CHAPTER EIGHT

As Maisie made ready to leave the house the following morning, she settled her agenda for the day, which included meeting Billy and Doreen at one o'clock at her London flat. They would walk to Priscilla's house together, where Andrew Dene would be waiting to discuss Will's care with his parents. Maisie would summon a taxi-cab to take the Beale family home when they were ready to leave. Until then, she had another plan to put into action while Frankie and Brenda looked after their granddaughter during her absence.

‘Are you sure taking the motor is a good idea, love?' Frankie had commented, while carrying Maisie's bag to the door. ‘I mean, you read such things, don't you? About vandalism, what with London not what it was before the war.'

‘I need the motor, Dad, not only to do some work today, but I've errands to run, plus I'll have it with me just in case the Beales prefer me to drive them home rather than go in the taxi. I just have to make 147sure I keep my petrol use down, but it should be alright.'

‘I'll take your word for it,' said Frankie, placing the bag in the boot. ‘Funny, wasn't it? That old George didn't stop for a natter. I mean, I know he likes tinkering with the motors and keeping them in tip-top condition, but he's always been one to linger for a bit and pass the time of day, or remind you not to do this or that with your motor car.'

‘Oh, I think he's just been a bit busy, helping Lady Rowan with other things.'

‘Yes, he's very good to her, always loyal. Anyway, I might wander over and say hello to him later on. I promised the littl'un I'd walk across the fields with her to the stables where they said she could ride the horses.'

Maisie was about to get into the motor car, but turned to her father. ‘Just a minute – they said she could ride? Those horses at that riding school are all huge.'

‘They've got one or two no more than sixteen hands.'

‘That's one or two that are far too big for her.'

‘She's growing like a weed, Maisie. Take it from me as your father – if a daughter has set her mind to something, you're not going to stop her.'

‘Oh, very funny! But, Dad, don't let her onto one of those big horses. I'll deal with this when I get home. Perhaps we can look for a suitable pony as soon as Mark arrives back from Washington – after all, he'll want to be there when she rides. And we agreed that all our big decisions would be family decisions.'

‘Alright. I'll keep her away from the hunters. Now, where is it you're off to first?' asked Frankie, closing the door as Maisie started the engine. 148

‘Hallarden – you know, not far from Paddock Wood. See you tomorrow, Dad – and remember, no big hunters for Anna.'

Frankie tapped the roof of the Alvis as Maisie began to manoeuvre the motor car away from the house.

‘Sixteen hands,' whispered Maisie as she drove away from Chelstone Manor. ‘Not yet, young lady. Not by a long chalk!'

The equestrian exploits of her daughter were not the only matter Maisie mulled over on the way to Hallarden. Any kind of travel had always presented her with time for considering a problem or something that was otherwise nagging at her. The side-to-side motion of the train or the route taken across countryside when driving offered time to think. Her desire to become more of a support for her extended family in the years ahead meant she was often mulling over something that was not quite right in her world.

Maisie enjoyed her home on the Chelstone estate. At first, inheriting the Dower House had been a shock, an intimidating experience. It was a property of some size, part of a substantial bequest from her former mentor, Dr Maurice Blanche, who had in turn purchased the property from his friends Lord Julian and Lady Rowan. Maisie suspected the Comptons had sold the Dower House to keep Maurice close as he grew older, and at a time when for the privileged couple a level of retirement was considered, but death was something further afield. It had become clear, though, that Julian had thought long and hard about his last will and testament.

For Maisie, the terms of Maurice's will had been a gift that changed the course of her life. As a girl she had first lived at the Dower House when she was moved up from being a housemaid at the Belgravia mansion to assume the role of servant-companion to Lord Julian's elderly mother. The promotion had been the idea of Lady Rowan, 149rendering it easier for Maisie to study with a view to gaining entry to a prestigious women's college – yet without losing the respect of her fellow ‘below stairs' staff, who could see that she was still working hard.

Maisie had come to love the Dower House. As the bombing of London intensified in the early years of the war, Maisie arranged for Frankie and Brenda to live with her, while Billy and his wife took over the bungalow the new Mr and Mrs Dobbs had purchased in Chelstone village in 1935, at a point when it was time for Frankie to retire and give up the Groom's Cottage, a tied dwelling that was part of the Chelstone estate.

