CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The following morning, Maisie could not deny the nerves that seemed to have dominion over her stomach as she travelled on the Underground bound for Warren Street station. Having run up the wooden escalator, impatient with its clunkety-clunkety-clunk progress, then through the turnstile, she stopped outside the station and leant against the wall for a moment. She was afraid. She was concerned she would say the wrong thing, that she could not meet the expectations Robin Davidson might have formed of their meeting. Without doubt, he wanted to be free of whatever ailed his soul – his dragon, as Priscilla would have called it. Then she remembered Billy's recounting of Doreen's lack of patience with any talk of a dragon breathing fire ready to pull her son back into the past. Perhaps that's why they were called dragons, because they dragged prey down by burning and brute strength. She bolstered her resolve. Now was not the time to relinquish 319power to that other slinking reptile – doubt.

‘You alright, Miss Dobbs?'

Maisie turned, smiling when she saw the young man selling newspapers.

‘Freddie – sorry, I was miles away.' She reached into her shoulder bag for her purse and took out a coin. ‘I'd better take an Express for Mr Beale.' She paid the newspaper vendor. ‘And how's Mr Barker? Is his leg still bothering him?'

‘I reckon Grandad will go on for a good few years yet, even though he can only hobble about now. He misses selling the papers though – he liked having a chat with everyone who came through on their way to work. But him and Nan are being moved from Camberwell – the council are saying the houses are unsafe now, but none of the houses on their street were bombed out. It's sad – everyone knows everyone else; they've been through the war together and the one before that, and now they'll go to districts where they don't know anyone. Rotten it is, at their age. Grandad reckons it's the bent council, you know, selling out to the building companies.'

‘He could be right, Freddie. I'd best be on my way now – busy day ahead. Remember me to your Granddad – I miss seeing Jack Barker on this corner.'

The boy grinned. ‘Yeah, but I'm better looking, ain't I?'

Maisie laughed, waved and walked along Warren Street, taking a left turn towards Fitzroy Square and the building that housed the first-floor office she shared with Billy Beale.

‘Morning, miss,' said Billy, as she entered the office.

‘Good morning – and to you, Sandra. Sorry, I didn't realise it was a day for doing the books.'

‘Hello, miss. I wasn't going to come in, but Martin is in school 320and Billy telephoned to say the accounts were a bit behind.'

‘I'm glad to see you.' She rubbed her hands together. ‘It's chilly in here – shall we have the gas fire on for a while? I know we're supposed to be careful, but I've a visitor arriving in a quarter of an hour and I think he's not been well – so let's warm it up for a nice welcome and I'll turn the fire on in my office.'

Maisie proceeded to the left, into her personal office where one long table was set perpendicular to her desk. She ignited the gas fire, but kept her coat on, though she removed her scarf and hung it on the hook at the back of the door. Seating herself at her desk, she looked at the table and wondered how many times she and Billy had stood over a long piece of offcut wallpaper to map out the essence of a case, creating a visual story of what might or might not have happened at the scene of a crime, or a dispute or whatever event inspired the men or women who came to her for help. Though not on paper, today she would map the story that was diminishing Robin Davidson from the inside out. She could not rescue him, but she might be able to help him save himself. It was all dependent upon what he was willing to reveal, or whether they would fail in the quest to stop the pain – because without doubt, the man was in pain. And wasn't it so reminiscent of his father's return from France at the end of the last war, the years when James agonised over the death and destruction he had seen while flying over battlefields, and once home became intent upon banishing himself to a retreat for soldiers who could no longer face the world?

Maisie heard a knock at the door and Billy welcome the visitor.

‘Miss Dobbs – Mr Davidson has arrived.' Billy stared at her, eyes wide, as he introduced Davidson, who was facing Maisie. In the 321background, Sandra turned to her with the same questioning stare.

Maisie came to her feet, stepping into the outer office. ‘Good morning, Mr Davidson. Lovely to see you again.' She introduced Billy and Sandra, held out her hand, indicating the guest should proceed into her private domain, and asked Sandra if she wouldn't mind making tea. ‘Or would you prefer coffee, Mr Davidson? We can brew it from ground beans here. It's a legacy from a former teacher, who loved Santos coffee beans in particular.'

