Elegy for Eddie

  Her first stop was Bookhams, where she planned to drop in to see the manager, but as luck would have it, as she approached the door leading to the office, the secretary she had spoken to on her previous visit was just leaving.

  “Good morning—Miss Marchant, isn’t it?” said Maisie.

  The woman looked up, startled. “Golly, you made me jump—I was looking down, not where I was going. Mr. Mills isn’t here anymore, if it’s him you want to see.”

  “Oh dear, nothing serious happened to him, I hope.”

  “No,” said Miss Marchant. “Least I don’t think so. He was moved to another factory, owned by Mr. Otterburn. Now we’ve got a new manager, only he’s sort of higher up, and he’s overseeing the modernization that’s going on.”

  “Modernization? What are they doing?”

  “They’re shutting the factory down in stages, so as not to completely stop production, but they’ve got all these new safety measures, and new machinery going in, so that there’s no accidents. We already knew that there was work on the cards, but they’re doing something much bigger now—a brand-new, much wider conveyor system for a start. And they’re spending a bit of money, making sure we’re not operating with a short staff and that everyone on the shop floor is trained properly—especially for emergencies. It’s on account of Mr. Pettit’s accident that all this is happening.” She shrugged. “So it wasn’t for nothing that he died. At least it won’t happen again. The horses are all gone now, though.”

  “That’s a shame. I suppose it’s all in the name of progress.”

  “There was a bit of an uproar, to tell you the truth, what with Mr. Pettit’s death, and how he loved them horses. So the company had the horses taken away in a big lorry, and we was told they were going down to Surrey somewhere, to live in a big field that Mr. Otterburn owns. One of the blokes went with them, just to make sure there was no funny business, like taking them off to a man with a gun.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. Well, thank you, Miss Marchant. I’d better be going.”

  She turned to make her way onto the cobblestone street when Miss Marchant called to her. “I’m not sorry about Jimmy Merton, you know. Never liked that man. I saw Mr. Pettit once, just after Merton came to work here. Mr. Pettit went up to him and held out his hand, friendly, as if he knew him and wanted to be mates. But that guttersnipe just pushed him away. Makes you wonder what gets into some people.”

  Evelyn Butterworth answered the door, brush in hand and purple paint smeared across her forehead.

  “Miss Dobbs—Maisie! What a lovely surprise. Do come in, but please mind where you stand. Let me put this down and wash my hands.”

  “I just thought I’d drop in to see how you’re getting on.” Maisie stepped through into the small sitting room cum bedroom and stood by the window, touching the windowsill first to ensure it wasn’t wet.

  Evelyn had painted the small flat and put up new wallpaper and curtains. She came back into the room, wiping her hands with a cloth. “I was refinishing the kitchen table. I thought I would give it a new lease on life with a different color.” She looked around the room, then at Maisie. “What do you think?”

  “I think you’ve done a grand job,” said Maisie.

  “Everyone pulled together to help, in fact, I could have probably furnished a house with all the offers that came my way.”

  “I thought I’d bring you a gift for the flat.” Maisie held out a box. “It’s not quite your grandmother’s china, but I think Susie Cooper’s designs are quite lovely—a bit different. I hope it’s all right, and you can exchange it for another design if—”

  Evelyn pulled back the wrapping paper, the cardboard lid, and tissue. “Oh my, this is wonderful—so bright and modern! Thank you, Miss Dobbs.”

  “I should thank you, Eve. You helped me enormously, and you’ve lost an awful lot.”

  Evelyn Butterworth pressed her lips together, as if to stem her emotions. “Well, as my grandmother always said, ‘You just have to get on with it.’ And she was right—you can’t wallow, can you? So, I got stuck in and sorted myself out. I miss Bart more than I ever imagined, but I’ve made this place so new, it’s different. I don’t think he would have liked it, if I’m honest.”

  “As long as you like it, that’s the most important thing,” said Maisie.

  “I’d put the kettle on and invite you to stay, but the chairs are covered with a sheet and I’ve not even had a chance to nip out to the shops for milk today—but would you come back next week? Everything will be perfect then.”

  As Maisie stepped along the path, she turned back and saw Evelyn Butterworth standing by the window. She waved farewell, and received a wave in return. And as she made her way to the underground station, it occurred to her that Evelyn had wisely created a vibrant cocoon in which to heal. It would not be long before she spread her wings.

  Billy had been discharged from hospital and was convalescing at home. Maisie had arranged for her solicitors to remit payment of his wages by messenger each week. She thought it best to draw back from delivering the money herself. She wrote one letter, wishing him a good recovery, and assuring him that his job was waiting for him as soon as he was well. She explained that she would love to visit, but understood they had a busy household and would wait to hear from Doreen, to see if it would be convenient for her to call.

  The letter arrived one morning in early May when it seemed the spell of unexpected fine weather was about to come to an end. It was penned in delicate cursive handwriting on a vellum notecard; Doreen must have invested in good paper to write to her customers, who seemed to be increasingly well-to-do. Maisie had never taken account of Doreen’s handwriting before and felt it revealed someone who took care to do things properly, who liked her house in order, and who had received a good education. In truth, she realized she knew little about Billy’s wife, except that she came from Sussex and met Billy while he was convalescing from his wounds, towards the end of the war. The letter invited Maisie to tea on Friday afternoon. Maisie penned a plain postcard by return post, accepting the invitation.

