CHAPTER FIFTEEN

As soon as Maisie collected Anna from school and accompanied her across the lawns to Chelstone Manor to spend some time with Lady Rowan, she rushed home. Throwing her jacket across a chair in the kitchen, she moved into the hallway, but instead of walking on towards the drawing room or library, she opened the door to the cellar.

‘Stay!' she instructed Little Emma, who whined and settled at the top of the stairs.

Switching on the light overhead, Maisie made her way down the concrete staircase and looked about her before stepping with care towards the far wall where a number of wooden boxes had been stacked since Maurice had owned the house. A few had been brought up to the library on occasion, when Maisie wanted to dig into records from her years of working with Maurice, but she seldom had cause to delve into documents kept before her tenure 286as his assistant, and there had never been reason for her to question his work at the clinics during 1908 or 1909.

She lifted one box after another to check the date, then set them aside. At last she found a box marked Clinic. London. January to June, 1909. She heaved it aside and set it on the floor. In short order she discovered its mate. Clinic. London. July to December, 1909. Again she lifted up the box, putting it on top of the first one selected. She replaced all the other boxes, so they were once more tidy and set against the breadth of the brick wall.

‘I've found it, Em. Now to see if what I want is inside,' said Maisie, brushing the dust from her hands and clothing, a move that caused her to sneeze several times. She picked up the first box and turned to leave. She would collect the other box later if her initial search proved fruitless.

As she approached the steps, she looked to her right and sighed. Mattresses, pillows and blankets, along with a table and chairs, had been pushed towards the side wall, no longer required because the wartime air raids had ceased; there were no Luftwaffe bombers passing above the house, therefore no reason to shelter below ground. ‘We're like a little family of troglodytes,' Frankie had said once, as ever joking while they rushed down to the shelter, the rumble of enemy aircraft crossing over Kent on their way to rain down death and destruction on civilian London.

‘That's a job waiting to be done,' said Maisie aloud. ‘It's about time we moved that lot out of the cellar.'

Emma stood up and wagged her tail as Maisie ascended the staircase, stopping only to balance the box on her knee while she turned off the light. She closed the door behind her and continued on to the library, followed by Little Emma. Maisie was grateful for 287the company; it was a need the dog seemed to understand.

Placing the box on the desk in front of her, Maisie took a pair of scissors and cut into the string alongside a knot that held fast with age and would not give way to a tug. She lifted the lid and took a deep breath. With care, casting her eye over the documents one by one, she began to remove case notes revealing the distress of women to whom Maurice had offered medical care. To open the clinic and keep it running, Maurice had never been shy about accumulating wealthy associations, and then tapping the rich for money. Not one patient in London's deprived areas could afford the treatment, so without compunction Maurice asked for contributions from his friends. Maisie knew that if he had to use guilt or a heart-rending story, he had no doubt that it was the right thing to do – and along the way, he had spent much of his own money together with that accrued from his ad hoc method of raising funds. Given his powers of persuasion, Maurice was able to open another clinic, and did the same in Paris. File after file was testament to the compassion he brought to the people he served. Flipping through the records, Maisie could not help herself reading the first few lines of each case.

Phyllis Bates. Age 42. Toxemia of tenth pregnancy. Three surviving children.

Maisie rubbed her forehead, a habit that seemed to have emerged in the past few years, signalling worry, concern or fear. ‘Poor woman,' she whispered. She knew ‘toxicity of pregnancy' was a term since superseded when the condition was renamed ‘pre-eclampsia' and that an American physician had developed a successful treatment protocol some years before the war. 288

Jane Marks. Age 15. Admitted due to suspected induced miscarriage of unborn child. Severe bleeding. Loss of pregnancy.

Iris Stubbs. Age 10. Attack by male. Patient stated identity unknown but nurse suspects relative. Severe bleeding. Stiches, salt bath and bed rest prescribed.

And so it went on, but with each line read, Maisie became more dismayed, and stopped reading the reason for a woman's admittance to the clinic. Instead she brought her entire focus to the search for Enid's file. As the knot in her stomach grew, she hurried, putting each record aside as she delved into the box for the next.

‘It must be here, it must be here.'

At the point where she noticed her anxiety rising – it felt as if the possibility of failure in her quest was bearing down upon her – Emma stood up and bounded from the room when the kitchen door slammed and Anna called out to her.

‘Emma – Emma – Emma! Mummy! Mummy! I'm home and Daddy's here – he's early. He knew I'd be with Grandma Rowan, so he came to get me!'