Soon the family expanded when they welcomed evacuees, among them the orphaned child who became a beloved adopted daughter and granddaughter. Another change came with Maisie's marriage to Mark Scott, who – much to everyone's surprise – had settled into English country life with greater ease than might have been expected, though his working week was spent at the American embassy in London. There had been much joshing in the village about ‘the American squire' up at the manor, though after he made a good account of himself with the cricket team, and was not backward in coming forward when it came to getting in the first round at the pub afterwards, word went around that he was a ‘good'un' after all.

Yet with the passing of Lord Julian Compton, Maisie was reminded that the Dower House belonging to a large estate was traditionally the home of the dowager, the widow of a lord of the manor.

Now Maisie felt she had a duty of care towards Rowan, not least given her place as the closest family member, albeit by marriage. She was still thinking of her daughter and Lady Rowan as she drove into the village of Hallarden. Saturday was early closing day, but she 150had time to visit the local shop and perhaps the garage; after all, the mechanic might be friendly with the Hawkin-Price's chauffeur – though she had to tread with care because village loyalties ran deep. As did local societal ruptures. Following her information-gathering efforts in the town, she planned another visit to the home of the Honourable Jonathan Hawkin-Price. From the time she had first visited the house, she knew something was staring her in the face, a vital clue illuminating whatever had come to pass at the property. It would settle matters one way or the other, and her investigation would reveal the four squatters to be accomplished liars, idle fantasists or young people with a genuine reason to be afraid. The fact that they quoted both Lord Julian's surname and that of George suggested it was the latter, though untruths and fantasies could also have been woven into the fabric of their story.

The bell above the shopkeeper's door rang as soon as Maisie entered, summoning a woman from the back of the premises. She came out wiping her hands on her pinafore.

‘Good morning, madam – I was just having a quick slice of toast. It's been a busy couple of hours, and not a spare minute for a bite to eat. Mind you, it's Saturday, and people like to get a few things in before early closing at one.'

‘Not to worry – would you like me to come back in ten minutes?' Maisie wanted to begin on the right foot, showing generosity of spirit, a helpfulness towards the shopkeeper.

The woman waved her hand. ‘Not at all, not at all. You go on, dear – how can I help you?'

‘I'd like a box of matches, please. The long ones, for the fireplace. And do you have anything … anything for my sweet tooth?'

‘Right you are,' replied the woman, reaching behind the counter 151to take a box of long matches from a shelf, then placing them in front of Maisie. She smiled at her customer while opening a drawer underneath the counter, whereupon she lifted out a chocolate bar, setting it alongside the matches. ‘One of my favourites – I'm lucky to get a box of them in. I had an airman in here one day – he told me the RAF handed out those particular bars to the bomber crews during the war. Fry's Chocolate Creamkept our boys going. I make sure they're put away as a rule, otherwise some of the nimble little fingers around here will grab a bar while my back is turned.'

Putting her hand to her chest, Maisie added a little drama to her response. ‘Oh my goodness – Fry's Chocolate Cream!'

‘Only if you want it, my dear.'

‘I'm not going to turn down my favourite chocolate. Thank you! I'll have to save some for my daughter – either that or dispose of the wrapper before I get home.'

The women laughed together, talked about the fact that the war would have saved a generation of children from tooth decay, what with the sugar rationing, but that didn't work because half the children were going hungry anyway, so their teeth were falling out due to malnutrition. Maisie used the conversation to warm the shopkeeper towards her, as if she were priming an engine with good-quality motor oil. She was soon ready to add a question or two to garner information that someone at the heart of a community – a shopkeeper – would have in her pocket before anyone else.

‘It's so lovely here, isn't it? Nice and quiet – you would never have thought we've been through a war. I was hoping to find a house in the village for my family.'

‘There's a few coming up for sale, mainly by the better-offs not happy with the fact that the council has given planning permission for 152some two hundred homes to be built on the edge of town.'

‘Oh dear.'

‘It'll be more business for the likes of me, but I can see why people might be worried, what with housing for homeless Londoners going in – I mean, you don't know what sort of people they are, do you?'

Maisie was quick to manoeuvre the conversation in the direction she wanted. ‘I was walking along Sandstone Avenue yesterday, but made a bit of an error when I saw a house that I thought was for sale, but it wasn't – it was the house next door. I ended up in the grounds of a very large house with lots of land at the back.'

‘Oh, yes, that would be the Hawkin-Price house.'

‘It looks empty.'