  Bringing a small toy for each child and a basket of fruit, Maisie spent the better part of an afternoon with the family. Billy’s boys were as boisterous as ever, and were sent to play in the garden, where Billy’s mother sat in a chair with a blanket across her knees and tapped a wooden spoon on the side of the chair every time a boy threatened to misbehave. Maisie suspected the spoon would never be used to mete out discipline, though it proved a powerful deterrent.

  Billy looked well, if a little more unsteady on his feet than usual. He promised to be back at work in a couple of weeks, perhaps sooner.

  “I can’t keep taking money for nothing, Miss.”

  “It’s not for nothing. It’s my obligation to an employee who was injured while working. But I’ll be glad to see you back when you’re ready.”

  At that moment, Doreen came back into the room. Little Meg had just woken from a nap; her eyes were half open, her cheeks peach-pink with sleep. Billy’s wife had said little to Maisie since she arrived. There was a greeting and gratitude expressed for the gifts; she asked questions about how Maisie was keeping, and how she would like her tea. But now Doreen Beale walked straight towards Maisie and held out the baby for her to take, placing the beloved new daughter in her arms with pride.

  Maisie cradled little Meg Beale and looked into her eyes. “She’s like her mum, isn’t she?” she observed, and was comforted by Doreen’s radiant smile. It was a smile that matched her own, which was not just for the warmth of a dear child held close to her heart, but for the knowledge that she was forgiven.

  She wanted to go to Box Hill, but rather dreaded a walk on her own, so she suggested to James that they could take Priscilla’s sons down for an afternoon of kite flying.

  “You do realize that this means we won’t have the energy to go out for a week, don’t you?” said James. “The Beale boys may be rascals, but Priscilla’s toads are demons!”

  “Come
on, you’ll love it, you know you will,” said Maisie.

  “Yes, yes, I know. It’ll be great fun.”

  The previous visit to Box Hill had been one that opened Maisie’s wounds. The planned day of kite flying was, she thought, something that would lighten the dark shadow left by John Otterburn’s predictions. The boys ran back and forth, chasing downed kites, screaming at one another to keep a kite aloft, or simply running around making noise.

  “I’d forgotten those boys have such big voices,” said James. “This reminds me of school.”

  “Don’t worry, they’ll sleep on the way home.”

  “So will I. You’re driving, Maisie.”

  “Your new car?”

  “Any car that I fall into, my dear.”

  Maisie called out to Tarquin to pull in his kite, and ran to help him untangle his fingers from the string. And as she felt the smaller hand in hers, she thought of his father, and the lengths Douglas would go to to make sure his sons were at liberty to run, to yell, to play, and to know joy. She remembered his words by heart:

  I fought for them to have the freedom to laugh, to tease each other, to climb trees, and to run headlong into the world.

  The journey home to the Holland Park mansion where Priscilla and her family lived was as James predicted: Maisie drove while James slept in the passenger seat next to her, the boys curled together like puppies in the back of the motor car.

  “Douglas and I have had the most wonderful day, and Elinor has enjoyed a brief respite from the fray. You must stay to supper—oh dear, if you can remain awake, that is.” Priscilla looked from Maisie to James.

  “I’m starving, actually,” said James.

  “Me, too. We’ll stay to supper, but probably make it an early night—the boys have worn us out.”

  “You’ve got color in your cheeks, though. Come on, let’s get some drinks. I think our trusty cook is preparing rainbow trout this evening.”

  With the boys in bed, Maisie and James enjoyed an informal supper with Priscilla and Douglas. It was as they were lingering over brandy that Priscilla announced that she would rather like to show Maisie a new gown that had just arrived from Paris. The women left the table and went to Priscilla’s sitting room upstairs.

  “I thought I would never get you alone,” said Priscilla.

  “Pris, I believe James and Douglas could see through that gown ruse with ease,” said Maisie. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong, except I have to say, things seem to be going rather well between you and James, despite your predictions of an end to it all.”

  “I think we may have found our place with each other,” said Maisie.

  “Is he still going to Canada?”

  “Yes, but we’re not sure when—perhaps before Toronto is engulfed in snow.”

  “And you’re not going with him?” asked Priscilla.

  “I’m not sure where I’m going, yet,” said Maisie.

  “What do you mean? ‘I’m not sure where I’m going, yet.’ What are you up to?”

  “I feel like a criminal, being asked all these questions.” Maisie smiled at Priscilla and took her hand. “I think I might go abroad on my own for a while. Who knows? James might join me, or I might join him until I want to move on—or we may never see each other again, though I believe we will. I want to see more of the world while I can. And I want to be . . . unpredictable. I want to learn something, Priscilla. I want to learn how to just let things happen sometimes. I think I want to find out what it’s like to approach a corner without constantly trying to be prepared for what I might encounter when I round it.”

  “Yes, it does make the load rather heavy if you carry tools for every eventuality. Where might you go? You could start in Biarritz, if you like—the villa’s there at your disposal.”