‘Just a minute, darling – one minute and I'll be there.' Maisie raised her voice. ‘Go upstairs and change out of your school uniform.'

She hurried, moving quickly through the files, some comprising only one or two pages secured by string threaded through a hole punched into the top left-hand corner.

‘Maisie, honey, are you—' Mark Scott stood at the door, staring at his wife. ‘What are you doing? There's paper everywhere. 289Look – you've just knocked some on the floor. Let me help—' He moved towards the desk.

‘No! No, don't touch anything. I might not find it.'

‘Find what?'

Maisie looked up into her husband's eyes, then away from his enquiring gaze. ‘This is a collection of patient files, from Maurice's first clinic, in 1909. The notes on Enid must be here somewhere. I know they are and I have to find them.'

‘Hey, hey, hey – wait a minute.' Mark put one hand on her shoulder and moved the other as if to shield the box from further inspection. ‘What's going on? What are you talking about, "Notes on Enid"? Come on, Maisie, this isn't like you – you can't do this.'

Maisie turned to Mark, lifting his hand away from the box, though she was unable to speak.

‘Okay, now I get it – it's to do with those letters, the ones you had no business reading.'

She felt her shoulders slump, the task getting the better of her. ‘Enid and James, they … they … there was a baby. In 1909.'

‘I might have guessed.' Mark led her to one of the armchairs, and pulled the other alongside. ‘Here, sit down and tell me.'

Maisie began to recount the story she had uncovered from reading the letters James sent to Enid. When she had finished, husband and wife sat in silence for some time until Mark cleared his throat.

‘Here's what you have to remember, Maisie – they were a couple of kids and they went too far. They were half-formed themselves. They're not the first to get into this situation, and they won't be the last by a long shot. The Comptons and Maurice did what was right, whether you like how they went about it or not.' 290

‘But—'

‘I haven't finished, hon.' He leant so their heads were close. ‘You and I were not so young when we met, fell in love and married. We've both been in love before and for whatever reason, we have both lost that love and maybe had our hearts broken a few times over. We had our eyes wide open from the moment we met. What happened to you in Canada pains me, truly it does, but I'm just glad we didn't let an opportunity to have this marriage go by us because we couldn't stop looking back at the painful times in our lives. So, yes, I can see your curiosity, but not why you'd want to know what happened. It's the past, and it's done.' He paused as if to gather his thoughts. ‘And what I think about that question' – he nodded towards the box of patient records – ‘is this: if you find notes about Enid and her pregnancy, you can look at the file and you might even discover the child's name. But please do not search for him. If he made it through the war, he's a grown man now, and in all likelihood with a family of his own. His adoptive parents are the only parents he has ever known, and it won't do any good, you looking him up. What are you going to say anyway? "Hey, you over there, tall blond guy with the blue eyes – I knew your real parents. No, not the people who raised you – they came in off the street to pick up a new baby. Want me to tell you all about the mother who carried you, and the young man who impregnated her?" It's just not fair to him.' He shook his head; Maisie felt his exasperation. ‘Maisie, I know that sounds harsh, but it's what you're looking at doing – without the sugar coating.'

Maisie took a few seconds to answer. ‘Mark, I have to find him. I don't even know what I would do if I located him, but I have to see him, even if it's from afar.' 291

Mark began to speak again, his voice low. ‘And I guess you've persuaded yourself that you must do that because you want to find out what your son might have looked like. His half-brother.'

‘You're right – I want to see something of my son. You see, I never saw him.' Maisie wiped the back of her hand across her cheeks. ‘I was sedated, filled up with morphine and barely conscious for days. I was cut open and delivered of a son and even though he was stillborn, I wanted to know what he felt like if I'd had the chance to hold him to me, to wrap him against my body. But they took him away as if he was nothing, just another little scrap to be disposed of. And there's something else.'

‘I thought there might be.'

‘Anna. She's an adopted child. She's growing so fast now and I'm scared I might do something wrong, and I thought … I thought if I saw him, I'd know if he's had a good life. I would know it could be done. I would feel more confident that someone who's not of the same blood can be a good mother, that I was doing everything right for Anna, setting her off for the very best.'

