passed over for military service, to take her to the station. Maisie said goodbye to her father at home. She had no stomach for more platform farewells.

  It was on her journey to Folkestone, and then to France, that she thought back over the events of the days she had spent on leave. She remembered Simon’s easy camaraderie with her father, his smile upon introduction, and how he immediately began asking about the horses and allowed himself to be led to the stables so that Frankie Dobbs was relaxed in the domain over which he was the obvious master.