The woman leant towards Maisie, as if bringing her into an exclusive circle of local secrecy. ‘Hardly there, that one. Never see him much in the town. Mind you, we're more like a village really. Only called a town on account of the size of the church.'

Before the woman could divert into an explanation of the size of the church and the designation of city, town, village or hamlet, Maisie forged on with her line of questioning.

‘One wonders why he doesn't sell. Is he in London most of the time?'

‘No one really knows – well, I reckon Mr King, the chauffeur, would know, because he takes him wherever he wants, but I've heard it's mostly to the railway station, sometimes Paddock Wood or Tonbridge, occasionally Sevenoaks. I reckon he only keeps on the few staff he has up there because the house would fall into rack and ruin if it were abandoned, and I can't see it changing hands until he's dead – though he sold off a fair few acres years ago.'

‘I would have thought that most men in his position would have 153relinquished responsibility for a house of that size – it's a lot, especially if he's not there.'

‘You would have thought so, wouldn't you? But here in town there's a good number of us remember his father and mother, and how they went a bit off after their eldest boy was killed at Passchendaele. He was the favoured one, you know.'

‘Does Mr Hawkin-Price have heirs?'

‘Never married, though there was talk—' The shopkeeper leant in towards Maisie. ‘He was spending a lot of time over there in Germany after the war – the first war, that is – and I heard talk about there being a German woman. But he wouldn't have brought her home to live here, not to England. And I know he was over there for the Olympics, before the war.'

‘Is that so?' said Maisie.

‘Now, I shouldn't say he never brought her over here, his fancy woman, because Mrs King – she's the chauffeur's wife and the housekeeper – she told me there was a German woman there a few times, but she kept to herself, and was never seen out and about in Hallarden.'

‘Is that so?' said Maisie, the repetition emphasising her interest. ‘Someone – one of the neighbours I had a chat with when I was walking along the avenue with my dog – told me there used to be big parties there.'

‘Oh yes, that's true enough, and the German was probably there because that's the only reason I can think of for him being so quiet about it. I mean, let's face it, in the Great War you couldn't walk down the street with your dog if it was a Dachshund, could you?'

‘I have an Alsatian. They used to be called German Shepherds, but they had to be renamed due to anti-German attitudes.' 154

‘Can't blame people, can you? I lost my sweetheart in 1917, and then my brother a week after him.'

‘I'm very sorry to hear that,' said Maisie. ‘My fiancé succumbed to his wounds after the war.' She allowed a beat before continuing in a low voice. ‘About the parties – apart from his German lady friend, how did he keep the identity of guests quiet?'

‘Sent all the workers off the estate for a start, gave them a couple of days holiday, and with pay. The chauffeur and his wife went off to the coast to see her sister, and the gardeners don't live at the property, so they just stayed at home. He never had a cook – Mrs King used to put something out for him and she's very good in the kitchen – but apparently, to cater the parties, a van came down from London with the food. Perhaps they had a buffet and served themselves. All very private. Then before you knew it, whoever the guests were had gone – but they were definitely all very posh with big motor cars. Well connected is Mr Hawkin-Price. He's an ‘Honourable,' you know, and they say he was a friend of the Duke of Windsor.'

‘Hmmm, yes, I knew he was an "Honourable."' Maisie shrugged. ‘Anyway, I was just curious. I was hoping he might decide to sell, but then I saw the extent of the property – we couldn't run to something like that.'

‘I doubt he'd sell, all things considered. I've heard he was angry enough when he had to siphon off a fair bit of his land to pay death duties. Went on and on about the government, and with some very ripe language by all accounts. He was in the local pub – not that he was a regular, and it might even have been only once or twice he was seen in there – but he told the landlord that Britain might as well have been the losers after the last war, not the winners. Then he went 155on about how Germany climbed out of the pit of despair. It was a pit of despair their kaiser dug in the first place, if you ask me.' The shopkeeper looked around at the clock on the wall behind her, then turned back to Maisie. ‘Mind you, there's many folk saying the same thing about Britain after this war, aren't there? That we're in the pit of despair, like losers – not winners.'

‘I've heard that too,' said Maisie. ‘But chin up – we've proved to the world how resilient we are, haven't we?' She extended her hand. At first the shopkeeper seemed taken aback, then accepted the gesture and held Maisie's hand as if grateful for the gift of human touch. ‘Lovely to pass the time of day with you,' said Maisie. ‘I'm sorry, I should have asked your name. Miss —?'