Mark's half-smile was soft, his voice low as if he were anxious to soothe his wife. ‘You really have gone down the rabbit hole, haven't you? I've known folks who've made a mess of raising their own child, a kid who goes on to have a terrible time, and I've known people who lost their parents in childhood and were given a home by strangers, but it's all worked out for the good. All we can do, Maisie, is our very best for our daughter – it's our job to give her a strong bedrock so she can shape a good life upon it. She's her own individual person, and if we're going to respect her as she grows, it can't be a case of us building it all for her.' He looked up at the clock. ‘And that very special young lady has just come down 292the stairs with her dog hot on her heels, so let's go and see what we can rustle up for dinner. I think it's a spaghetti night – I'll cook. Okay?'

Maisie held her arms by her sides, her fingers opening and closing, opening and closing. ‘Yes, you're right. Come on, we should find out what that noise is in the kitchen. I think she's already getting started in there.'

‘There's one more thing, Maisie – it's not just you taking on responsibility for Anna. There's two of us in this now, especially since I legally became her father. We have her back, don't we? We can send her off into the world with a good head on her shoulders and a nice bank of knowledge, but we will be there if she falls down – and at some point she will because life's not a bed of roses. And Anna has had that lesson once already, even in her short time on this earth.'

Maisie allowed herself to be led from the library by her husband, but looked back at the half-emptied box and was sure of one thing. Mark had made a very good argument for stopping the search she had embarked upon, but in every fibre of her being, she knew it wasn't enough. The thought of finding the man her long-dead son might have become was too powerful a challenge for her to ignore, as if someone had thrown down the white glove of duel and said, ‘I dare you.' And she had always liked working in the small hours, when the rest of the house was asleep. Thus it was three o'clock in the morning when Maisie discovered Enid's two-page record containing information on the son she had named James, a baby who a month later was adopted and registered as Robin James Davidson, along with two addresses for Michael Robin Davidson, age forty-five, and his wife, Louisa Jane Davidson, née Edgeley, age thirty-nine. One address was crossed out, superseded by the other, Twenty-one Dagley Road, Bromley, Kent. 293

Not too far, thought Maisie. I could drop Anna at the bus stop at half past eight, and be there and back inside three hours.

‘I was wondering, hon, if your folks could come over to stay with Anna for a couple of days this week, you know, before you pick up those kids from Priscilla and bring them down to Chelstone,' said Mark, as he sipped coffee while standing in the kitchen the following morning. ‘You'll have your hands full once they arrive, and it sure would be nice to have some alone time at the flat with my wife.'

Maisie turned from the stove where she was stirring porridge for Anna's breakfast. ‘That's a lovely idea, Mark. I'll have a word with them – they love being here with Anna, and I think they quite miss living with us.'

‘Good to have the choice though – they were probably relieved to get away from the chaos sometimes, especially when Anna has her buddies over.' He rinsed his coffee cup under the tap, leaving it on the draining board. ‘I'd better be off – the walk to the station is the only exercise I get.' Kissing Maisie on the cheek, he reached for his briefcase. ‘Busy today?'

‘Some errands, you know, shopping for a few essentials so we're prepared for the influx of young people.' Maisie felt dismay at the ease with which she lied to her husband, but was committed to her plan. ‘Rowan's getting settled in the old wing of the house, so I want to check on her. Mr Klein seems to have sorted out all the details with the National Trust and they have been very good about it, so that's all good news.'

‘Don't wear yourself out.' Mark walked to the hallway and called out, ‘Hey, where's my girl this morning? Gonna say goodbye to your old dad?' 294

Maisie watched, smiling, as Anna ran into the kitchen, as always followed by her dog. She flung her arms around her father, who looked up at Maisie.

‘It's a great life, Maisie – there's plenty of folks who don't have what we have here.'

With Mark on his way to the station and Anna ready for school forty-five minutes later, Maisie drove her daughter to the bus stop and waited until she boarded the bus with her friends. She continued waving until the bus rumbled around the corner and was out of sight. Checking her watch, she returned to her motor car for a journey she estimated would take about an hour at most, dependent upon traffic.

Stopping several times to consult her map and twice to ask directions, Maisie slowed the motor car to a crawl as she drove along Dagley Road, a street of three-story Victorian houses with bay windows and panelled front doors embellished with stained glass ornamentation. Most had heavy curtains at the windows, many with lace to deter anyone who would want to peer inside. Only a couple of other vehicles were parked on the street, so it was with some ease that she found number twenty-one and drew the Alvis to a halt on the opposite side of the road. She turned off the engine and took account of the house.

The most obvious point of note was that the property was yet another she had encountered for sale, with a bold sign outside naming the estate agent. She opened the door of the motor car and stepped out, closing it behind her with care – she didn't want to alert neighbours with a slam, though she had already seen a few of the lace curtains twitch as she parked.