‘Thank you. Coffee. No milk, please,' said Davidson, as he clutched his hat with both hands, rolling the brim round and round in his fingers.

‘Good, come in and do take a seat. I've pulled up two chairs in front of the fire so it's warmer.'

She offered to take his coat, and they exchanged pleasantries until two cups of strong coffee had been set on the table by Sandra, who closed the concertina doors to provide privacy.

‘Are you feeling better, Mr Davidson?'

‘Physically, yes a little.' He took a sip of coffee and returned the cup to the saucer. ‘But of course I wouldn't be here if all was well, though I must be assured of one thing.'

‘Go on.'

‘That anything I reveal in this room has to be in absolute confidence.'

Maisie nodded. ‘You have my word. I promise. And I must also underline that the commitment goes both ways.' She smiled. ‘Of course I could sign a contract to such an effect and you would have my assurance on paper, but I have always thought saying aloud the words "I promise" confers significant weight upon both parties.'

Davidson stared at her. ‘I think you're right. I promise anything 322said in this room will remain in confidence.'

‘Then let's begin. Please – start anywhere and we'll go on from there.'

He was silent for a while, staring into the fireplace gas jets. Maisie waited.

‘It's all raw energy. The gas. We've taken something natural and done something unnatural with it for our comfort. Coal was meant to stay in the earth, not to be dug up so we can make gas or light a fire with it. And the gasses underground shouldn't be released either – we've done that without thinking of all the poison we've allowed ourselves to breathe in. I believe it will have a consequence, all the taking. Not for you or me, but perhaps for my child.'

‘That's an interesting perspective.' She inclined her head, a gesture indicating openness to whatever might be revealed.

‘You know, what I loved about my work – my profession, if you will – was that it went on. I know that's a strange way to put it, but let me explain. I'm a scientist, so when I was in the labouratory, it was rather like being on a sort of journey, as if I were walking along a path where all I had to do was to keep on looking for answers, to continue digging further and deeper.' He moved his hand, almost as if he were describing a fish weaving through water. ‘Theoretical physics is all about trial and error while looking for scientific truths and – I suppose ultimately – how those truths will benefit mankind. You see, I have to keep on asking questions, one after the other – what happens if I blend this with that? What can I do to push through a boundary? How can I take the laws of science, the laws of the universe and bend them to do something different? That's how scientists like me work. We push and push 323and push to achieve a certain result and we never, ever think about the consequences. Not the real consequences. Because if we did, we might stop, and then who would we be?'

‘Hmmm, yes. I can see that – but I think we should spiral into the circle a little more, in a manner of speaking,' said Maisie, knowing she had to push Davidson or they would be there for hours discussing the role of scientists in the modern world. ‘This is the point in my work where I begin to set boundaries, and to get to the heart of what ails you. I think it's time to request that you bring these broad observations to a personal level.'

‘Alright. Yes. Of course. After all, I called because … because I cannot live with myself any more if I don't … if I don't get it off my chest.'

‘Mr Davidson – Robin, if I may – tell me, what consequence of your work as a scientist resulted in the disturbance at the heart of your collapse on the street?'

He stared at Maisie, the blue eyes so like his father's staring into hers. His answer was blunt. ‘Along with many others, I killed tens of thousands of innocent people.'

Maisie did not look away and kept her voice steady. ‘Start at the beginning, Robin, then let's walk into the dark part of the story together.'

‘I am a physicist. I won't complicate this with a few lessons in my field of research, but I work with matter. Matter is all around us and in simple terms my research has been in working towards pinpointing the essence of matter so that it becomes useful. I was recruited by a department called Tube Alloys early in the war. All very innocent sounding, isn't it? It gives the impression that we made something that goes inside an aircraft, a tube for this or that 324function. Or that we designed the plumbing for buildings, or oil pumps.'

‘What did you do?'