‘Rowe. Miss Rowe.' She sighed, released Maisie's hand and reached into her pinafore pocket to pull out a well-fingered photograph, turning it so Maisie could see. The photograph had been taken in a studio, with a young man in uniform, cap under his left arm, standing next to a woman of about the same age, her hand resting on his right arm. They were smiling at the camera. ‘He was with the Queen's Own Royal West Kents. We'd just become engaged in that photograph.' She laughed. ‘He said he was more scared on the day he asked my father for my hand in marriage than when he was over there fighting for his country.'

Maisie put her hand to her heart as she studied the photograph.

‘Wonderful boy, my Alfie Brissenden,' continued Miss Rowe. ‘A good young man. We'd grown up here together. He died at Arras, otherwise I would have been Mrs Brissenden. Mrs Alfie Brissenden. That would have been lovely.' 156

Maisie took her leave, thanking Miss Rowe for her time and the Fry's Chocolate Cream. She would proceed to the house belonging to Jonathan Hawkin-Price, but not before she pulled over in a quiet place, just to think, to shake off the image in her mind of another woman who had lost her love to war, a woman now in her fifties who continued to carry the photograph of a ‘boy' long dead. And it appeared to be even more of an irony to Maisie, that as she passed the town war memorial on her way to Sandstone Avenue, a stonemason was at work, adding names to the list of the town's fallen in yet another world war. On a whim, she turned the motor car and parked at the foot of the small garden surrounding the memorial.

‘Good morning!' Maisie called out as she approached the stonemason. ‘I was just passing and noticed you at work.'

The man turned and touched his flat cap with the forefinger of his left hand – in his right he held a stone-engraving tool.

‘I hope you don't mind my having a look at your work. I served in the first war, so I always stop to pay my respects when I'm in a new place and see the memorial.'

‘Nurse?'

Maisie nodded.

‘I was with the Buffs – the East Kents,' said the stonemason.

‘Do you live here in the town?'

The man shook his head. ‘No, I won't work where I knew the lads whose names I'm adding to the list. Everyone's got their limits – that's mine. I turn down a lot of good work, but I can't chisel out the names of boys I saw grow up and become men.'

‘I don't think I could either.' She stepped forward. ‘May I?'

The man moved so she could study the names of those listed underneath the words ‘Lest We Forget.' 157

‘Graham Chalmers? Might he have been the son of Mr Chalmers – the gardener over at the big mansion on Sandstone Avenue?'

The stonemason shrugged. ‘Could well be, I didn't ask his father how he earned his money, but from the look of his hands, he was a man who worked hard.'

‘His father came?'

‘They do, you know.' The man was silent for a few seconds, as if gauging whether to continue. He cleared his throat. ‘I've watched them sometimes, as I'm packing up my tools and putting them away in the back of the van. You see them coming up, the families. They usually wear their Sunday best when they visit. You see the mums shed a tear and the fathers comfort them. Young widows come with their parents and some bring the nippers along too. And the strangest thing – though, I dunno, perhaps it's not so strange – they go up and touch the name. They run their fingers over every letter, as if they could feel the one they've lost.' He gave a deep exhale. ‘But the father of this one seemed to want to talk, so we had a chat – he was with another man, said they worked together. I reckon the other bloke must have been a chauffeur, the size of the motor they drove up in. Both lost their sons and at the same time – Tunisian campaign, I think it was. Their sons were with the East Kents, same as me in the last war. Mind you, once a soldier's name is up there, it doesn't matter where they died, does it? It's all war.'

Maisie nodded. She had no more questions to ask of the man. He had given her enough to think about.

‘I'd better let you get on. You're doing a lovely job there. Each name is perfect.'

‘Can't let our boys down, can I? Least I can do is make sure that in a hundred years' time people will know the names of the lads who 158gave their lives for their country. Just wish I could add all the names of the ones who came back but left half of themselves over there.'

It now transpired the chauffeur and gardener had visited the war memorial together and their sons could well have been playmates, good friends as they grew to manhood. The owner of the house had a German woman friend. He spent a fair amount of time in Germany and gave parties for associates, and he didn't want locals to know much about either the gatherings or those invited. And he was an angry man when it came to consideration of his government. Yes, people could get very upset about money or what they thought was owed them, whether by society or the powers that be.

