To Die but Once (Maisie Dobbs #14)(83)
Brenda put the kettle on the stove and sat down at the kitchen table, patting the place opposite.
“You’ve not yet told me what Mr. Klein wanted to see you about,” said Brenda.
Maisie rubbed her forehead, her mind still lingering on the conversation with Lord Julian. “Just a few minor points.”
“Minor?” said Brenda.
Maisie avoided Brenda’s gaze. “They prefer to approve adoptions where married couples are concerned, not widows, or spinsters, and definitely not bachelors.”
“But you are already her guardian—her grandmother signed the papers.”
“Guardian in a limited capacity—there was no time for Mr. Klein to prepare the documents required for full guardianship, so my standing is as a sort of temporary guardian with a responsibility to place Anna in a good home.”
“This is a good home,” said Brenda. “The very best for Anna.”
“Don’t worry. All is far from lost, Brenda,” said Maisie. “The new stricter adoption laws on the books for ratification were canceled when war broke out, so there are avenues remaining to me. And the local billeting officer has commented in her report that it might be difficult to place Anna elsewhere anyway, given her parentage—which really means her coloring. Then the problem of her father came up, Maltese Marco, who came and went out of Anna’s mother’s life before she was even born. So, as I said, there are avenues—I have great faith in Mr. Klein. I just have to be patient.”
“So, the war that brought us Anna could be the war that helps keep her with us.”
Maisie nodded. “I really do hope so, Brenda. But I’m almost scared to imagine it.”
Brenda reached for Maisie’s hand and held it tight. “It’ll all come right, love. I believe it will all come right.”
By every canon of military science the BEF has been doomed for the last four or five days. Completely out-numbered, out-gunned, out-planned, all but surrounded, it had seemed certain to be cut off from its last channel of escape. Yet for several hours this morning we saw ship after ship come into harbour and discharge thousands of British soldiers safe and sound on British soil.
Maisie had read enough, so she folded the copy of the Manchester Guardian and placed it where she had found it—on the seat next to her, discarded by a previous passenger. The train began to slow, signaling that the last stop—Charing Cross—was only a few minutes away. She opened the Daily Herald, this one left by a woman who had been sitting opposite her, until departing the carriage at Waterloo. She glanced at the front page headlines, and turned the page, where a smaller lead caught her eye.
Boy, 16, Young Hero of Dunkirk.
Timothy Partridge, 16, of Holland Park, London, took to the high seas last week in a motor boat belonging to his best friend’s father. Tragically . . .
She rolled up the newspaper and slid it into her bag. She could not bring herself to read another word, but would clip the column later, in case Tim wanted to keep it. But perhaps not yet. That morning she had left the Dower House before breakfast, agreeing with Brenda that it would be best not to disturb Priscilla and Douglas. The pressures of the past week had weighed heavily on the family—and they were all becoming more and more anxious about Tom, who had not been heard from for some days.
At the office, Maisie went straight to her desk, where she removed her coat and gloves and placed her briefcase and shoulder bag on the table. Yet again she had left her gas mask hanging on a hook behind the door when she last departed the office, and upon seeing it made a promise to take it with her today. She would also make more of an effort to keep the gas mask to hand at all times. Maisie took out her notebook and began reading through notes she had made on Sunday afternoon, devising her plan for the coming several days, when she would—she hoped—track down the evidence to support her belief that Joe Coombes’ death was no accident.
A noise outside distracted her, so she stepped across to the window, where she saw Walter Miles on a stepladder, weaving fresh clematis shoots up across new trellising. It appeared the plant had sprouted up a few inches almost overnight, and was reaching toward the gutter downspout. She watched for some moments as the man worked in the color-filled courtyard.
“And why don’t my clematis bloom like that?” she whispered to herself.
“Miss—something you should know,” Billy called out to her as he entered the office, throwing down his newspaper and wiping his brow with a handkerchief.
“And what’s that, Billy?” she replied, frowning as she drew away from the window.
“Been talking to Phil—he was outside when I came past the pub. Smoking enough to put a chimney to shame, he was. I asked him what was troubling him, and he said it was his Archie. You should see Phil—he’s got a temper on him when he likes, and right now he’s like a madman.”
“What did Archie do?” asked Maisie.
“He’s thrown in his job at the engineering firm in Sydenham, and he came round this morning to tell his mum and dad he’s enlisted and is going in the army. He’s not even waiting for his call-up papers to arrive.”
Maisie grabbed her bag and jacket. “Just when I need the Alvis, she’s in the garage at Chelstone!” She did not stop as she ran toward the door. “Come on, Billy.”