A Dangerous Place

  “Los hombres heridos están llegando,” he wailed.

  Hattie looked up at Maisie, repeating in English, “ ‘The hurt men are coming’—some wounded are coming down from the hills.”

  Before another breath could be taken, the three women had rushed out to see eight men on makeshift stretchers being set down in the shade. The dogs were chivvied away, their noses following a trail of blood. Six other men, walking wounded, slumped, blood leaking from fabric torn from clothing and used to stem the flow from a forehead, an arm, a shoulder, a knee. Everywhere Maisie looked, it seemed that blood was seeping from a human being into the ground. The noise around her heightened, and she realized local women had come to help—grabbing bandages from washing lines flapping from tree to tree in the small square in front of the buildings. Soon Sister Teresa was among them.

  “I could not sleep,” she said, rolling up her sleeves.

  “Come on, let’s get on with it,” said Maisie to Hattie and Freda, who were used to seeing patients after wounds had been treated and they’d passed through a dressing station. “I’ll look at the wounds and tell Sister Teresa which order we should see them in, and make sure no one gets water by mouth yet. I think at least three need a surgeon, but we don’t have one, so we’ll have to do our best.”

  “Right you are. Come along, Freda,” said Hattie. “Let’s do as Maisie says, and get on with it.”

  Raoul helped Maisie bring in the wounded, one at a time, then returned to help Sister Teresa comfort the men who waited outside. A few moments later Maisie beckoned Raoul again. “Here, help me with this man—it’s a nasty head wound, so let’s get him in. I think I am going to have to be both doctor and nurse today.”

  Together they lifted the man onto a table in the surgical room. A large shrapnel splinter had entered his skull above the ear, and was partially embedded in flesh and bone.

  “I don’t think it’s too deep,” said Maisie. She looked up at Raoul, whose complexion had changed. “Step outside, Raoul—get some fresh air. Go back and help Sister Teresa.”

  “I can’t hear very well, Nurse, and my head hurts,” said the fighter.

  Maisie was taken aback. “You’re English.”

  “Well, there’s a surprise—the nurse recognizes one of her own! Brian Smithers, at your service. Or should I say, at the service of my comrades.”

  “Hold still, Mr. Smithers. I want to look at this wound of yours.”

  “Will I live to tell the tale?”

  “You might,” said Maisie. “If you can just be quiet and not move.”

  She ascertained that the shrapnel had not penetrated too far, but internal bleeding and infection were her greatest fear. She began to cleanse the wound, using small swabs with disinfectant, working her way around the metal and across the skin.

  “This isn’t pleasant, Nurse,” said the patient.

  “No, I know. How brave do you feel, young man?” asked Maisie.

  “I’m here, ain’t I?” said Smithers. “Fighting away for the cause, so I reckon I’m brave enough.”

  “I have to remove a piece of shrapnel, and I have to do it quickly. I don’t want to put you under to do this, so just hold still—now.”

  Not trusting the grip of forceps, she grasped the shrapnel with her gloved hand and pulled, ready with a swab to press against the wound. Smithers screamed, and Maisie could see he had willed himself not to move. Blood oozed through the swabs, which she replaced time and again, pressing against the wound. She looked up just as Freda returned to the room, having moved her patient to the ward, and making ready for another to be brought in.

  “Freda, just one moment. Quick, hold this swab while I prepare a morphia injection.”

  “Not a bloody needle,” said Smithers, who had begun to retch.

  Maisie pushed the syringe into a bottle of morphia, measured enough to render Smithers pain-free, and lifted his arm. “Here we go—almost done.”

  Freda returned to her station, where Raoul was bringing in the next patient. Maisie finished dressing the wound and checked Smithers for more injuries. She knew he should be in a hospital, that the risk of infection was high—his face and head would be swollen like a football, come morning—but she had done all she could. She called Raoul to help her remove Smithers to the ward, where Sister Teresa was setting up mattresses on the floor.

