“No, it’s not Tom—all I know about Tom is that he’s training new pilots somewhere in Northumberland, and he’s in love with a flame-haired air force meteorologist.”
“Thank god for that—though I have my doubts about the meteorologist, and—”
“Pris—sit down.”
“Well, it can’t be that bad if my toads are all alive and well.” Priscilla took a seat on the small sofa and reached for her cigarettes and lighter. “Go on then, Maisie—fire away!”
Maisie took a deep breath, as if fortifying herself before plunging into a freezing cold lake. “Because we’re friends—like sisters . . .” She felt her throat become tighter. “Because we’re as good as family, I have been requested to inform you that Elinor has been tragically killed in a freak accident while driving a lorry between two military establishments. I don’t know the specifics, though I was assured that her passing would have been instantaneous. She would have felt no pain, no prolonged suffering.” Maisie looked at Priscilla to check her reaction; she was staring straight at Maisie, a single unlit cigarette drooping between two fingers.
“You’re lying.”
“No, Priscilla, I am not lying. I am telling the truth. I am really so very sorry.” Maisie stopped to take another breath, feeling as if a weighted cloak had wrapped itself around her. She wanted to reach out and hold on to Priscilla, but could not move. She sought words to continue, trying to remember the script she had crafted in her mind over and over again during a sleepless night. “Given the nature of the accident and the location, Elinor has already been buried with full honors, though we can go to the cemetery together, if you wish—it’s down in the west country, which I think she would have liked. Her commanding officer will render all assistance with the planning of a memorial service, again, only if you wish, but as Elinor listed you as her next of kin, it’s—”
“Stop it! Stop it, stop it, stop it now!” Priscilla closed her eyes and broke down, falling forward as she wept. Maisie went to her, kneeling on the floor and holding her friend so close she could feel her heartbeat. “Oh my God, Elinor. Elinor! Oh Maisie—I owed her so much.” Priscilla gulped back tears. “I was clueless when I had Tom. I had this squealing little red thing, and though I wanted to do everything myself and I tried for months on end, I finally asked my aunt to find me a doughty English nanny—and she sent me this very young Welsh girl who saved us. Tom would have died before he was a year old if it hadn’t been for Elinor.” Priscilla pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and wiped her eyes. “And she saved me too—she taught me how to be a mother, how to love my child, and for heaven’s sake, it was as if she were a mother to me, too, and she was barely out of school. She just knew how to do everything. And with each boy, she just got on with it. If it hadn’t been for Elinor, they would have grown wild, but she taught me how to make men of them, how they could be good boys and still be themselves, each one of them. And now this . . .”
“What’s going on? What is it?”
Maisie turned to face Douglas Partridge, who had come into the room, followed by Tarquin.
Maisie broke the news again. Douglas reached for his wife, and pulled her to him.
“Darling—oh my darling.”
Tarquin stood speechless, his eyes wide. Maisie put an arm around her godson’s shoulders.
“Tante Maisie,” said the boy, almost choking on his words as he turned to Maisie. “I’d better let my brothers know. I should get messages to them, so they know to telephone us.”
Maisie nodded and released Priscilla’s youngest, a boy-man almost as tall as his father. She watched as he walked away toward the telephone, his shoulders shaking as he gave in to tears.
“I’ll go now,” said Maisie, as Douglas turned to face her. “I’m so sorry to be the bearer of this news, but I was asked to do so because of our personal connection. Elinor was loved by us all—the accident was a terrible, terrible tragedy.”
“Thank you, Maisie—thank you for being the one to come, though I cannot imagine how this must have tormented you.”
“Please let me know if there is anything more I can do. Elinor listed Priscilla as her next of kin, but I am sure she has relatives in Wales; I can help you find them if you don’t already know their addresses.”
“Driving a bloody lorry,” said Priscilla, her face tear-streamed and red. “Serving your country by driving a lorry, and she gets killed. It’s not bloody well fair.”
