“Yes, in time for tea. I’ll see you then, Mrs. Bolton.”
As Maisie walked to her motor car, she considered the short but revelatory conversation with Rosemary Hartley-Davies. But it wasn’t what was said that gave Maisie pause. It was a photograph. Maisie had always been drawn to photographs, could not be a guest at someone’s house without lingering in front of a mantelpiece covered in framed photographs, or a series of images set on top of a piano rarely played. In case after case, she had discovered something from looking at a photograph. In this instance it was not the innocent face of a young man lost to war that had caught her eye, though she grieved the loss of the woman’s husband. It was another, more informal photograph taken in a field, or perhaps the gardens of a country home, that had claimed her attention. The scene was of a team of workers, each man wielding a spade, a fork, or a hoe, with a woman standing at the center of the group, holding a basket, as if she were delivering a picnic lunch. A child stood between the woman and one of the men. That one man—himself still a boy, really—to the left; she could have sworn it was a young Frederick Addens. And the woman, without a shadow of doubt, was Rosemary Hartley-Davies.
“She’s not come home from school yet,” said Brenda, taking a seat at the kitchen table opposite Maisie, who had arrived at the Dower House—the spacious property Maisie had inherited from Maurice Blanche—shortly after three o’clock. Situated just inside the estate entrance, the Dower House had once been part of Chelstone Manor, and was once the home of Lord Julian Compton’s mother until her death. Following her passing, Maurice—a long-standing friend of the Compton family—purchased the house.
“They didn’t want her in the class, but I said she should join the other evacuees who’ve come to the village, even though she doesn’t look quite old enough for school. After all, the poor little mite won’t want to be stuck here with me all day, though she seems to like following your father around. He says it’s like having you back as a little girl. She loves the horses—puts the boys to shame. She’s fearless, even around the big hunters. Anyway, the teacher says she’s catching up with the other children already.” Brenda continued her monologue, leaning towards Maisie. “I mean, it’s not as if anyone even knew if she could read or write, but she can. She knows her letters, so she’s obviously been to school somewhere. And at least the teacher got something out of her. She won’t read to the teacher, but Mrs. Evans—that’s her name—says that she can see her at her desk with a book, her finger on each word as she goes along. Her handwriting is neat, and she can answer the questions correctly—on paper—but you know, at that age it’s all very simple. ‘What color is John’s tractor?’ She’ll answer ‘red’—the right answer. All the children have to write in their nature books every morning, listing new things they’ve seen, and the teacher will help with spelling. She always puts ‘pony’ at the top, and then dog, cow, pig, and goes on to make a good list every day. But she won’t answer a question, won’t talk to anyone, and keeps to herself all the time—doesn’t mix with the others, and they just leave her alone. At least no one is picking on her, though what with her coloring, I’d say it’s only a matter of time.”
“What does the billeting officer say—any news from her?”
“Apparently she’s not one of the lot from the orphanage, or from the other schools evacuated on the same train. They’ve been in touch with teachers evacuated on trains leaving at the same time—some going down to Sussex with their children—but nothing’s come to light yet. They’ve even wondered if she managed to be taken to the wrong station and is expected in Ipswich or out in Hertfordshire, perhaps even down in Wales, but no answers have come back. There’s been so many thousands of them to deal with, it’s a wonder more haven’t got lost, although hopefully they’ve got a tongue in their head if they have. And there’s also been some questions about her birth certificate, and trying to find one for her.”
“Does anyone know her name yet?”
“She finally wrote it down for the teacher. It’s Anna—for all the good knowing has done. But at least it’s something to go on.”
“And she’s still hanging on to her case.”
“Won’t let it out of her sight. Even sleeps with it, otherwise I would have had a look.”
“Right then, time to think as if from another realm, as Maurice would have said.”
“Oh dear, I don’t like it when you talk like that. I knew Dr. Blanche only too well—after all, I worked for him for years—and when he talked about lateral thinking, whatever that is, I knew he was up to something.”