  Under the influence of morphia, Smithers was rambling, talking about going down to the pub later, taking out his girl to a picture, getting back to work on time.

  “Why did you come here, Brian?” asked Maisie as she settled him on a mattress.

  The man who had left his country to fight so far away giggled like a small child. “You can’t let them Nationalists get away with it, can you? Us workers have got to stick together, wherever we’re from.”

  Four hours later, all of the wounded had been tended, washed, and placed in a bed or on a straw mattress on the floor. Maisie, Hattie, and Freda, along with Sister Teresa and Raoul, were now slumped on the ground alongside the outside wall.

  “I don’t think I ever imagined I could learn Spanish so quickly,” said Freda.

  Hattie laughed—a short laugh, inspired not by humor but by irony. “I don’t think that what you were speaking was anything like Spanish, but the men caught your drift.”

  “Now we’ve got to get them to a hospital,” said Freda. “They can’t all stay here. Some will be all right in a week or so, but there are others who won’t make it another two days if they don’t have vital operations.”

  Maisie leaned forward, her hands around her knees. “I’ll talk to someone when I get back to the hotel, and make sure an ambulance comes.” She turned to Raoul and, not letting the other women see her, rubbed her thumb and forefinger together. He nodded. Even if it was a makeshift ambulance in a cleaned-out lorry, transport would be found. She turned back to the two nurses and Sister Teresa. “It’s as good as done—and they’ll bring more supplies, Sister Teresa.”

  “It’s quiet here, in the village,” said Freda.

  “It’s time for the women to go to the hills, to the caves,” said Sister Teresa. “That’s where they sleep.”

  “And it’s time for us to start sorting things out before we leave,” said Hattie, coming to her feet.

  The others followed her lead, brushing the dust from their clothing as they stood up. It was at that moment an older woman came toward them, leading another, much younger woman, who was clutching her swollen belly.

  “Oh, no, I don’t believe it—that woman’s in labor!” said Freda.

  “Dear Lord, I’ve never done midwifery—have you, Maisie?”

  “Unless you count helping my father bring foals into the world, no, not me—but we’re going to have to be quick about learning.” She ran toward the women to help.

  Sister Teresa shook her head, pointing to the church. “No, not with the men—she can’t go in there. Take her into the church.”

  Soon a bed had been brought into the church. Maisie encouraged the woman to walk back and forth across the cool flagstones, flanked by herself and Sister Teresa.

  “Isn’t there a midwife in the village—a local woman who helps women with their babies?” she asked.

  Sister Teresa shook her head. “There was, but she was killed in an air raid. And it’s not as if the other women don’t know how to usher in a new life, but now they come to me—and to God.”

  Maisie looked up at a statue of the Madonna, and silently petitioned her for help.

  Hattie and Freda brought hot water and towels. It seemed to Maisie that they had stepped back from the task at hand.

  “I suppose I impressed you with the foals, didn’t I?” She turned to her patient. “I need to check the baby, señora.” She pointed to her ear and then to the woman’s belly, and the woman nodded. Hattie handed Maisie a stethoscope.

  Having examined the mother-to-be and listened to the baby’s heartbeat, Maisie turned to the other women. “It’s not going to be long now. Hattie, you didn’t
happen to pack tea in that picnic bag of yours, did you?”

  Hattie smiled. “I did, but I am not sure it’s good for Mother.”

  Maisie looked up at her fellow nurse. “I wasn’t actually thinking of the mother-to-be. I could really do with a cup.”

  The woman cried out, and Maisie urged her to push to bring her baby into the world. Time and again the scream came, and soon Maisie felt the infant’s head against her fingers. “Again, señora, again now.” Maisie blew out her cheeks to encourage the woman. “I have the shoulders.”

  “Now the hooves, eh?” said Freda, then muttered an apology when she saw the look on her cousin’s face. “Just trying to lighten the moment.”

  “Uno more, señora. Uno. Just uno,” said Maisie.