‘Along with other scientists, we were working on a different kind of weapon. Something the world had never seen before. You could say it was a tool we thought could end wars.' He paused, reached for his cup and drank the remainder of his now lukewarm coffee. Almost dropping the empty cup onto the china saucer with a clatter, he went on. ‘We were far ahead of any other country in our research, yet though the government funded our work, the powers that be had scant regard for our discoveries, almost brushed us off as not being important to the war effort. But we scientists want to get ahead, don't we? We want to beat back the bushes on the path and break through rocks, marching through anything that gets in our way. Through matter. And the reason those at the top paid little attention was because the old men of Britain who waged this war had once been young cavalrymen who first galloped into battle on horses across the African veldt! Top British scientists at our universities – Birmingham, Cambridge, Manchester – were at the front of the pack, then we were getting left behind because people like Churchill couldn't envisage the possibilities, because in the planning for war they could just about fathom what a fighter aircraft could do, let alone cast their eyes forward into the kind of work we were engaged in. But I was thrilled when I was recruited with others from Tube Alloys to go to America as part of an agreement between our countries. I was working on the same things and more, and it was wonderful because our friends across the Atlantic could see the future. They were forging ahead at great speed and they needed our help. They were determined to bring together the finest scientific 325minds in one place to achieve the ultimate goal, to push through anything that stood between us and the power we were creating. It felt like the pinnacle of my existence, an honour to be among their number – and there were thousands of us.'

‘You worked on the atom bomb,' said Maisie.

Robin Davidson looked up as if her words were an accusation. Oh how like James you are when your hackles are up, thought Maisie. How quick you are to temper when confused by circumstance.

‘Of course – you're an investigator,' said Davidson, his frown becoming a humorless smile. ‘It stands to reason you would put the pieces together.'

It was Mark who had helped slot those pieces into place for Maisie. British newspapers had published graphic accounts of the bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, yet the place at the heart of research, where the bomb was developed and tested, was not only a secret, but neither important nor memorable to a population unfamiliar with the geography of the United States – beyond a passing knowledge of famous coastal cities, along with California and Texas, the lands depicted in popular Western pictures shown at the cinema. Yet by the time Maisie left the flat that morning, her husband had furthered her understanding regarding a place called New Mexico and gave a name to the quest to build a nuclear bomb. The Manhattan Project.

Maisie began to intuit the essence of Robin Davidson's confession even before the conversation with Mark. British newspapers from London to Edinburgh put the bombings of two Japanese cities on their front pages, underlining the collabourative work between American, British and Canadian scientists – yet there were words of caution. She had been struck by Wilfred 326Burchett's account in the Daily Express – the Australian Burchett had arrived in Hiroshima soon after the bombings. She put her hand on her heart as she read about the ‘Atomic Plague' and the terrifying injuries reported. Burchett wrote of witnessing people with even simple wounds that would not heal. He described terrible radiation sickness and uncontrollable bleeding. Many of the survivors would not live for long. Maisie knew it was guilt regarding his association with this outcome that was festering inside the man before her. After all, hadn't Winston Churchill written in the Daily Mail that the bombing ‘… should arouse the most solemn reflections in the mind and conscience of every human capable of comprehension'?

‘Please go on,' said Maisie.

‘I'm sorry. I'm on edge. I mean, perhaps I wouldn't have felt like this – at least I don't think so – if my parents hadn't died. Then I wouldn't have known and have it all come crashing down.'

Maisie felt a sensation akin to a cold arrow of anticipation passing through her heart. ‘Let's go back to your work in the United States.'

‘Yes, sorry again. Shouldn't have jumped. I'm restless all the time these days.' He rubbed his hands together. ‘Did you know, Miss Dobbs, that you can rub your hands together furiously, then hold them six inches apart, like this, and it's as if you're holding a ball? Pure energy – and you did it just by rubbing your hands. You can even play with it.'

‘Robin—'

‘But it sort of fits – I was one of those thousands of scientists in a designated location miles from anywhere, and we were, in a manner of speaking, creating a very different kind of energy; one 327the military played an unconscionable game with. There were those of us who knew, as soon as the test was successful in July, that we had created a terrible beast; that it wasn't yet another bomb they could drop and win a war. This was something that would change the balance of our world forever, and from every perspective. It wasn't simply a bigger, more dangerous weapon to unleash upon an enemy, but no one could see what so many of us could see. And I played a part in building it. It might have been a small part, but that is the legacy I will leave for my son or daughter. That is the heirloom their grandchildren will inherit. I was but a cog in a big wheel creating a monster of unbelievable proportions.' Davidson took out a handkerchief and wiped it across his mouth.