“This one shouldn’t be too difficult. Where’s Dad? Is he over at the stables?”
“Can’t keep him away,” said Brenda. “Retired a few years ago, and still helping out. And Lady Rowan encourages him. Did you know they’ve got a mare in foal over there? Another racehorse prospect, so they say—but who will be going to the races with a war on? What with all this talk of rationing, you can bet they’ll be slaughtering horses for meat and calling it beef. There’s so many horses being sold cheap from the railway companies now, and all the factories have moved over to using lorries. I read about it in the papers—excess livestock, they said.”
“Dad won’t like to hear about that,” said Maisie. “Anyway, I saw a new horsebox parked near the gates when I drove in—is it Lady Rowan’s?”
“It is indeed. I reckon Lord Julian will do anything to keep her chin up—losing James, well, look what it did to her. Terrible. But she’s interested in her racehorses again, so you can’t blame him for wanting to keep her on the go. The thing isn’t used much, because once the horses are old enough, they’re in training anyway, but she likes them to come back to Chelstone for a bit of a holiday now and again—to be horses, she says.”
“Who drives it?”
“George, the chauffeur. Only now he drives the horsebox as well as a motor car. By the way, he says he’ll polish up the Alvis a treat for you—he’s taken a shine to that motor of yours.”
Having walked down to the stables to see her father, Maisie arrived back at the Dower House just before Anna, the evacuee girl, came home from school. Two boys burst into the kitchen, only to be cut short by Brenda.
“You can hold your horses right here, gentlemen. I want you to walk—and I mean walk—straight upstairs, change out of those uniforms into your mufti, and then you can go out to the stables to help Mr. Dobbs if you like. I’ll leave out a bottle of pop each, and a jam tart. All right?”
“Yes, Mrs. Dobbs,” they echoed.
“I don’t know why there was all the worry,” said Maisie, as she watched the boys run upstairs. “You seem to have everything well under control, and those boys aren’t too much, are they? I think Lady Rowan was just panicking, and—”
Maisie was at once aware that a small girl was standing on the threshold looking in, her eyes on Maisie. The child had jet-black hair pulled into two plaits secured with ribbons in the same green as her cardigan. A hairgrip held back a fringe that would otherwise have fallen into her eyes, and wisps had worked free around her face. She had eyes so blue they might as well have been black, and while her complexion was not that of an English rose, Maisie would not have expected it to draw undue attention. True, her skin was a little darker than most, but instead of sun-kissed, it seemed sallow. She had seen children with exactly the same coloring when she was in Spain, in the village where she had worked as a nurse during the Civil War.
“You must be Anna,” said Maisie, her smile broad, though she did not get up from her seat.
The girl put the first two fingers of her left hand into her mouth and began to suck.
“I’m about to have some tea—would you like some? I like mine milky, but I don’t like sugar. How do you like yours?”
Anna sighed and looked from Brenda, who had turned away to make a pot of tea, to Maisie. She walked forward, pulled out a chair—not the one next to Maisie, but one facing her—and clambered onto the seat. She placed her small case and her gas mask on
another wooden chair to her right—well away from Maisie—and kept one hand on the case.
Brenda set a cup in front of Maisie, and one before Anna, with a slice of bread and jam alongside.
“I’d better be getting on,” said Brenda. “Make sure those boys haven’t been jumping on the beds again.” She left the kitchen, closing the door behind her.
Maisie pushed the sugar bowl towards Anna, who stared at her, and then towards the door. Maisie nodded and then sat back in her chair and sipped her tea. The girl reached for the teaspoon and with one hand scooped up a half measure of sugar, placing the forefinger of her other hand on top to ensure no grains were lost on the way to the cup. She tipped in the sugar, licked her finger, and stirred her tea, before blowing across the top of the beverage to cool it down. She put her right hand back on the case.