  “We’ll see. I’m not sure where, or when. It might be years. Or I might go somewhere just for a couple of weeks. I don’t know. I am only sure it’s something I must do.”

  On the following Monday morning, she parked in Horseferry Lane, north of the river, stopping at a flower stall on her way to Lambeth Bridge. She bought a large bouquet of spring flowers for Maud and Jennie, and a second smaller bunch. Halfway across the bridge, she leaned over and looked down into the swirling grayish-black water. She thought of Bart Soames, and of Jimmy Merton, and whispered the words, “May they know peace.” She allowed the small bunch of flowers to fall into the river, to be carried along, past Parliament, past the pontoon where she’d spoken with a young police constable, past the docks, past plenty and poverty, past factories and fields.

  Walking around Covent Garden market was, for Maisie, like meandering back into her childhood. Once again the porters ran to and fro as the lorries jockeyed for position with horse-drawn carts. There were calls back and forth between the costers, and men waving to each other, crying out prices.

  It was a fine May day, one of those afternoons when, in the sunshine, a coat might be taken off, or a gentleman could be seen lifting his hat to wipe his brow or a costermonger pushing back his cap to run his fingers through sweat-dampened hair. In time, she made her way to Sam’s café and asked Sam if she might take a couple of chairs out onto the flagstones, to sit in the sun.

  “Course you can, Maisie,” said Sam. “What can I do for you today?”

  “Thank you, Sam. I’m waiting for someone; we’ll decide what we’d like then.”

  “Just you sit there in the sunshine and give me a shout when you’re ready, love.”

  She watched a coster bring his horse to a halt across the road. He jumped down from the cart and went to the horse, running his hand down the sturdy feathered left front leg of the piebald Welsh cob, and lifted the foot. He brushed off the hoof with his hand, then pulled a pick from his back pocket and popped a stone caught in the shoe. The man released the horse’s leg with a gentleness that belied his gruff appearance, then rubbed his hand across the beast’s thick neck, and was nuzzled in return. He fitted a nose-bag of oats and the horse was left to eat while the man went to talk to a friend.

  Maisie thought she saw, in the market before her, the world in miniature: people going about their business, the horse and the motor car sharing the road, as if past and future were trying to get along. There were rich and poor and people in between; jobs to do and mouths to be fed; schools to be attended, lessons to learn and unlearn; and life went on its way, like the river. Everyone was doing what they had to do to maintain or better their lot, to stop themselves sliding, or to earn a few more pennies.

  Her thoughts turned to John Otterburn and his predictions. When her investigation ended, she had asked Jack Barker if he had copies of old newspapers going back to the beginning of the year—and he didn’t disappoint, bringing a boxful to her office one afternoon. She added them to those procured and read throughout her work on the case, and one day went through each newspaper, cutting out columns of news and strips of headlines, laying them out like daisy chains across the table by the window in her office. Every story was another brushstroke in an image of terror.

  At the end of March, Germany’s Herr Hitler had been given powers of dictatorship, and since that time decrees to disenfranchise the Jewish population had moved on apace, with Jewish men and women barred from government work, then from owning businesses and from the practice of law. Since the Manchester Guardian had printed an article in early April entitled “The Terror in Germany,” recounting ways in which the Nazi government was hiding the truth of its actions, even more worrying revelations had come to light in the weeks to follow. John Otterburn had been quick to unleash a torrent of inflammatory headlines in every one of his newspapers.

  But now, as the sun shone on an ordinary spring day in London, her thoughts turned to Eddie once again, and how he must have felt, how his confusion upon suffering a manipulation he was ill equipped to understand must have darkened his simple days. And it occurred to her that perhaps they were all like Eddie; perhaps they were all unknowing, influenced to think in a gi
ven direction by men who believed themselves visionaries—she had not decided whether such a thing was wrong or right or fell somewhere to the center of those two bookends of morality.

  “There you are!” James called to Maisie as he walked towards her, his black pin-striped suit looking out of place in the market. He sat down beside her, leaning back into the chair. “If you hadn’t told me about this café, I would never have found it. Lovely out here in this bit of sunshine, isn’t it? What are we having, by the way?”

  “Ice cream,” said Maisie.

  “Ice cream?” He began to laugh. “Sometimes you surprise me, Maisie.”

  “Sam has the most delicious flavors. He makes them all here, at the back of the shop—my father would bring me here when I was a child, for a special treat. I particularly like the hazelnut with a little chocolate sauce on top. Sam will put it in a cornet or a bowl, whatever you want.”

  “That’s good enough for me. I’ll never make it back to the office, though.”

  Maisie shrugged. “Does it matter? The Compton Corporation won’t collapse if we go for a walk, will it?”

  Maisie called out to Sam, who brought two cornets, each with chocolate rippling across a rounded ball of ice cream.

  “Isn’t this lovely, Maisie?” said James. “Watching the world go by while dripping chocolate down a new tie and my favorite suit.”

  “And my chin, and my blouse,” added Maisie.

  Then they sat back in silence, eating ice cream. Each with their own thoughts. Watching their world go by.

  Acknowledgments