Maisie allowed the room to become quiet and Davidson to settle as much as he could before she spoke again.

‘What happened after your parents died?' she asked.

He stared at her, then again into the fire. ‘I came home with my wife – she's British, by the way. Her father was sent out to America with his company just before the war and I met her in New York. Anyway, we came back to England and because my parents had passed away while I was in America and I couldn't get home, I had to sort out their affairs as soon as I arrived back. I was in the attic, going through various papers, and came across a document attesting to my adoption. I had no idea I was effectively a foundling, and the document had only their names as the adoptive parents and nothing else.' He pressed his hands together then drew them apart, as if playing with an invisible ball, handling the energy he'd described as if it were something precious, or dangerous if it fell through his fingers. He looked up at Maisie again. ‘So you see, Miss Dobbs – I do not know who I 328am. I have played a part in killing all those people – and, I might add, so many more because as sure as eggs is eggs, as time goes on, there will be cancers and heaven knows what sicknesses to take the lives of hundreds of thousands of innocents. Look at what happened to Madame Curie – cancer killed her, and I've had colleagues tell me you cannot touch her papers because they are still riddled with uranium. So, I am a killer who does not know who he is. I could be descended from whole generations of murderers and it was preordained that I would go about the family work, albeit in a different capacity.'

Again Maisie had to hold the stare of those bright blue eyes, now filled with tears.

‘And I don't know what to do, Miss Dobbs. I mean – why didn't my parents tell me? Why did it have to be a secret? I am so worn out with secrets.'

‘I have met a good number of killers in the course of my work, and I can assure you I can't recall coming across one who was the victim of a generational sickness leading to another murder.' She looked down at her hands, wondering how best to frame her words. ‘However, regarding the question of your parents' failure to explain the circumstances of your adoption, that is something I believe I might be able to help you with. Let me tell you about someone I loved, during the last war.' Maisie recounted her courtship with Simon, the attack on the casualty clearing station that wounded them both, and the damage to Simon's brain, depriving him of any future thought and action. ‘You see, I had to endure a long period of recovery myself, so I couldn't see him. Then more time passed and it became easier just to imagine him as he had been before we were both in France, better to leave 329the truth behind. If I faced him, then I had to accept everything else that happened, and it took me a long time. A very long time. Sometimes too much time passes as we wonder how to approach a sensitive subject, and before long, the perfect moment to do so has passed us by. So I suspect that at first your parents might have been waiting for you to reach an age where you could assimilate such information, but they were perhaps stumped at how to begin the conversation – the revelation, if you will. Then you went off to university. They had set you on the path to your dreams, so how could they at once upend your future by telling you about the adoption? Robin – I have no doubt they loved you too much, and they were in all likelihood very scared of your reaction to what they would reveal.'

‘I never thought of it like that.' He gave a brief smile. ‘I suppose it's rather like forgetting to return a library book, and when you realise how much you owe in fines, it's best to leave it on the shelf and try to ignore the omission.'

‘In very simple terms, yes, I suppose it is.'

More time elapsed as Maisie allowed Davidson to consider her words.

‘Robin, tell me, how do you think you might make peace with yourself?'

He shook his head. ‘I tried to discover the identity of my real parents and just floundered. I think if I knew, I might have the key to finding some sort of calm. And I'm taking up a teaching post at the university in January. I'll be lecturing in physics, so that will be different for me.' He gave a laugh that had not a hint of humour to it. ‘Training the next generation of killers.'

‘Is that what you want to do – be a teacher?' 330

He shrugged. ‘I really don't know. I could get a job anywhere at a university or school, and my father – well, the man I thought was my father – was a very good teacher. I suppose I could slide in a few lessons in ethics, so my charges know they have a responsibility greater than they might ever have imagined. But … but more than anything, I want to know who I am.'