  As the woman gave a final wail, Maisie supported her daughter’s entry into the world. She felt her eyes fill with tears, her heart pounding as she held the baby in her hands, folding a soft sheet around the fragile body and allowing the tiny hand to clutch one of her fingers. Then she felt Sister Teresa’s touch upon her back. “Give the child to her mother, Miss Maisie.”

  Maisie set the infant upon her mother’s chest and took the scissors handed to her by Hattie.

  “Well done, Maisie. I tell you, I could never have done that.”

  Maisie cut the baby’s cord and ensured the delivery was complete. Freda held out her hand. “Stand up, Maisie. We’ll do the rest. Then we have to get along before it’s too late—now then, you go and have a wash.”

  But for a moment Maisie could not move. She stood looking down at the new mother and the way her lips brushed against the head of her infant daughter, her eyes closing as she smiled.

  I think I will sleep for a week after today,” said Hattie.

  “You slept for most of the journey back,” Freda retorted.

  “How about you, Maisie?” asked Hattie. “You were very quiet in the motor car. I bet you didn’t think we’d get you into this amount of trouble, eh? . . . Patients with gangrene, wounded men coming in from the hills, and to cap it all, having to learn midwifery on the spot.” She looked over toward the bar. “We could still get a drink, you know—I think we all deserve it.”

  “Oh, not me, thank you. That bathtub filled with hot water beckons.” Maisie bid the women good night, and went to her room. But instead of falling asleep, she thought about the small hospital run by a single nun who barely slept, who feared for her life enough to cast aside her habit in favor of clothing that was little different from the women who helped her every day—washing bandages, cooking for the men, scrubbing floors of blood from battle and dust from the square outside. She thought of those same women taking refuge in the hills, and a newborn held close to her mother’s heart. She replayed the moment outside the hotel, after Hattie and Freda had dragged their bags through the double doors, while she lingered to speak to Raoul. He would be there to collect her the following morning, before the sun rose over a battle-torn city—but in the meantime he would use the money Maisie had given him to find a driver and an ambulance to go to the village and bring back those men who could be moved, so that they might continue their treatment in the hospital.

  In those dark hours, before fatigue claimed her, a plan began to form in her mind. And she admitted to herself that she had known what she must do from the moment she met Sister Teresa and witnessed her struggle. Perhaps it had come to her even before, as she watched warplanes flying low above her head.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Maisie kept her eyes closed for much of the return journey to Gibraltar, and perhaps for that reason it seemed to take longer. She was not sleepy, but her eyes were heavy, though on occasion she would open them to see a village, always with the same pockmarked walls where bullets had struck, now a hallmark of so many buildings. Yet still women dressed in black would be going about their business, hanging laundry, calling children to them as the motor car drove past, standing to watch it disappear from view. Maisie wondered if they yearned to leave, then decided that, no, they only wanted days without fear to return.

  As Raoul once again negotiated the often rough roads, Maisie considered the case of Sebastian Babayoff. She was uneasy with the outcome of her investigation, such as it was. Yes, she had come to conclusions and had put them to Vallejo and Wright, but she wondered if she had been directed in some way. Or had she only wanted an easy answer, when it came down to it, succumbing to the fatigue wrought by widowhood? Widowhood. So short a time a wife, and then a widow. Had she inserted herself into the investigation because she wanted to judge someone guilty, wanted to point the finger of blame and say, “You shall pay”? Or did she simply wanted to see someone bear responsibility for the killing of Sebastian Babayoff, because she could never call anyone to account for James’ death? Except, perhaps, James himself. Is that why she had failed to speak to Lord Julian and Lady Rowan about the memorial service? Had she needed to see someone plead guilty first? They had made one plan after another for the service, she knew, because they could not proceed without their son’s wife present. But she knew that taking part in such a ritual would feel like walking the high wire without a safety net.

