“Oh!”
Maisie reached for the pot just in time, and together they placed it safely on a table.
“How did you find me here?”
“That’s not important.You wanted to speak to me?”
“Look—” Charlotte glanced around her. “I can’t talk here, you know. Meet me when I’ve finished. I’m on duty until seven, then I go back to my digs.”
Maisie shook her head. “No, Miss Waite. I’m not letting you out of my sight. I’ll stay here until you finish. Find me an apron, and I’ll help out.”
Charlotte’s eyes grew wider.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Miss Waite, I’m no stranger to a bit of elbow grease!”
Charlotte took Maisie’s coat, and when she returned they began to work together while another refrain from the hungry Londoners echoed up into the rafters.I like pickled onions,
I like piccalilli.
Pickled cabbage is all right
With a bit of cold meat on Sunday night.
I can go termartoes,
But what I do prefer,
Is a little bit of cu-cum-cu-cum-cu-cum,
A little bit of cucumber.
The women left the soup kitchen together at half past seven. Charlotte led the way through dusky streets to a decrepit three-storey house that was probably once the home of a wealthy merchant, but now, a couple of centuries on, had been divided into flats and bed-sitting rooms. Charlotte’s room on the top floor was small, with angled ceilings so that both women had to stoop to avoid collision with the beams. Despite being confident in her soup kitchen role, Charlotte was now nervous and immediately excused herself to use the lavatory at the end of a damp and dreary landing. Maisie so mistrusted her charge that she waited on the landing, watching the lavatory door. In those few moments alone she prepared her mind for the conversation with Charlotte. She breathed deeply, and with eyes still closed she visualized a white light shining down on her head, flooding her body with compassion, with understanding, and with spoken words that would support Charlotte as she struggled to unburden herself. May I not sit in judgment. May I be open to hearing and accepting the truth of what I am told. May my decisions be for the good of all concerned. May my work bring peace. . . .
Charlotte returned and, stooping, they entered her room again. It was then that Maisie saw a framed prayer on the wall, most probably brought from Camden Abbey to her Bermondsey refuge.In your mercy, Lord, give them rest.
When you come to judge the living and thedead, give them rest.Eternal rest grant to them, O Lord,
And let perpetual light shine upon them; inyour mercy, Lord.Give them rest.
Had Charlotte found any rest at Camden Abbey? Were Rosamund, Lydia, and Philippa now at rest? And the killer? Would there ever be rest for all of them?
Charlotte pulled up two ladderback chairs in front of a meager gas fire, and they sat down, neither taking off her coat as the room was far too cold. They were silent for some minutes before Charlotte began to speak.
“I don’t know where to begin, really. . . .”
Maisie reached across with her now-warm hands and, taking Charlotte’s hands in her own, spoke gently. “Start anywhere; we can go back and forth as we need.”
Charlotte swallowed and pursed her lips before speaking.
“I . . . I think the beginning is when I first realized how much my father loved my brother, Joe. It wasn’t that he didn’t love me. No, it was just that he loved Joe so much more. I think I was quite young. Of course, my mother wasn’t there very often. They weren’t at all suited, I expect you know that already.” Charlotte sat in silence for a few moments, her eyes closed, her hands trembling. Maisie noticed how her eyelids moved, as if conjuring up the past caused her pain.
“It wasn’t obvious, it was little things, really. He’d come home from work and, as soon as he saw Joe, his eyes would light up. He’d ruffle his hair, that sort of thing. Then he’d see me. The smile he gave me wasn’t so . . . so alive.”
“Did you get along with your brother?” asked Maisie.
“Oh, yes, yes. Joe was my hero! He knew, I know he knew how I felt. He’d always think up a special game for us to play, or if my father wanted to play cricket with him or whatever, Joe would always say, ‘Charlie has to come, too.’ That’s what he called me: Charlie.”
Maisie was silent, then touched Charlotte’s hand again for her to continue.
“I don’t know when it started to annoy me. I think it was when I reached twelve or thirteen. I felt as if I were running a race I could never win and I was out of breath with trying. Of course my mother was firmly ensconced in Yorkshire by then, kept out of the way by my father, who was doing very well in business. New shops were opening, and Joe was always there with him. Joe was seven years older than I and being groomed to take over the business eventually. I remember at breakfast one day, I announced that I wanted to do what Joe was doing, start working for the business, at the bottom, like all the other apprentices. But my father simply laughed. Said that I wasn’t cut out for hard work—graft he called it. Not got the ’ands for a bit o’ ’ard graft.’” Charlotte mimicked her father’s broad native accent perfectly.
“Then he sent me off to Switzerland, to school. It was horrible. I missed Joe, my best friend. And I missed home. But . . . but something happened to me. I’ve thought about it a lot.” She looked directly at Maisie for the first time. “I’ve really considered what might have happened. I became . . . very detached. I had been pushed away for so long, you see.” Charlotte began to stutter. “It seemed the best thing to do, to be. If I was going to be the one pushed to the outside, I might as well stay there. Do you understand?”
Maisie nodded. Yes, she understood.
“I made some friends, other girls from the school. Rosamund, Lydia, and Philippa. It was the sort of school where girls were ‘finished’ rather than educated. I felt humiliated, as if he thought me only good for arranging flowers, buying clothes and knowing how to correctly address servants. Then, when war was declared, we all came home to England. Of course, my father, the great man of commerce”—Maisie noticed the sarcasm in Charlotte’s voice—“had already secured government contracts to supply army rations.” Charlotte looked up thoughtfully. “It’s amazing, when you think of it, the people who do well out of war. My clothing allowance came courtesy of soldiers being fed by Joseph Waite.” She looked away and for a while they sat in silence until Charlotte was ready to take up her story again.
“After we’d returned home, the four of us were pretty much at a loose end. We tried knitting scarves, socks, that sort of thing. Rolling bandages. Joseph was working at the warehouse. He’d started off at the lowest rung and at that time was a clerk in receivables. Mind you, he had apprenticed with the butchers, taken the deliveries out, and he was the blue-eyed boy of the whole business. Everybody loved ‘Young Joe.’” She mimicked a south London accent, which made Maisie look up suddenly.
“How did you get along with Joe after your return?”
“Very well, actually. When I asked to work for the business and my father refused, Joe stuck up for me, said it would be a good idea, a good example.” Once again, she looked into the distance. “He was a wonderful young man, Joe.”
Maisie said nothing while Charlotte paused to gather her thoughts.
“So, there we were, young girls with few skills, time on our hands and—for my part—nowhere I seemed to . . . to . . . belong.” Charlotte exhaled deeply. “Then I found out about the Order of the White Feather. I saw a bill posted. So I persuaded the others. It didn’t take much. We went along to a meeting.” Charlotte held out her upturned hands helplessly. “And that was the beginning.”