“Mrs. Dobbs tells me you like the horses,” said Maisie. While the child was concentrating on her tea, Maisie had slipped from her neck the chain that held her wedding ring. As she spoke, she leaned an elbow on the table and began absent-mindedly swinging it back and forth, as if it were a pendulum. She paid attention only to the girl.
Anna sighed, and nodded. She said not a word, but the ring had caught her eye, and she stared at it.
“Do you have a favorite?” asked Maisie.
The girl shrugged, still watching the ring.
“Shall I tell you a story about a magic horse?”
Anna’s eyes widened again. She nodded, though she had begun to move her head from side to side, just a little. She rubbed her eyes.
“I think we should go into the conservatory. It’s more comfortable—have you been in there? You can see for miles and miles, right across the fields. You can watch the horses in the paddocks too. Let’s drink our tea and go along. It’s always been my favorite place to hear a story.”
With tea finished, Maisie did not attempt to take the girl’s hand, waiting patiently for her to gather her case. She followed Maisie into the conservatory, taking a seat at the opposite end of the sofa. Maisie sat facing Anna, her left arm along the top of the sofa, as if making herself comfortable rather than reaching out towards the child. Her free hand held the chain and ring, and though she rested her elbow on the arm of the sofa, she continued to allow the gold band to swing back and forth, and was herself reassured by the movement.
“Anna, can you see out of the window and across the fields to the sky?”
The girl drew her gaze away from the chain in the direction Maisie had indicated. She nodded.
“I want you to imagine you’ve just seen something wonderful—a horse with wings so wide, he can fly. He can fly anywhere he wants—high in the sky, or swooping down across the land. Anna . . . Anna, imagine him flying across those fields. He is big and strong, and he’s carrying a very special little girl on his back. Do you know who she is?”
The girl did not look back at Maisie. She shook her head, ever watchful for the horse of her imagination.
“Oh, I think you do. Imagine this—the horse with wings is flying just over there with a very, very special passenger on his back.” Maisie paused. “Her name is Anna.”
Anna’s eyes widened as she leaned forward and stared out across the fields. She smiled.
“The magic horse can take you anywhere you want, Anna. He can soar above the towns, streets, and railway lines, above the forests and meadows, and he can leap through the clouds. He has the most wonderful adventures, Anna. He will take the girl he loves anywhere.”
It was then that Maisie saw a teardrop, so clear and perfect it seemed crafted of crystal, as it trickled from the corner of the girl’s eye.
“Where is he taking you, Anna?”
The child swallowed, ran her tongue across her lips. She coughed, and Maisie wondered, then, if anyone had thought to take her to a doctor, to ascertain whether there was a medical reason why she had not uttered a word since being evacuated. Now she put her hand to her mouth and choked, but eased her cough, stopping herself by swallowing a couple of times as she took up staring out at the fields again, gazing with an intensity that suggested she could really see a white horse with wings.
“Where is he taking you, Anna?”
The child coughed again. She turned around and stared at Maisie, then at her case and gas mask. She picked up her belongings, looked at Maisie one more time, and then set off out of the room.
Maisie heard Anna run upstairs, first to the lavatory, and then to the small room where a bed had been made for her. Only when Maisie heard the bedroom door close did she fasten the chain and ring around her neck once more and move to go upstairs, where she tiptoed along to Anna’s room. She could hear no weeping, no sorrow being given voice, but instead she heard the child singing a song Maisie recognized—it was a child’s nursery rhyme. Her mother had sung it to her when she was a child.
Ride a cock-horse to Banbury Cross,
To see a fine lady upon a white horse;
Rings on her fingers and bells on her toes,
And she shall have music wherever she goes.
Maisie closed her eyes, recalling the sweet contentment she’d felt, cradled on her mother’s lap after she’d run in from school, her mother singing to her and holding her close. Perhaps that was why, in the moment, Maisie began to sing along, repeating the verse with the child.