“No, it’s not fair, Pris. Nothing in war is ever fair. We both know that only too well. But I saw her not long ago, and she was happy. She was proud to be doing her bit—that’s what she told me. That she was proud to be doing anything to stop Hitler marching into Britain.”
“Well, that was Elinor,” said Priscilla. “Even when she was mixed up with that most unsuitable Basque man while we were in France, she put us all first, before everything. We loved her, Maisie. We all loved her so much—she was family.”
“I know—”
“And heaven only knows how she thought she was going to stop Hitler with a lorry.”
Maisie turned to leave, but lingered when Priscilla called out to her.
“Maisie, darling, I think you might know how to contact my niece. She should be told. Pascale and Elinor became quite friendly, you know. She’ll be very upset.”
Maisie nodded. “I’ll find out the name of someone who could relay a message to her. So yes, you can rest assured she’ll be informed.”
“Mummy, Mummy, Mummy!”
Anna rushed into Maisie’s arms outside the school.
“Mummy—you’re crushing me!”
“Oh, I’m sorry, darling—I just have so many cuddles inside me, I suppose they all came out at once,” said Maisie. “Come along, let’s go home for a cup of tea and you can tell us all about school today.”
This was one of the most cherished parts of Maisie’s week—coming home. Each Wednesday or Thursday afternoon, when she returned to the Dower House at Chelstone Manor following several days in London, she ached for half past three in the afternoon, when it was time to begin her walk to the village primary school. She would wait by the cast iron gates to hear the bell signifying that lessons had finished, then watch as children streamed from the Victorian building, some looking for their mothers, others setting off home because their mothers were working, perhaps on one of the local farms. Maisie would open her arms wide as soon as she saw the little girl with olive skin run toward her, her satchel half open and sometimes spilling a book and her pencils. Two almost jet-black braids would be bouncing off her shoulders, though it was not unusual for the ribbon to have been lost from one plait and then replaced with a rubber band supplied by the teacher. Anna would launch herself at Maisie, clinging to her with arms around her neck and legs around her hips.
As Maisie and her daughter walked home along the lane, Anna maintained a constant dialogue. “I wrote about Emma today in composition. The teacher asked us all to write a story about something we’d lost. Everyone else wrote about losing toys or their hats and gloves in winter, but I wrote about Emma. She’s not lost really—I know where she is—but it’s like losing something, and I miss her.”
Maisie nodded, holding Anna’s hand. “I know, darling. But remember how sad Grandad was when Jook died, and—”
“He cried,” said Anna, a frown forming across her forehead. “I was supposed to be asleep, but I heard him talking to Grandma in the kitchen, so I came downstairs and looked in, and I saw him crying about Jook. I went back to bed again and cried for Jook and Grandad, and I said my prayers for them.” She sighed. “Grandad isn’t as sad now, is he?”
“No, my love—that’s because time helps, as it passes. Time puts a little cushion around our hearts.”
“I’ve still got a big hurt here, where Emma lives,” said Anna, placing her hand on her chest. “It’s different from when my first nanny died, before you became my mummy.”
“Shall we do this?” Maisie stopped and faced her daughter. She lifted he
r hands, and placed first her left hand against her chest, and then her right hand on top of her left. “Follow me—see what I’ve done with my hands? You can close your eyes and cradle your heart, then before you know it the pain starts to go away.”
Anna faced her mother and followed her lead. Resting her small hands against the buttons on her school blazer, she closed her eyes.
“I can feel it, Mummy. The hurt is starting to go.”
“We can do it again before bedtime—in fact, any time you feel the hurt about Emma. It’s like giving your heart a lovely soft cuddle.”
Emma opened her eyes, dropped her hands and began skipping along. “When’s Uncle Mark coming again? I miss him.”
“Oh, I’m not sure, darling. Perhaps in a week or so.”