Maisie stood up and walked to the window, looking down upon a small courtyard where old flowerpots held the remains of blooms long dead, and where once she recognised a wire disguised as a climbing plant and reported the German spy living in the lower flat. He had been put to death in the Tower of London. She shuddered and turned, once again taking her seat opposite Robin Davidson, and pulling the chair closer to her new client.

‘When we first met, you noticed that I already knew your name and that your wife was expecting a child. I deflected the observation and denied all knowledge. However, I owe you a profound apology, because you were right. Robin, I made it my business to find you because I know the identity of the woman who gave birth to you and of the man who fathered you. I can reveal that knowledge, if you wish. It's your decision, and might help to bring solace to your soul.'

‘But—'

‘Please – there's more I want to say and it's really crucial you hear this. You must always remember that your parents – the couple who gave you their name, who tended you as a boy and who provided every possible opportunity for you to thrive – loved you very, very much. The fact that they didn't tell you about the adoption might well have been rooted in fear that they would lose you.' 331

Beads of perspiration dotted his brow. ‘I don't know where to start.'

‘Take your time, I have all the time in the world for you.'

‘I think I need some fresh air. I'll walk around outside then come back.'

‘Good idea. Take your coat, and don't stay out too long – it's bitterly cold.'

‘Yes, quite. It is. Thank you.'

Robin Davidson came to his feet, reached for his coat and scarf and stepped towards the door, whereupon he turned, face flushed. ‘Miss Dobbs – what's it to you? How do you know the people who caused me to be born, and why did you want to find me?'

‘Because I loved them both, and I wanted only to know that you were happy in this world. That you had a good life. Now I've met you, I promise I will do all I can to make it so. They would want you to be at peace.'

‘Blimey, miss – who was that bloke? I'm sorry, I had to take a second dekko at his dial, because for all the world he looked like—'

‘Billy's right – he gave us quite a shock,' added Sandra. ‘The hair's a bit more reddish, but he looks a lot like Viscount Compton. We thought he must be a relative – it was probably a shock for you.'

‘Yes, he is a relative of the family. He's just popped out to get some fresh air and will be back in a minute.'

Maisie was aware that Billy was staring at her. ‘You alright, miss? You seem, well, not like I've seen you for a long time.'

‘I suppose his looks have rather taken me aback. Anyway, Sandra, 332do we have enough coffee for another pot?'

‘Just about.'

‘Looks as if he could do with something a bit stronger, if you ask me,' said Billy.

‘It might come to that – oh, that's the doorbell. Billy, could you go down and let him in? I'll be in my office, you can show him straight through.'

‘Right you are, miss.'

As Robin Davidson entered Maisie's office, Billy nodded towards her and closed the concertina doors.

‘Please sit down – would you like another cup of coffee?' said Maisie.

‘No thank you. And I must ask, do your staff know why I'm here?'

‘First of all, the promise of secrecy extends to both Mr Beale and our secretary. They do not know why you are here, but if that changes, the information will go no further – beyond anyone you might wish me to discuss it with. Mr Beale specialises in matters of property security, though he was once my assistant and often works with me on investigative cases. The promise of confidentiality is at the heart of our work.'

‘I see. Is that how you know my true parents? The investigative work? It crossed my mind as I walked around the square that they might be looking for me.'

‘I am so sorry, but I must inform you that they are both dead. I can tell you a good deal about them though.'

‘How did you know them?'

‘I was employed at the same house in Belgravia as Enid, your mother. 333We were below-stairs staff who shared a bedroom together – I was only thirteen when I came to work at the house. I should add that they were very young when you were conceived – Enid was, I think, barely sixteen. James, your father, was the son of our employers, owners of the house. He would have been about eighteen years of age. They were very much in love.'

‘How did they die? Did they murder one another, or drink poison?' Davidson gave a half-laugh.

Maisie shook her head. ‘No, it was not that kind of story. Enid was killed at the end of 1914. She was employed at the Woolwich Arsenal and along with other munitions workers lost her life in an explosion. Your father was an accomplished aviator and in 1934 was involved in the development of new fighter aircraft being tested in Canada. The pilot who was supposed to test a certain aeroplane didn't turn up – she had a hangover – so he volunteered, and was killed when the engine failed.'

