An Incomplete Revenge

of them different. Even though they’re in a good school, for them, we might all be better off back where we were, away from this country. Even Elinor wants to go back to France. Do you know that last week she was telling me that when she was in school they were whipped for speaking to each other in Welsh? They were forced to speak English.”

Maisie sipped her sherry and was about to comment when Priscilla looked over at her, grinning. “In the meantime, before we decide whether to up sticks and scurry back to Biarritz, I am going to enjoy seeing more of you, for a start. I think I might have to take you in hand, Maisie.”

“And I think I’m doing quite well, thank you.”

“What about Simon?”

Maisie was quiet. “He’s gone, Pris. And now, even more than before, I believe cremation was the best thing. Margaret made a wise decision, though difficult. It’s over. He’s free at last.”

“And you?”

“I don’t know. I can’t say. It was as if he were imprisoned in a room where we could see him but not speak to him, as if we were caught in a vacuum of silence even if we screamed.”

“But you’ve never screamed.”

“Have you?”

“At the top of my lungs, across the Atlantic Ocean, every day for months after the war, after my brothers and parents died. I screamed all the time.”

“Oh.”

The women sat in silence, comfortable in their friendship. Then Priscilla braced her shoulders and reached toward Maisie.

“I almost forgot. I have something for you.”

“For me?”

“Yes. The furniture we chose to bring with us was delivered last week—what a performance, I shall be hard pushed to take it back with me—and I have a piece I think you’ll love. I want you to have it as a belated housewarming gift. I’ll have it sent to your flat next week.”

“What is it?”

“Come and have a look.”

Maisie followed Priscilla to the corner of the room, where an upright gramophone stood in the corner. The cabinet was of rich mahogany, inlaid with maple.

“Douglas has bought a new one, and this one is going begging.” She bent over it. “See, you lift the lid here, and there’s where you place the gramophone record. You wind it up with the handle at the side and then pull up the arm like this. And there’s a cupboard below where you’ll keep your gramophone records.”

“I don’t have any gramophone records.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve thought of that.” She pulled out a record and placed it on the turntable, then held up the horn, ready to set the needle in the groove. “This man is one of Douglas’s favorites. His music has been all over Paris, and he’s in great demand in the bals musettes, you know, the small dance clubs. He’s a gypsy—one of les Manouches, the travelers who live in caravans just outside Paris—and his music is quite wild and clever. I’m sure you’ll love it.”

And as the music surged into the room, Maisie smiled. “Yes, you’re right, I love it.”

MAISIE HAD DELAYED the journey to Kent until after her weaving class on Saturday. Once more, her spirits were lifted by the colors and textures around her, by swags of dyed wool that hung from the laundry racks, by the presence of Marta Jones, who had told her, in confidence, that she was considering reclaiming her family’s original name.

“I think it will release something, some passion, something here.” Whispering, she pressed her hand against her chest, then took up Maisie’s bobbin to correct an error in her weaving.

“And what is your name?”

“Marta Juroszek.” She smiled as she pronounced the word, rolling her tongue around the syllables as if tasting a new sweet pudding for the first time. “Yes, I am Marta Juroszek.”

And though Maisie was concerned for her teacher—the country seemed in no mood to demonstrate tolerance for those of distant cultures—she saw a sense of belonging claim her.

“It’s a good name, Marta, a strong name. And it’s yours.”

A SURPRISE WAS in store for Maisie as she left Marta’s studio. Leaning against the wall inside the entrance to the building, a visitor waited for her.

“Beattie, what on earth are you doing here?”

“Your assistant told me where to find you. He said you would be finished by twelve.”

“Come on, let’s walk to my motor car. Why are you in London?”

“I’ve been here for a couple of days. I’m going back to Maidstone today.”

Maisie pointed to the MG and opened the doors. Once they were both seated, she turned to Beattie.

“Do you want a lift to Charing Cross?”

“Thank you.”

“So, do you have that job yet?”