“Then you know, don’t you. You know.”
“Yes. I know.”
The man’s eyes grew moist, and he pulled a soiled handkerchief from the pocket of his corduroy trousers.
“I’ve heard from some of your neighbors about the Zeppelin raid. Can you tell me about it?”
He blew his nose, sniffed, and inspected the contents of his handkerchief before crumpling it again and returning it to his pocket. “I reckon it was either going toward London, and for some reason had to turn back and so dumped its bomb here, or it was on its way out of London, hadn’t found the target it wanted, saw a light—even though we had the blackout—and then dropped it.”
“And it happened just after some of you had received word that your boys had been killed in France?”
“That’s right. We lost Michael and Peter early in 1916, but it was still here.” He pressed his fist to his chest. “And of course you’d learn about this one gone, and that one. But then came the telegrams telling of more, on the same day. And we all see the nippers grow up, so it’s like losing your own all over again. Then that balloon went over and we copped it. Insult to injury, like I said.”
“And you lost the Martin family.”
“Yes. Though they were outsiders, you know, not born and bred here. Only been in the village about twelve- thirteen years. They were from over there, you know—Europe.”
“They were English, as I understand it. At least the children were born here.”
“But not
Maisie was just about to ask another question when a knock at the door interrupted her.
“I’d best get on now, miss, if you’ve nothing else to ask me.”
Maisie shook her head. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Chambers.”
He led the way toward the front door, which he opened to reveal Mrs. Pendle, standing on the doorstep holding a tray covered with an embroidered cloth.
“Oh, hello, Miss Dobbs. Didn’t know you were here. I hope I’m not interrupting.”
“Not at all, I’m just leaving.” Maisie turned to Mr. Chambers, thanked him again, and went on her way. As she stepped back onto the pavement, she heard Mrs. Pendle announce in a loud voice, “It’s a nice oxtail soup today, with dumplings.” When she looked around to wave goodbye, she saw Mrs. Pendle hand over the tray and step inside the cottage, her arms folded. She smiled to herself. Her grandmother had once said that you always knew when a neighbor woman was about to stay for a chat, because she’d fold her arms, ready to lean on your fence. But time spent with the villagers had been more than worthwhile, especially the conversation with Mr. Chambers. He’d given more than two nuggets’ worth of value with just one unguarded comment, as she suspected he might.
Considering the list again, Maisie decided that at this stage she would visit only one more house, the home of Phyllis Wheeler, nee Mansell, the girlhood friend of Anna Martin. It was located about a quarter of a mile past the smithy, on the right. An Edwardian villa set back from the road, the house was shabby despite being younger, by several hundred years, than many in the village. Two bay windows flanked an olive-green front door, the color of the house reflecting the livery of the local railway company who owned the property, so Maisie concluded that Phyllis’s father worked at a local station. She hoped Phyllis would be at home, seeing as she had two children and a new baby.
She was walking along the path toward the door when it opened and a woman began struggling to maneuver a perambulator across the threshold.
“Here, let me give you a hand.” Maisie stepped forward and pulled the front of the baby carriage, while the woman pushed from inside the door.
“Thank you very much. I usually leave it outside, but with all these Londoners and gypsies about, you never know, do you?”
Maisie smiled. “Mrs. Wheeler?”
“Yes.”
Maisie explained the purpose of her visit, at the same time concerned that it might be met with a negative response. Instead the woman agreed to answer a few questions, especially if it helped to get the brickworks in better hands, because her husband worked there.
’Are you going shopping or just for a walk?”
“Bit of both, if I’ve time before this one wants his feed. The elder two are in school, and by the time I’ve cleaned up the kitchen, I’m dying to get out of the house for a bit. My father leaves early, working on the railway, and my mother’s up at the Sandermere place, so I’m alone all day until the children come home.”
“Well, shall we walk down to the crossroads and then back toward the village again? It’s turning quite warm now, isn’t it?”
The woman agreed, and they began strolling away from the village. The baby slept, the pram’s white summer canopy casting shadows on his sleep-blushed cheeks. For a moment or two, Maisie spoke of the weather, of the apples hanging heavy on the trees, and of the beauty of Heronsdene. She was grateful to be walking, not least because it gave her the opportunity to gain a deeper understanding of the woman. In mirroring her gait, the way she moved and held her hands—even though she was pushing a pram—Maisie would absorb, for a moment, some of the emotions the woman experienced as she answered her questions. And with movement of the body came movement of the mind and of the voice, so Maisie thought the conversation might be fruitful.
At first they spoke of the estate and of the brickworks, with Phyllis repeating stories of the daily ups and downs of his trade that her husband brought home, especially criticism regarding Sandermere’s ownership. In the set of her shoulders, her jaw, even the manner in which her walk became brisk, she indicated dislike of Sandermere and perhaps something even deeper. Maisie pressed her to reveal her feelings.
“To tell you the truth, I can’t stand him. He’s the one who should have died in the fire, not Anna.”
“You mean the fire following the bombing?”
