Jacqueline Winspear: Maisie Dobbs

"Why yes. It's sad to see them so uncared for, isn't it?" replied Maisie.

"I'll say, after what those boys gave for us. Poor bastards. Oh, Miss, I am sorry, I forgot--"

"Don't worry. It's as well to voice one's feelings," replied Maisie.

"That's the truth. Too much not said by 'alf."

The man pointed to Donald's grave.

"Haven't seen this one being tended for a few years. His old Mum and Dad used to come over. Only son. Killed them, too, it did, I reckon."

"Did you know them? I would have thought it would be difficult to know all the relatives, with so many graves," said Maisie.

"I'm 'ere every day 'cept Sundays, that is. Been 'ere since just after the war. I get to know people. 'Course, you don't 'ave long talks, no time for that, and folk don't always want to talk, but, there again, there's those that want to 'ave a bit of conversation."

"Yes, yes, I'm sure."

"Not seen you before, not 'ere."The man looked at Maisie.

"No, that's true. I'm a cousin. Just moved to the city," said Maisie, looking at the man directly.

"Nice to see it being taken care of."The man firmed his grip on the wheelbarrow handles, as if to move on.

"Wait a minute. I wonder, could you tell me, are all the graves here, in this part, war graves?" asked Maisie.

"Yes and no. Most of these are our boys, but some lived a long time after their injuries. Your Don, well, you'd know this, but 'e 'ad septicemia. Horrible way to go, 'specially as 'e was brought home. Lot of folk like to bury 'em 'ere because of the railway."

The man set the wheelbarrow down, and pointed to the railway lines running alongside the cemetery.

"You can see the trains from 'ere. Not that these boys can see the trains, but the relatives like it. They're on a journey, you see, it's a-- you know, what do they call it, you know--when it means something to them."

"Metaphor?"

"Yeah, well, like I said, it's a journey, innit? And the relatives, if they've come by train, which most of them do, can see the graves as the train pulls out of the station. They can say another good-bye that way."

"So, what about that one there? Strange, isn't it? Just one word, the Christian name?" asked Maisie.

"I'll say. The whole bleedin' thing was strange. Two years ago 'e came, this one. Small family burial. 'e was a captain. Injured at Passchendaele. Terrible show was that one, terrible. Wonder 'e came 'ome at all. 'e'd lived away from the family, apparently, after bein' 'ome for a bit. Wanted to be known only by 'is Christian name. Said it wasn't important anymore, seein' as they were all nobodies who could just be written off like leftovers. Shame to 'is family, accordin' to a couple of 'is mates that came up 'ere for a while after. Now only that woman comes. Think she was 'is mate's sister, known 'er for years, 'e 'ad. Keeps the grave nice, you'd think 'e only went down yesterday."

"Hmm. Very sad indeed. What was his surname, do you know?"

By now the man was well into the telling of stories, and seemed glad of the opportunity, and importance, that a question brought him.

"Weathershaw. Vincent Weathershaw. Came from Chislehurst. Good family, by the looks of them. Mind you, 'e passed away where 'e was living. A farm, I think it was. Yes, 'e lived on a farm, not that far from 'ere--though more in the country, like. Far as I know, quite a few of 'em lived there."

Maisie felt a chill as the stillness of the cemetery seeped through her clothing and touched her skin. Yet the shiver was familiar to Maisie, who had felt that sensation even in warm weather when there was no cooling breeze. She had come to recognize this spark of energy passing across her skin as a warning.

"Quite a few of them?"

"Well, you know."The man rubbed his stubbled jawbone with the flat of his thick, earth-stained hand. "Them who got it in the face. Remember, we're not far from Sidcup 'ere--you know. Queen Mary's, the 'ospital where they did all that special work on faces, trying to 'elp the poor sods. Amazin' when you think of it, what they tried to do there--and what they did do. Miracle workers, they were. Mind you, I wouldn't mind bettin' a few of them boys still weren't fancy-looking enough for their sweethearts, and ended up at that farm."

The old gardener picked up the handles of the wheelbarrow. Maisie saw that he was ready to move on, away from recollections of war.

"Well, I had better be getting on, Mr. . . ."

"Smith. Tom Smith."

"Yes, I have to catch the two o'clock, Tom. And thank you."

Tom Smith watched as Maisie picked her way past the graves to the path, and as he turned to leave he called to her. "I 'spect I won't see you 'ere again . . . but you know, Miss, the funny thing about this 'ere Vincent is that 'e wasn't the only one."

"The only one what?"

"The only one buried with just a Christian name."

Maisie held her head to one side, encouraging Tom to continue.

"There was a few of them, and you know what?

"What?" said Maisie.

"All lost touch with their families. Tragic it was, just tragic. Seeing their parents. You should never 'ave to go through that, never. Bad enough seeing 'em go off to war, let alone losing them when they come back."

"Yes, that is tragic."

Maisie looked at Tom, then asked the question that had been with her since the man had first spoken to her."Tom . . . where is your boy resting?"

Tom Smith looked at Maisie, and tears rimmed his eyes. The lines etched in his face grew deeper, and his shoulders dropped. "Down there." He pointed to the row of headstones nearest the railway line.

"Loved trains as a boy. Loved 'em. Came back from France not quite right up 'ere." He tapped the side of his head."Would scream in the middle of the night, but it was all you could do to get a sound out of the boy in the daytime. One mornin' the missus goes up to take 'im up a cup of tea and there 'e was. Done 'imself in. She was never the same. Never. Broke 'er spirit, it did. Passed away three years ago come December."

Maisie nodded, held out her hand, and laid it upon his arm. They stood in silence.

"Well, this will never do," said Tom Smith."Must be getting along. Got to look after them, 'aven't I? Good day to you, Miss."

Maisie Dobbs bade the man good-bye but didn't leave the cemetery immediately. Later, while waiting on the platform for the train back to London, she took a small notebook from her handbag and recorded the events of the day. Each detail was noted, including the color of Celia Davenham's shamrock-green gloves.

She had found two more graves whose headstones bore Christian names only, not very far from the final resting place of Vincent Weathershaw. Three young "old soldiers" who had withdrawn from their families. Maisie sat back on the bench and started to compose her questions, the questions to herself that would come as a result of her observations. She would not struggle to answer the questions but would let them do their work.

"Truth walks toward us on the paths of our questions." Maurice's voice once again echoed in her mind."As soon as you think you have the answer, you have closed the path and may miss vital new information. Wait awhile in the stillness, and do not rush to conclusions, no matter how uncomfortable the unknowing."

And as she allowed her curiosity full rein, Maisie knew what her next move should be.

CHAPTER FIVE

The Celia Davenham file comprised several pages by now, and included details beyond excursions to Nether Green Cemetery. Celia's birthdate (September 16, 1897), parentage (Algernon and Anne Whipton), place of birth (Sevenoaks, Kent), school (St. Mary's), and miscellaneous other details were recorded. Her husband was ten years older, not such a division in years at thirty-two, but it would have been something of a chasm at the age of nineteen or twenty, especially when the past offered more in the way of excitement than the day-to-day round of life in a maturing marriage.