Jacqueline Winspear - Maisie Dobbs

"Miss Dobbs, you have put my feet to shame this evening. No wonder Priscilla kept you locked up at Girton."

"Don't take my name in vain, Lynchie--you brute! And it's a book of rules that keeps us all locked up, remember."

"Until we meet again, fair maiden."

Simon stepped back and turned toward Priscilla. "And I'll bet my boots that any wounded in your ambulance will go running back to the trenches rather than put up with your driving!"

Simon, Priscilla, and Maisie laughed together. The evening had sparkled.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The young women arrived back at the college in the nick of time before their extended curfew--arranged at the request of The Honorable Mrs. Margaret Lynch-- expired. Just six hours later, standing on the station platform waiting for the early train that would take her to London for her connection to Chelstone, Maisie replayed, yet again, the events of the evening. In her excitement she had not slept a wink, and now that same excitement rendered her almost oblivious to the chilly air around her. Maisie held her coat closer to her body and up to her neck, feeling only the memory of sheer silk next to her skin.

As Maisie reflected upon the three of them laughing just before they left the party, she realized that it was laughter that held within it the sadness of a bigger departure. The gaiety of Simon's party had an undercurrent of fear. She had twice looked at Margaret Lynch, only to see the woman watching her son, hand to her mouth, as if any minute she would rush to him and encircle his body in her protective arms.

Her fear was not without cause, for the people of Britain were only just receiving news of the tens of thousands of casualties from the spring offensive of 1915. From a land of quiet farms in the French countryside, the Somme Valley was now a place writ large in newspaper headlines, inspiring angry and opinionated debate. The Somme was indelibly enscribed on the hearts of those who had lost a son, a father, brother, or friend. And for those bidding farewell, there was only fearful anticipation until the son, father, brother, or friend was home once again.

From Liverpool Street, Maisie traveled to Charing Cross for the journey to Kent. The station was a melee of khaki, ambulances, red crosses, and pain. Trains brought wounded to be taken to the London hospitals, nurses scurried back and forth, orderlies led walking wounded to waiting ambulances, and young, new spit-and-polished soldiers looked white-faced at those disembarking.

As she glanced at her ticket and began to walk toward her platform, Maisie was suddenly distracted by a splash of vibrant red hair in the distance. She knew only one person with hair so striking, and that was Enid. Maisie stopped and looked again.

Enid. It was definitely Enid. Enid with her hand on the arm of an officer of the Royal Flying Corps. And the officer in question was the young man who loved ginger biscuits: James Compton. Maisie watched as they stopped in the crowd and stood closer together, whispering. James would be on his way down to Kent, most probably on the same train as Maisie, except that she would not be traveling first class. From there Maisie knew that James would be joining his squadron. He was saying good-bye to Enid, who no longer worked for the Comptons. Mrs. Crawford had informed Maisie in a letter that Enid had left their employ. She was now working in a munitions factory, earning more money than she could ever have dreamed of earning in service.

Though she knew it was intrusive, Maisie felt compelled to stare as the two said good-bye. As she watched, she knew in her heart that Enid and James were truly in love, that this was not infatuation or social climbing on Enid's part. She lowered her head and walked away so that she would not be seen by either of them. Yet even as she walked, Maisie could not help turning to watch the couple once again, magnetized by two young people clearly speaking of love amid the teeming emotion around them. And while she looked, as if bidden by the strength of her gaze, Enid turned her head and met Maisie's eyes.

Enid held her head up defiantly, the vibrant red hair even brighter against her skin tone, which was slightly yellow, a result of exposure to cordite in the munitions factory. Maisie inclined her head and was acknowledged by Enid, who then turned back to James and pressed her lips to his.

Maisie was sitting at a cramped table in the station tea shop when Enid found her.

"You've missed the train to Chelstone, Mais."

"Hello, Enid. Yes, I know, I'll just wait until the next one." Enid sat down in front of Maisie.

"So you know."

"Yes. But it doesn't make any difference."

"I should bloody 'ope not! I'm away from them all now, and what James does is 'is business."

"Yes. Yes, it is."

"And I'm earning real money now." Enid brushed her hair back from her shoulders. "So, how are you my very clever little friend? Cambridge University treating you well?"

"Enid, please. Let me be." Maisie lifted the cup to her lips. The strong tea was bitter, but its heat was soothing. The sweet joy of meeting Simon Lynch seemed half a world away as she looked once again at Enid.

Suddenly Enid's eyes smarted as if stung, and she began to weep. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Mais. I've been so rotten to you. To everyone. I'm just so worried. I lost him once. When 'e went to Canada. When they sent him away because of me. And now 'e's going to France. Up in one of them things--I've 'eard they only last three weeks over there before they cop it, them flyin' boys--and if God 'ad wanted us to leave the ground, I reckon we'd 'ave wings growin' out of our backs by now, don't you?"

"Now then, now then." Maisie moved around to sit next to Enid and put her arms around her. Enid pulled out a handkerchief, wiped her eyes, and blew her nose.

"Least I feel as if I'm doing something. Making shells, like. Least I'm not just sitting on my bum while them boys get shot to bits over there. Oh, James . . . ."

"Come on, Enid. He'll be all right. Remember what Mrs. Crawford says about James--he's got nine lives."

Enid sniffed again. "I'm sorry, Maisie. Really I am. But it just gets me 'ere sometimes." Enid punched at her middle. "They look down their noses at me, think I'm not good enough. And 'ere I am working like a trooper."

Maisie sat with Enid until she became calm, as the ache of farewell gave way to anger, tears, and eventually calm and fatigue.

"Maisie, I never meant anything. Really, I didn't. James will come back, I know he will. And this war is changing everything. 'ave you noticed that? When the likes of me can earn a good living even in wartime, the likes of the better-offs will have to change, won't they?"

"You could be right there, Enid."

"Gaw, lummy . . . look at that time. I've got to get back to the arsenal. I'm not even s'posed to leave the 'ostel without permission. I'm working in a special section now, handling the more volatile--that's what they call it--the more volatile explosives, and we earn more money, specially as we're 'avin' to do double shifts. All the girls get tired, so it gets a bit tricky, tapping the ends of the shells to check 'em, and all that. But I'm careful, like, so they promoted me. Must'a bin workin' for that Carter for all them years. I learned to be careful."

"Good for you, Enid."

The two women left the tea shop and walked together toward the bus stop just outside the station, where Enid would catch a bus to work. As they were bidding farewell, a man shouted behind them. "Make way, move along, make way, please."

A train carrying wounded soldiers had arrived, and the orderlies were hurriedly trying to bring stretchers through to the waiting ambulances. Maisie and Enid stood aside and looked on as the wounded passed by, still in mud-caked and bloody uniforms, often crying out as scurrying stretcher-bearers accidentally jarred shell-blasted arms and legs. Maisie gasped and leaned against Enid when she looked into the eyes of a man who had lost most of the dressings from his face.