The sign bore a bold instruction that all enquiries regarding the 295house should be directed in the first instance to the estate agent, though a solicitor's name was also listed. Maisie took a notebook and pencil from her shoulder bag and recorded the name and number. The path to the front door was decorated with black and maroon tiles, the latter colour reflected in the shade of burgundy chosen for the door. A withered potted plant languished on the vestibule, and the 1 on the door had moved so it was at an angle to the number 2. Turning, she noticed that the postage-stamp front garden had not been tended for a while, as weeds sprouted from the flower beds and the lawn lacked lustre. Stepping back again, she leant towards the bay window, cupping her hand to see into the front room – it was fortunate that there were no lace curtains – and it appeared some furniture had been left in the house: a couple of chairs, a sideboard, and a table. She sighed.

As Maisie turned to leave, she heard the neighbouring front door open. A woman came out wearing a wraparound pinafore over a grey day dress. On her feet she wore tartan woollen slippers with small pom-poms on the front.

‘Good morning,' said Maisie, smiling at the woman, who had been frowning, but now returned the greeting. ‘I was looking at the area and saw this house was for sale, so thought I'd stop.'

The woman nodded. ‘I must admit, I heard someone walking along the path and it got me a bit worried – I mean, you never know who might break in these days, what with all the squatting going on.'

‘True enough,' said Maisie. ‘But I assure you I am not a squatter, just a person interested in the house.' She paused, glancing up at the bedroom windows. ‘It's quite lovely and I have always admired stained glass. And these houses built before the Great War have 296good-sized rooms, don't they? Usually longer gardens too.'

‘Oh, the gardens go right back, and everyone keeps theirs tidy. This one was particularly nice, what with Mr and Mrs Davidson putting in a lot of perennials and shrubbery.' She folded her arms and leant towards the adjoining wall. ‘Of course, when their son was a boy, they had a swing and so on, but as soon as he left home, that was it – they put everything into that garden.'

‘I'm sure it was beautiful,' said Maisie. ‘But what happened to the … Davidsons, did you say?'

‘Yes. Very good people. Bought the house when young Robin was just a few weeks old – still a babe in arms, he was, when they moved in. Mind you, they were older, you know, for having a new baby. They weren't in the first flush of youth, not like some of them now.' She leant further towards Maisie, lowering her voice. ‘Girl down the street, young Sheila Slingsby, well, she walked out with one of them American soldiers and got herself into trouble. Seventeen years of age. Her parents said she was sent off to the coast to stay with a relative while she recovered from "glandular fever" – but we all know where she's gone and why. Couldn't mistake the shape of her, not when everyone else couldn't hold weight on account of rationing.'

‘Oh dear, poor girl.'

The woman shrugged. ‘They know what they're doing, these silly girls. Got what she deserved, if you ask me. She's spoilt herself for a husband, mark my words – it's not as if any young man worth his salt wants tainted goods, is it?'

‘Hmmm,' said Maisie. She would have liked to counter the woman's comment, but she needed more information. ‘I'm interested in the house, but I'm curious about the people who lived 297there – did Mr and Mrs Davidson move to another town?'

‘Both dead. Like I said, they were older parents, so young Robin must be … let me see … yes, about thirty-six now. Very clever young man, that one – went to Cambridge University.'

‘Cambridge? Well I never,' said Maisie. ‘But so sad that his parents died.'

‘Mr Davidson – Michael – he went first. Heart attack, out there in the garden some three years ago. Then Louisa managed to do away with herself rushing down the stairs when she heard one of them blimmin' doodlebugs overhead. I was running in from the garden and heard the scream, so I went in and found her. Terrible way to go.'

Maisie put her hand to her chest. ‘What a tragedy – and dreadful for you too.'

‘It was instant – neck, you know, broken like that.' She snapped her fingers. ‘It was Robin I felt sorry for, not being able to come home.'

‘Was he overseas with the army?'

The neighbour shook her head and again looked both ways. ‘They didn't say much, the Davidsons, but I reckon he was doing something hush-hush. Saw him after he came back in … let me see, it was in the summer, so I reckon about the end of August. It was definitely after V-J Day. I saw him standing outside with Mr Dunstan, the solicitor. I came out and asked if I could make them a cup of tea, but he just said, "No, thank you, Mrs Waters." And that was that.'

‘Poor man,' said Maisie. ‘But why do you think he was working on something hush-hush?'