A sign outside the town garage indicated that it was closed until Monday, but she no longer needed to ask questions of the mechanic – Miss Rowe had given her worthwhile information, though a good deal was hidden between her words. Maisie was now in two minds whether to return to the mansion, the place she was beginning to think of as the Nazi house. Did she need to know more? Was there anything else to see? Yes, perhaps one quick visit, but not today. After all, the estate owner was a man who was, to all intents and purposes, a Nazi sympathiser, and two men who worked for him had lost sons fighting against the Germans in North Africa. It would be easy to draw a conclusion, but as Maisie knew only too well – indeed, as experience had taught her – it was far too simple to fall into the trap of accepting the first scenario that came to mind, not least because there might not even have been a crime committed. Or there could have been many.

Maisie offered Billy and Doreen tea when they arrived at her Holland Park flat, but they declined. 159

‘We just want to see our Billy, if you don't mind,' said Doreen. ‘Oh dear, I'm putting my foot in it already. I mean, "our Will".'

‘Of course you want to see him. Let's walk along to Priscilla's house straightaway. Dr Dene will be there, as you know. He'll have a quick word with you about Will's care and the limitations of his diet. Your son has done well in just a few days – and I know he's looking forward to seeing you.'

Billy and his wife exchanged glances.

‘Billy?' queried Maisie.

‘I'm just a bit, well, nervous, miss. I don't want to say the wrong thing, you know, get him going.'

Doreen reached for her husband's hand. ‘I'm his mum, Billy – I always say the wrong thing! Come on, one step at a time to see our son.'

Maisie pulled on her gloves. ‘Right, let's be on our way. And if you're nervous, remember, breathe in for a count of four, and out for a count of six. Helps to settle you.'

‘If you say so, miss,' said Billy. ‘Mind you, it might kill me, breathing like that.'

The trio did not hurry along to the home of Priscilla and Douglas Partridge, though neither did they proceed at a strolling pace. At one point Billy stopped.

‘What is it, Billy?' asked Maisie.

He pointed to a sign on the other side of the street. ‘Look at that. They're popping up everywhere, aren't they? These signs letting us know that when we're ill we won't have to pay for the doctor, on account of this new health service coming in a few years. But look at that one.' He read out the message flanking the image of a small child. ‘"Diphtheria Costs Lives – Immunisation Costs Nothing."' 160

‘Not now,' said Doreen, reaching for her husband's arm.

‘But you can't help looking, can you? If they'd had that years ago, our Lizzie wouldn't have died, would she?'

‘William Beale!' said Doreen, her voice raised. ‘Our son is just one minute away from us. I will not stare back at the past and fret about a … a needle in a child's bum that we couldn't get all those years ago. In a year's time you can bet there will be another immunisation invented and it will save children from something else that's killing them today – and even more couples like us will wish it had come sooner. It's what they call "progress" and I for one am all for it. I'm fed up with the past. Fed up to the back teeth with it! It's too much when you add it to the present, and I'm not going to be like Lot's wife.'

Maisie's eyes widened. Doreen was known to be a woman of few words – Maisie had never before heard Billy's wife declare her feelings in such a tone.

Billy nodded, his tempered reply revealing equal surprise and an effort to placate his wife. ‘You're right, love. Let's get along the street and see our boy.'

As Doreen Beale marched ahead, Billy leant down and whispered to Maisie, ‘Who's Lot when he's at home?'

Maisie, Priscilla and Douglas waited in the drawing room while Andrew Dene spent a little time with Billy and Doreen in the study. They heard all three emerge and go upstairs to the room where Will Beale had been staying for a few days.

‘I hope all's well,' said Priscilla. ‘Douglas managed to persuade Will to come down to have breakfast with us this morning, and I must say, though he's still painfully thin, at least he has colour in his 161cheeks and is a bit more … a bit more—'

‘Conversational,' offered Douglas. He looked at Maisie. ‘I've had practice – we both have. Tim was either up or down after Dunkirk. One minute optimism was the order of the day, and the next he was in the Doldrums and listing to starboard. And I think it did Will some good when Tim and Tarquin popped in yesterday, because of course Will was evacuated from Dunkirk, and Tim lost his best friend – and his arm – when they took out his friend's father's yacht and joined other vessels bound for France in a bid to rescue our men from those beaches.' Douglas stopped speaking, as if the memory of holding his wounded son in his arms were too much to bear. He took a deep breath and went on. ‘I think the common ground helped. When Tim came downstairs after talking with Will, he told us he'd confided in Will about bringing home his pal's body, seeing him shot and knowing he was dead – I know there were details he had never talked about with us. And Will told Tim he had been tied to a tree with a knife hanging over his head, then made to watch while Japanese soldiers hacked a couple of his best mates to death. They did it because the men had killed rats to cook and eat in an effort to get some more food inside them.'