Davidson shook his head. ‘I suppose my mother and I were in the same line of business, in a manner of speaking. We both knew how to make a bomb. And my father was felled by a young aviatrix who had been out drinking.' He stared at Maisie, again holding her gaze. ‘And how did you know my father?'

‘He was my husband.'

Maisie did not look away, did not move or fidget to alleviate discomfort. Instead she met Robin Davidson's eyes with her own.

‘Oh my god,' said Davidson, running his fingers back through his hair. ‘I think my head is going to burst.'

‘I saw Enid only hours before she died,' said Maisie. ‘Her death changed my life. I was seventeen and a student at university, but I decided there and then to volunteer for nursing service and lied 334about my age to be accepted for training. I served at a casualty clearing station in France. And James, well, we fell in love almost twenty years later, when neither of us was in the first flush of youth. I saw him die, Robin.' Maisie faltered, wondering if she should reveal more. He was bound to ask if there were half-siblings, so perhaps, yes, she should put the question to rest before it was asked. ‘The shock of witnessing his death resulted in the stillbirth of our son, so you do not have a brother or sister.'

‘Oh my god,' he repeated, leaning back on his chair, and then forward again to look at Maisie. ‘Do I … do I have any relatives at all? Blood relatives?'

‘Yes, you do.'

‘Who?'

‘Your father's mother is still alive, but at the moment she is grieving the death of your grandfather.'

‘What's her name?'

‘Rowan. Lady Rowan Compton. Your father was Viscount James Compton, and your grandfather, Lord Julian Compton.'

He shook his head. ‘Descended from the aristocracy. That's a surprise. And it explains a lot – I suppose my mother was the poor little maid eyed up by the young master of the house who impregnated her on a whim, and His Lordship had her sent off to give birth to me so no one was shamed by the indiscretions of the heir.'

Maisie shook her head. ‘I can tell you the circumstances might have seemed like that, but they weren't. In this case, as I said, your parents were in love – yes, they were young, but they held one another in their hearts. Without doubt their respective stations in life resulted in you being adopted, but the man who arranged it ensured that your mother had only the very best of care and that 335your adoptive parents were chosen with the greatest integrity. Your grandfather elected to do what he believed to be the best for all concerned.'

Davidson was quiet for a while, and without asking, leant forward and turned off the gas fire. Maisie said nothing.

‘So, you were a maid, once, along with my mother. How did you do so well? How did you manage to climb up the class chain to marry my father?'

‘Fair question, though it's a longer story than you might have time for. You could say that I was adopted too, though I have a loving father of my own, and even though I was given the opportunity of education by people who thought I had a capacity for more advanced intellectual immersion, I still had to work as hard as Enid in the house. The man who arranged Enid's confinement and your adoption also directed my academic progress. I was fortunate to win scholarships, which defrayed most of the costs of my education.'

‘The luck of the draw, I suppose.'

‘Enid wasn't interested in the same sort of advancement, but she held no envy towards me. She was my friend.'

‘What was she like?'

Maisie smiled. ‘She was very, very witty. She spoke up for what she believed in and she was a no-nonsense young woman. There's an old military term that might describe Enid – she "didn't take prisoners". And she would not suffer fools either. Her character was a result of a hard childhood – she was estranged from her people. However, she had a soft side, and I can guarantee she adored you and would have wanted only the best for you, which is why she let you go.' 336

‘And my father?'

‘Your father was a sensitive man, Robin. He lost a beloved sister when he was only about ten years of age, and I think there was an element of Enid's character that reminded him of her. You see, Enid was fearless, as was his sister. James was also something of a dreamer – that's probably why he was happiest in the clouds. But we married because we loved one another. His death was devastating.'

Davidson nodded, staring at his hands. He sighed and looked up at Maisie. ‘Do I look like them? Do you see anything of them in me, Miss Dobbs?'

‘Well, physically, you have your grandfather's height – Lord Julian was just a bit taller than James. Your hair is more like Enid's – James was blond, but she had red hair. You have your father's eyes, and I believe you have his sensitivity.'