‘Clever man like that? Bound to be. His father was a science 298teacher at the boys' grammar school. Very well liked and highly thought of, you know. Louisa was a librarian before she had the baby. She went back to it part time when Robin started school. Just like his father, he was – very intelligent. They were always together, the three of them, off to the museums or out walking. Happy little family. The boy loved the Science Museum by all accounts, and that's what he was doing at university.'

‘Science?'

‘Physics, I think. Not really sure what it is, but I remember Louisa telling me. Mind you – anything to do with universities and I'm lost.' Mrs Waters nodded towards the house. ‘Going to see inside, are you?'

‘I'll visit the estate agent today, if I can.'

‘Won't get much joy there – he's referring people to Mr Dunstan, over at Dunstan, Hallwood and Burns, if they're interested. I haven't seen Robin again since he returned to the house a month or two ago, and that was just the once. That day I saw him, he went in and came out with a single box – probably papers and what have you – and left everything else to be taken by a firm that disposes of household effects. Apparently he asked for the lot to be sent to a warehouse where they help people who've been bombed out, you know, after they've found another place to live.'

‘How generous.' She looked at her watch. ‘Oh dear, I'd better be off – much to do today. Lovely to talk to you, Mrs Waters.'

Maisie waved and crossed the road to her motor car, aware that Mrs Waters – who she pegged as the neighbourhood fount of all gossip, rather like Miss Rowe at the Hallarden shop – was watching her until her motor car turned the corner. She stopped 299several streets away and made more notes, then set off for the offices of Messrs. Dunstan, Hallwood and Burns. By the time she arrived at her destination, she had a picture in her mind's eye of Robin James Davidson, a man going on thirty-seven who in all likelihood had been overseas during the war, and who – it seemed – had departed his deceased parents' house with little to remind him of his childhood.

‘Here are relevant details regarding the house, though I might add that they could have been furnished by the estate agent, had you stopped there.' Edward Dunstan, solicitor to Robin Davidson, pushed a two-page document towards Maisie.

‘Yes, I would have gone there first, but the neighbour told me it was best to come straight to you, as the agent was referring any interested parties direct to your office.'

‘You mean, Mrs Waters, busybody extraordinaire.'

Maisie smiled. ‘I suppose I do.'

The man before her was, she thought, someone Mark might have termed ‘slick.' Though in late middle age, he seemed to be a new breed of lawyer, someone whose suit was pressed, but not so many times that a shine remained along the outer flank of the trouser leg. His shirt was starched, and his tie revealed loyalty to a prestigious school; he wore cuff links at his wrists, and a plain gold pin adorned his tie, which was finished with a perfect Windsor knot.

‘You will see the price is both reasonable and reflects the seller's desire for a sale without too much delay.' He looked at Maisie and smiled. ‘I should add that the owner of the house, Mr Davidson, is married to my niece. As he will shortly be taking up a new position 300and they are expecting their first child, this is one more element to be brought to a close following the death of his mother. A weight off his shoulders.'

‘It must have been very difficult for him, given that he was overseas at the time.'

Dunstan looked up from the folder before him. ‘I suppose Waters told you that.'

‘Yes, she did, but it would have been a safe assumption, given the number of men in our armed services who have been serving overseas and who are now making their way home.'

‘Yes, yes indeed.' He took another sheet of paper from the folder. ‘Let me just get my secretary to type a few more details for you regarding the right of way at the side of the house. There's an easement at the end of the street providing access to all the gardens via an ancient footpath, and you should have it as it's an important declaration regarding land use.'

Dunstan left the office, so Maisie lost no time in leaning forward, turning the folder towards her and lifting page after page until she found the address she had been searching for. Twelve Romney Gardens, Chislehurst. She closed the folder and leant back in her chair as Dunstan entered the office again.

‘Here you are, that's everything. If you are further interested, do go via the agency in the first instance, though I would suggest you do not waste time if you wish to make an offer, as there is much interest in the property.'

Maisie came to her feet and extended her hand. ‘Thank you, Mr Dunstan. I will discuss this with my husband and we will be in touch with the agent if we wish to take the next step, which would be to view the house.' 301

Leaving the offices of Dunstan, Hallwood and Burns, Maisie felt a frisson of excitement, anticipation and fear in her stomach, as if a snake were uncurling from slumber. Chislehurst was not too far away at all, and she could almost hear a familiar cheeky voice tempting her, ‘Go on, Mais. Get over there. See what my boy's been doing with himself.'