She was about to open the disguised landing door that led to the back stairs and down to kitchen, when she thought better of it. The girls downstairs might be embarrassed. She would use the main staircase. Then she could knock at the door in fair warning. Straddling the line of her position in the household required some thought.
Maisie knocked, waited a second or two, then poked her head around the kitchen door without waiting for a reply. “Good morning everyone!”
There was a collective gasp from Sandra, Teresa and Valerie. “Oh, Miss, you gave us a fright!” said Sandra. “I was just about to start your breakfast.”
“Sorry to scare you. I thought I’d have breakfast in the kitchen, if that’s all right.”
“Of course it is, Miss. Of course. At least your hair’s nice and dry this morning!”
“Your usual, Miss? Porridge, Hovis and marmalade? You’ll need to stoke up the fires this morning, it’s cold out there. They reckon we could be in for a wintry Easter this year.”
Maisie smiled, noting the change of address again, from “M’um” to “Miss.” Maisie felt like a citizen of two countries, neither here nor there, but always somewhere in the middle.
“Easter’s still a fortnight away and I need to be quick today. I’ll have just a slice of Hovis toasted and a nice cup of tea, thank you.”
“Right you are, Miss. Cup of tea coming up, and toast to follow. Are you sure you don’t want a nice boiled egg?”
Maisie shook her head. “Tea and toast will be plenty for me this morning, Teresa.”
Maisie took some letters from her document case and began to read. She was aware that the girls had exchanged glances, and were mouthing messages to each other. Sandra cleared her throat and came over to the table.
“Miss?”
“Yes, Sandra?”
“Well, we was thinking, you know, and wondered if, you know, you’d like to come to the pictures with us, next Saturday evening. We don’t usually go out together, the three of us girls—we like to make sure that one of us is always in the kitchen, even if there’s no one upstairs—but it’s not as if we’re leaving the house unattended, what with the other staff being here.”
“What’s the picture?”
“It’s a talkie, and a bit scary, I’ve heard. It’s got Donald Calthrop in it. Called Blackmail. It’s about this girl, and she’s courting a fella in the police, a detective, and he—”
“I don’t think so, Sandra.”
“Hmmm, I s’pose anything to do with the police would be like going on a busman’s holiday for you, wouldn’t it, Miss?”
“It’s lovely of you to ask, Sandra. Thank you very much for thinking of me. The funny thing is, I don’t really like the scary ones, they keep me awake.”
Sandra laughed. “Now that, Miss, is funny.”
Having barely touched her breakfast, Maisie left the Ebury Place mansion via the stone stairs that led from the back door into the street, then made her way to the mews to collect the motor car. George, the Compton’s chauffeur, was in Kent, but a young footman had been assigned to keep the garage spick and span, ready for the return of the Compton’s Rolls Royce. The old Lanchester was kept in London, and though now used only occasionally, was cleaned, polished and tended to regularly. Maisie’s MG gave the footman a more substantial daily job.
“I could’ve brought ’er round to the front for you, Miss. Anyway, there she is, all cleaned and polished ready for London. Got ’er in plenty of mud down there, didn’t you?”
“The weather has no respect for the motor car, Eric, any more than it has for the horse. Thank you for shining her up again. Did you check my oil?”
“All done, Miss. Everything given the once over. She’d take you from John O’Groats to Land’s End if you felt like the drive, and that’s a fact. Lovely little runner, lovely.”
“Thank you, Eric.”
Maisie parked once again in Fitzroy Street, in exactly the same spot as the evening before. Few people had motor vehicles, so Maisie was regarded as a subject of some interest as she climbed from the gleaming crimson vehicle.
She walked slowly toward the office, knowing that this morning would be a difficult one. Her feet were heavy on the stairs and she knew that to have the energy for the next part of her day, she must bring her body into alignment with her intentions, that her sagging shoulders would not support her spirit for the task ahead.
Unlocking the door to the first-floor office, Maisie was surprised to note that Billy had not arrived yet. She looked at her watch. Half-past eight. Despite his message, Billy was late. She walked to the window, rubbing the back of her neck where her scar had begun to throb.
Placing her hands on her chest, with her right hand over the left, Maisie breathed deeply. As her tension eased, she began to envisage the conversation with Billy, concentrating on the closing words of a dialogue that had yet to happen. Pressing her hands even more firmly against her body, Maisie deliberately slowed her breathing to settle her pounding heart, and felt the nagging ache of her scar abate. That’s a reminder, she thought, every single day, just as Billy’s wounded leg is a reminder. And as she stilled her heart and mind, it occurred to Maisie to question herself: If Lydia Fisher chose alcohol, and Billy narcotics to beat back the tide of daily reminder, then what did she do to dull the pain? And as she considered her question, the terrible thought came to her that perhaps she worked hard at her own isolation, along with the demands of her business. Perhaps she worked so hard that she was not only able to ignore physical discomfort, but had rendered herself an island adrift from deeper human connection. She shivered.
“ ’Mornin’, Miss, and what a nice mornin’ it is, too. Thought I’d need me overcoat this mornin’, I did, but ’ad to run from the bus stop and ended up carryin’ the thing.”
Maisie looked at her silver watch, pinned to the lapel of her jacket.
“Sorry I’m a bit late today, Miss, but there was a bit of an ’oldup on the road. I caught the bus this mornin’, and ’alfway along the Mile End Road, I wished I ’adn’t bothered. Would’ve been quicker to walk—and me with this leg and all. Big mess, it was. Motor car—and you don’t see many of ’em down there—’ad gone right into the back of a dray. Thank Gawd ’e weren’t goin’ too quick. Mind you, you should’ve ’eard them drivers goin’ at ’im.Thought they’d whop ’im one with the whip, I did. One of ’em was shoutin’, ‘Put the traces on ’im, and give the bleedin’ ’orses a rest, the lunatic!’ Oops, sorry, Miss, I was just sayin’ what I ’eard them say. It’s a poor old state of affairs, when motor cars—” Billy fussed as he spoke, avoiding eye contact, taking time to shake out his coat and cap, placing them on the coat stand, then riffling through the newspaper as if looking for something in particular.
“Now then, saw something ’ere this mornin’ I thought you’d—”
“Billy.”
“Got to do with that—”
“Billy!” Maisie raised her voice, then spoke more quietly. “There’s a matter I would like to discuss with you. Let’s sit together by the gas fire here. Pull up a chair.”
His face flushed, Billy put the newspaper on his desk, dragged his chair out, and set it next to Maisie’s.
“Am I getting the sack, Miss?”
“No, Billy, you are not getting the sack. However, I’d like to see a bit more in the way of timekeeping on your part.”
“Yes, Miss. I’m sorry, Miss. Won’t ’appen again.”
“Billy . . .”
“Yes, Miss?”
“I’ll get straight to the point,” said Maisie, realizing this was a prevarication, that she was far from getting to the point. She took another deep breath, and began to speak. “I have been concerned for some time about your—let’s say moods and—”