‘That family has a long road to navigate,' said Priscilla, standing up and walking towards the drinks trolley.

‘Priscilla—'

‘Just a small one, Douglas my love, just a small one.'

‘Anyway, they have us to turn to, if they wish,' said Maisie. ‘And Andrew's experience to draw upon. Billy trusts him implicitly.'

Soon enough, Billy and Doreen came downstairs with Will, now clad in clothing offered by Tim when it was discovered he and Will were the same height, though it was clear Will required a belt to hold up the grey corduroy trousers. Shoe size was identical, and 162shirts would fit better when Will had more weight on his bones. As Maisie expected, there was not much conversation, just thanks extended and a shaking of hands all around – though Priscilla could not resist reaching out to hold Will, Doreen and Billy for a few seconds each, while distributing air kisses on either side of their faces. Will laughed.

‘That's a good sign,' said Dene.

‘It's my dad's dial. That look on his face when Mrs Partridge kissed him was worth a guinea a minute.'

Maisie, Douglas, Priscilla and Andrew Dene waved to the Beales as they departed in a taxi.

‘I'd better be off,' said Dene.

‘Could I have a quick word before you go, Andrew?'

‘Of course.'

‘Priscilla?'

‘The study is all yours,' offered Priscilla.

‘What's on your mind, Maisie – because I can see this is not about Billy Beale.'

‘No, it isn't – though I cannot thank you enough for your help.'

‘I've got a soft spot for that family – but I must get back to mine now, or my children will start to wonder if they have a father at all.'

‘I'll be quick. I know you have connections with various medical examiners, especially in West Kent. Could you find out if they have recently performed a post-mortem on a deceased male from Hallarden, age around fifty? I don't know what sort of story you can come up with to ask – perhaps you were treating him for an orthopaedic condition and you hadn't heard from him, but you know he had a heart problem. Something like that?' 163

‘Not an idle off-the-cuff suggestion – you've been giving this some thought.'

‘I have. I'll get to the point – and this is in confidence. I want to know if the body of a man named Jonathan Hawkin-Price was brought in for examination a few weeks ago. I believe it would have been on the Q.T. – the examiner might have been told to keep quiet about it.'

‘Alrighty, I can do that.' He looked at Maisie. ‘Anything for you, as always.'

A moment's silence seemed to hang in the air, broken by Maisie.

‘I knew I could count on you, Andrew. Give my very best to your lovely wife – and thank you, again, for everything you've done for Will.'

Dene smiled. ‘As I said, for you, Maisie – anything. Now, I'm off home. I'll be in touch.'

Maisie reached for the door handle, stepping out into the hall before any more could be said. She opened the front door, and Andrew Dene left, tipping his hat as he proceeded down the steps and towards his motor car. She sighed and turned back into the house.

‘Everything alright?' asked Priscilla, as Maisie entered the drawing room.

Maisie nodded.

‘I'm going to leave you two, if you don't mind,' said Douglas. ‘I've to write something for the Telegraph before tomorrow morning, so I'd better get down to work.'

Priscilla watched her husband leave, and turned to Maisie. ‘You're looking thoughtful.'

‘Just wondering how I had the cheek to ask you to take in the four young people so soon after Will – I was just stumped when it came to 164deciding upon a safe place for them.'

‘It'll keep me occupied. I'll be like a Border Collie with a small herd – I'll round them up and make a list of things for them to do around the house. And woe betide them if they get on the wrong side of Mrs R.' Priscilla took a sip of her gin and tonic. ‘Don't mind my saying this, but I think Dr Dene burns a bit of a torch for you.'

Maisie shook her head. ‘No, it's just the Maurice Blanche connection. Maurice helped him get into medical school and then assisted with money – scholarships don't cover everything. Maurice saw such promise in a boy from a poor background who had no chance unless someone lifted him.'

‘Your Maurice supported a lot of people, didn't he?'

‘Yes. Without him … without him I sometimes wonder where I might have ended up.'

‘Well, you wouldn't have met me at Girton, for a start.' Priscilla raised her glass. ‘That's one big thing we can both be thankful for!'

‘Indeed it is, Pris. Indeed it is.'