  It was as the journey neared its close, after Raoul informed her that they were just twenty minutes from the border, that Maisie, reviewing the elements of Sebastian Babayoff’s murder, thought back to the young photographer she had seen in the hotel. What was it she’d seen in him—a determination, yet a kind of recklessness? She recalled thinking that the camera itself might offer him a false sense of safety, that the lens between the photographer and his subject offered a perceived distance from the danger inherent in the moment. Did that happen? Or would he be haunted forever by his subject? Did he see the dead—and later, his black-and-white images of them—as a surgeon would view a human being he was about to cut into, or as a mechanic might look upon a motor car, an engine made of flesh and blood? Perhaps the detachment in that photographer’s eyes was necessary—but she wondered if in the end it would be the death of him, as it had been the death of Babayoff.

  They passed through the border with ease, showing their papers at the entry to the British garrison town. Raoul pulled over at the same place where he and Vallejo had met Maisie just days before, and she walked back along the quiet streets to Mrs. Bishop’s guest house. She unlocked the outer door, stepped across the courtyard, and climbed up to her room, turning the second key to gain entry. Locking the door behind her, she leaned back once more, welcoming the comfort of wood against her spine. The room smelled of freshly laundered sheets; the window was open, the lace curtain flapping back and forth in a warm breeze. The white counterpane seemed even crisper; Mrs. Bishop must have been in to clean and polish. The scent of lavender beeswax reminded Maisie of Chelstone. Of home.

  As she moved toward the bed, she saw an envelope on the small table, alongside the carafe of water and an upturned glass. It was addressed to Miss Maisie Dobbs.

  MacFarlane. She sighed.

  Dear Maisie,

  Well, lassie, you seem to have gone off adventuring. When you return to this little colonial outpost, perhaps you would be so kind as to send me a quick billy-do. Our mutual friend, Mr. Salazar will let me know next time you’re in his establishment. I hope it’s soon.

  Yours,

  MacFarlane

  “Billy-do indeed.” She remembered once having tea with MacFarlane, when he referred to a plate of petits fours as “little fours.” His deliberate impression of ignorance could be comic at times, yet at others it was like a needle under her skin.

  Maisie bathed away the dust and sticky residue of travel and rested before leaving Mrs. Bishop’s guest house. Dusk had not yet descended. She left a note for her landlady expressing thanks for keeping her room fresh and clean, and said she hoped all was well. She would be leaving for England soon, she noted, but would provide further details in good time—she would have to consult the shipping office first.

  Mr. Salazar came to her with open arms, greeting her as if she had been go
ne for weeks, not days, and as if she were a customer of long standing, rather than one who had been in the town less than two months.

  “Miss Dobbs, Miss Dobbs, Miss Dobbs!” he exclaimed. “I have missed you—come in, come in, come in.” He pulled out a table so that she could sit with her back to the mural. “Now, some wine? You are hungry?”

  Maisie nodded and asked for a glass of wine and a bowl of soup—if it was chicken and lemon soup, so much the better.

  When Salazar returned, Maisie asked if MacFarlane had been in of late.

  “Ah, yes, and he will be here soon, too—perhaps an hour? You will wait for him?”

  Maisie shook her head. “No—I have had a long day, Mr. Salazar. Could you tell him I’ll be here tomorrow morning? I have an errand first, and then I’ll come at, say, half past eleven. Please pass on the message that I look forward to seeing him again.”

  Salazar frowned, but nodded. Maisie suspected that MacFarlane had asked him to keep Maisie in the café if she came in this evening, and her resolute alternative plan had rather unsettled the messenger.

  The soup warmed her. When she’d finished, she pushed the bowl away and took a final sip of wine, leaving half the glass. It was time for her to go. She wanted to be alone now—she had seen life begin and life end since she was last in the café, and now she was ready for the day to be over, and to start again on the morrow. This evening, though, she would write four important letters.

  Mrs. Bishop made a fuss of Maisie when she emerged from her room the following morning, asking if she’d had a nice journey away from Gibraltar but not inquiring as to her exact whereabouts during her absence. The landlady offered to cook a “good English breakfast,” but Maisie wanted only a cup of tea, which she would take back to her room. Today would be a busy one.