It seemed that not a second had passed before the door was pulled back and Anna flung herself at Maisie and held on to her. Maisie bent down and lifted the child up, holding her close. She said nothing, just held her, feeling her head nestle into the curve of her neck, hot tears streaming wet against her own skin.
Chapter 7
Though Anna sat next to Maisie at breakfast the following morning, she still had not spoken.
“But at least we know she has a voice,” said Maisie to Brenda, following the children’s departure for school.
After a morning catching up with her work—speaking to Billy on the telephone and reviewing her notes from the previous day—Maisie set off on her way to Etchingham to see Rosemary Hartley-Davies. As she drove along country lanes and main roads, she was giving thought to how she would present her questions—the first regarding the intensity of reaction regarding the death of Albert Durant. The second concerning the appearance of a young Frederick Addens in a photograph. Of course, the role of the association was to settle refugees, so it could have been a case of offering them work on a local farm—she might have visited the men with the intention of obtaining a photograph for the records. Or it might have been a press photograph.
Upon arrival in the village, she once again drew up to park close to the verge outside the house, and walked back to the smaller gate leading to the paved path. A sturdy padlock now hung on the gate, along with a sign cautioning against trespass. Neither had been there the day before. She turned to walk along the road, but upon reaching the second entrance, found the double gates now also secured with a padlock and chain, and another sign warning interlopers not to venture any further. Both plaques appeared homemade, as if someone had painted the message on scrap wood. As she stepped back from the gates, she heard a bell ring behind her.
“Excuse me, madam,” said a young policeman, stepping from his bicycle.
“Constable—good afternoon.” She walked back onto the lane.
“May I ask your business here, madam?”
Maisie inclined her head. “My business, Constable?”
“This is private property.”
“I’m not on the property, Constable. As you can see, the gates are closed and locked.”
“Just checking, madam. Having to be careful, on account of an invasion.”
“Rightly so, Constable, but I don’t think one woman constitutes an invasion.” She smiled. “Anyway, is this your usual beat, or did you come here especially?”
“We received a report of strange activity in the area.”
“What sort of report?”
The constable blushed. “Well, I saw you drive into the village, an
d I thought I would have a word, just to make sure. You might have been lost.”
“I see. No, not lost, and I’ve not seen anything strange—except the gates closed. I have an appointment to see the occupant, and now I find there’s no means of gaining entry to the property. Have you seen these gates padlocked before?”
The constable frowned. “Can’t say as I have. But they’ve probably gone away.”
“You must know everyone in the village, Constable. Do you know the owner?”
“Now the thing is, madam, the owner isn’t the woman who lives here. The owner only rented it out.”
“She’s lived here a long time, though, I’m sure.”
He shook his head. “Oh, no—only a matter of six or so months, at the most. I reckon she came from London, or . . . I don’t know, to tell you the truth. It’s not as if anyone has to tell me, is it? But it’s often people from London who come down—they want a bit of the country, then find it’s too much country for them after all. Anyway, she could have come from anywhere, couldn’t she?” His pallor changed, as if blood had drained from his face. “I’d better go back to the station and report it—after all, we’ve just had war declared, and then this one ups and goes off, locking the gates after her. She might’ve been a spy—we’ve been told to be on the lookout, which is why I stopped to talk to you. We can’t be too careful.”
“Constable, might I make a suggestion? I think we should try to gain entry to this property.” Maisie looked at the double gates, and then at the padlock and chain. She moved to the right and inspected the hinges. “I think if we pull from here, just under this second hinge, we could lever the gate out enough to squeeze past the bushes—look, the hinges here are so rusty, they will probably give.”
“I don’t know about that, madam—breaking and entering.”
“But you’re a policeman—come on, give me a hand.”
The constable set his bicycle against the wall and, following Maisie’s lead, pulled back on the gate. Three times they put all available effort into creating enough space to enter the property, until at last, on the fourth try, the middle and bottom hinges gave way, and the gate moved back to form a triangular gap just wide enough for them to clamber through.