“That’s good—we’ve run out of chocolate!”
Brenda met Maisie and Anna at the kitchen door.
“A woman just telephoned for you, Maisie. I told her you’d be back in a little while, so she said she’d try again. Said it was about someone called Hackett. She couldn’t leave a number because she was in a telephone box.”
“Oh, I know who that is. Thank you, Brenda.”
“I see someone has lost more ribbons!” said Brenda, hands on hips as she looked down at Anna. “Come on—time to get out of that uniform so it’s nice for tomorrow.”
“There’s the telephone again now,” said Maisie. “I’ll just be a few minutes.”
Once inside the library, she closed the door behind her and reached for the receiver.
“Hello.”
“Miss Dobbs?”
“Yes, speaking.”
“Good afternoon. My name is Mrs. Alice Langley. Dr. Masters asked me to go to see a boy named Freddie Hackett, so I went to his school today and then found out that he was at home, so I took the liberty of going to see him there. I’ve not long left the flat, which is why I’m in a telephone box. I knew you would want to hear from me straightaway.”
“Oh dear—I hadn’t had a chance to talk to his mother.”
“That’s all right—I’m used to dealing with parents and children, though it’s hard to think of some of the boys and girls of Freddie’s age as children anymore. They’ve already seen more of life and death than we might have at that age. Anyway, I explained myself to the mother, who understood the reason for my visit. She was agreeable to my speaking with Freddie—first with her present, and then she went off ostensibly to make tea, but she gave us time to talk alone.”
“And?”
“I’ll put this all in a written report for you, but the boy is clearly under a cloud, and of course you can’t miss that scratching on the arms, though it looked as if it had been healing a bit and then he started again. He is terrified of his father and he remained at home because his mother was not at work today and he was afraid his father would come to the flat and kill her.”
“He was clear about killing her?”
“Oh yes. He indicated that the father had threatened as much on many occasions, and though the man might not mean to go so far, a child is not to know that. Freddie has probably heard threats of this nature since early childhood, and though he has grown and matured, in some ways he is still a small boy, fearful of the future.”
Maisie drew breath to ask another question, but the woman continued.
“Regarding the event that Freddie Hackett is supposed to have witnessed, I would say he definitely saw something that scared him very much. Whilst I am not a detective, I would suggest that if further evidence were found to indicate someone had been murdered or there was some sort of attack in the place where Freddie maintains he saw a fight, then we should assume that he did not witness an apparition, but instead saw something untoward taking place.”
“I see, and—”
“Freddie isn’t sleeping well, and that will have an effect on his account of the event he saw unfold. And I don’t mean he’s suffering from a little bit of childhood wakefulness. The boy is becoming profoundly deprived of a good night’s rest. I know you could say the same thing about half the population at the present time, but children have had a remarkable resilience to the bombings and have managed to sleep through the worst of times—of course the psychological pressure can do that too, as I am sure you understand. But Freddie Hackett is at risk of a deeper illness of the mind if he does not experience some lifting of the weight upon his shoulders. As a first step, he should not be running those messages all over London. It has to stop—but he is very scared that his mother and Iris will go without, and they will be on the streets and vulnerable. I also believe the running is not simply due to his love of sport or his obvious natural talent—it has a psychological connection to running from the things that frighten him, chiefly his father coming after him or his mother. Children can be as protective of their mothers as the other way around.”
“Is there anything else I should know?”
As soon as she’d put forward the question, Maisie heard clicks on the line, and knew the caller had heard the pips indicating that more coins must be placed in the telephone box or the call would be disconnected. She held her breath.
“Sorry about that—one of my pennies dropped right through and I had to push it in again.” The woman gave a frustrated sigh.
“Shall I call you back?” offered Maisie.