‘Do you think they would like me?'

‘Oh, Robin, you were beloved before you were born – they would adore you.'

The man was silent for a while. Maisie once more felt a chill creeping into the room, but did not move towards the gas fire.

Davidson looked at his wristwatch and cleared his throat. ‘I've to meet my wife at the station, so I must be going soon.' He stared at his hands, turning them to look at his palms. ‘Miss Dobbs if … if they … if James and Enid were to give me advice now, what do you think they would say?'

Maisie exhaled and raised her eyebrows. ‘That's a very big question you've just put to me, and I'm not sure how you might take the answer.'

‘Aren't parents supposed to be blunt sometimes?' 337

‘Well, your mother would be, of that I have not a shadow of doubt.'

He smiled. ‘What would she say?'

‘Do you really want me to tell you?'

‘I do. I came here to get to the bottom of who I am, inside myself, and I think it would help.'

‘Right, then I will tell you this.' Maisie came to her feet. ‘Imagine a girl about the same height as me. Red hair in curls down beyond her shoulders, with a fiery way of speaking to match – so brace yourself, because she really could let you know what was on her mind.' She put her hands on her hips, and leaning forward just a little, she began with just a hint of Enid's Cockney accent. ‘You've got to get on with it, my boy. Stop feeling sorry for yourself, because what's done is done. You can't change it, so you've got to stiffen your backbone. You've a good job, a very nice roof over your head, and you're well off – so be thankful and instead look around you and see what you can do for people who don't have the same good luck. And buck your ideas up because your wife will be giving birth to my grandchild before you know it, and I don't want him or her to have lessons from their father in being a right misery.'

Robin Davidson began to laugh, and Maisie laughed along with him.

‘I'm a terrible actress,' said Maisie.

‘No, no, not at all. Your performance was a good idea – just what I needed. I can imagine her.'

‘It's far from my usual approach to revealing the truth, but I think Enid was standing by my shoulder, pressing me to do it.'

‘What about James, what would he have said?' 338

Maisie took her seat again and drew closer to Robin Davidson. ‘I think he would have just listened and he would have encouraged you to follow your heart. And soar. He would tell you to find the limit of your skies and go there. I think he would be in awe of the man you have become.'

Maisie watched as Davidson turned his head and closed his eyes, as if trying to imagine his deceased young parents, then looked up and brushed away tears.

‘You've been very kind, Miss Dobbs, and helpful – more than I ever imagined,' said Davidson. ‘When I left your office, I thought I should be angry because you had engineered our "chance" meeting. But with every step as I walked around the square, I found I was just sort of … sort of relieved. As if a weight were falling from my shoulders.' He glanced at his watch once more. ‘I must go now. But may we speak again?' 339

‘Of course.'

‘And your account.'

Maisie shook her head. ‘There is no account, Robin. Nothing at all.'

‘Do you think Lady Rowan might agree to see me?'

‘I think it could be arranged. She's very fragile at the moment, but we are close and I believe meeting you might well be a tonic for her, though I should add that it will also be a shock, even if she's prepared – you see, you are so much like your father.'

‘I suppose that's why the two people out there couldn't keep their eyes off me – I thought I'd sprouted another head!'

‘That's about the measure of it.'

As Davidson turned to leave, Maisie stopped him.

‘I wonder – would you mind helping me? I have a question to put to you.'

‘Of course.'

‘You see, I have a daughter – she's ten now. She's adopted, though she knows something of her origins because she was brought up by her grandmother until she was four. I suppose I want to make sure she's happy, and—'

‘You want to give her a good life.'

‘Yes, that's right. I married again a few years ago and we dote on her, but I want to know, from your perspective.'

Davidson looked down, again rolling the brim of his hat around in hands that seemed so much like his father's.

‘Truth, Miss Dobbs. I think truth is the key.' He smiled as he looked up. ‘Even if at some point it means telling her she has to buck her ideas up!'

Without thinking, Maisie held out her arms and embraced Robin Davidson, the man who had given her an image of who her own son might have become.

‘And love, Miss Dobbs. Love above all else.'