“Not to worry—I’ve put in enough money to finish. Now, where was I? Oh yes—suffice it to say that by the time I left, I was convinced that Freddie had indeed witnessed some sort of terrifying event, but I have to weigh it up against the experiences of other children I’ve met who have seen something equally troubling, and there’s something different about Freddie. Children use all sorts of means to make the unthinkable normal, so they can deal with it and carry on. Freddie doesn’t seem to have done that.”
“And what would you suggest, Mrs. Langley?”
“I think it would help if we saw more of each other. I’m a believer in not just sitting in a drawing room talking, or in any place where there are chairs and a desk between two people having a conversation, so I could have a word with him during a stroll. I think the main thing is to ease his burden – after all, the old saying rings true, that a problem shared is a problem halved. Freddie needs it halved, halved again and then halved again, until he is a proper young boy with no more worries than anyone has at a time like this.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Langley,” said Maisie. “I know seeing Freddie has taken time away from your grandchildren. I was so sorry to hear of your daughter’s death in a bombing.”
“Yes, it’s a terrible thing to lose a daughter—and she was so beautiful and clever. She was a doctor, you know. But we have to carry on for the sake of her children.” The woman seemed to catch her breath before continuing. “But one more thing about Freddie. He is a sensitive soul—almost too sensitive. And in my experience, children of that kind do two things: they constantly imagine the future and see everything at its worst, and they try to stop the bad happening before it’s even threatened to take place. They also become overly protective of those they love—to the extent that they would do anything in their power to ensure their safety. Freddie Hackett is too young to have all that on his shoulders, and he is deeply aware of the volatility in his life.”
Maisie’s understanding of the situation was immediate. “Are you saying he is close to a breakdown?”
“Yes. That’s exactly what I’m saying. The family feel safe in their new flat—which I understand you helped them obtain. But I don’t think it’s secure enough for Freddie—not yet anyway. That’s the plight of a lot of people, but in the Hacketts’ case it would be hard to place them as evacuees outside London, given the situation with the little girl. People can be picky about who they have under their roof, which we know is a terrible thing, but some people find any disorder unsettling—it’s a reminder that it could have easily happened to them. There’s no accounting for what might scare people. By the way—I met little Iris and she appears to function very well. Her di
sability doesn’t hold her back as much as I might have expected—testament to her mother’s care—though we both know there are those who would discriminate against her. I wish we could pull some strings . . .”
The nurse’s words seemed to taper off, and Maisie wondered if it were by design, or if there was no more to say, though the call did not come to a close until Maisie had made sure she knew how much to pay the nurse and where to send the remittance.
Before returning to the kitchen, where she would linger with her stepmother and daughter, to laugh and joke, to listen to Anna’s stories and Brenda’s habit of telling Anna what school was like in her day, Maisie sat for some time with her hands on her chest, one on top of the other, as she tried to cradle away the pain in her heart.
Maisie’s thoughts seemed to ricochet between Freddie Hackett, Elinor Jones, Pascale Evernden and Priscilla, and her concerns remained ever present as she worked in the Dower House library, played with her daughter or took long, solitary walks across the countryside. Priscilla, Douglas and Tarquin had returned to London, where they would grieve together with the two older boys, who were on their way to the Holland Park mansion.
It was late on Sunday afternoon when Maisie picked up the telephone receiver and dialed a number she knew by heart, but rarely used.
“MacFarlane!” The greeting was almost curt.
“Robbie—it’s Maisie here. I’m sorry to call you on a Sunday.”
“And at home. I could have been away at evensong.”
“No, you couldn’t Robbie—I know that much about you.”
“Does your pal know about Jones?”
“Yes. I broke the news to the family as soon as I arrived in Chelstone. Is there word from Pascale?”
“You were right—she’s making her way across to Granny’s house. I just hope she’s bloody careful.” Maisie heard MacFarlane pause to take a sip of whatever drink he was holding in his hand. “But the good news is that she’s going there because she can use an escape line to get back to Blighty. Our connections indicate she could be here within about a week, all being well.”
The Consequences of Fear Page 19