Waving the assistants to one side, he snapped his fingers. An apprentice appeared bearing a freshly laundered white butcher’s apron, which he unfolded and held ready. Taking off his jacket, Waite handed it to another assistant, turned and washed his hands again, drying them on a fresh white towel held at the ready by a young boy. He took the apron and placed the bib over his head, wrapping the strings around his waist, bringing them to the front, and tying a double knot. One of the apprentices had begun to operate the rope pulley, slowly inching the carcasses down to ground level, whereupon two others, wearing butchers’ white aprons, white shirts and blue- and-gold bow ties, lifted a pig carcass onto the marble slab.
Swiftly and deftly Waite wielded the cleaver and boning knife, his sausage-like fingers holding the meat steady while he separated legs, ribs, trotters, joints, and muscle. With a flourish he held up a leg of pork, explaining to the customers who had gathered to watch Joseph Waite, the famous butchers’ boy who had done so very well, yet knew what it was to be poor—that even the cheapest cuts could be cooked to provide a succulent Sunday dinner, and the leftovers minced together with a few carrots, potatoes and a little bit of onion for a pie on Monday—which would, of course, last until Tuesday or Wednesday.
Waite finished preparing the carcass for display and sale and, as he removed his apron, his customers broke into applause. Waite waved an acknowledgment, then washed his hands once more and turned to the apprentice holding out his jacket. He slipped into it, nodded to his staff, and waved to the customers one last time before leaving by a side door that Maisie assumed led to the upstairs offices. The assistants exchanged glances and exhaled, blowing out their cheeks for added emphasis, relieved that the ritual was over.
Having seen all she had come to see, Maisie turned to leave. She had taken only one step when her eyes were drawn to the wall above the doorway and another mosaic crafted at great expense. It was not its beauty that caused Maisie to catch her breath, but the sad truth inscribed there. Upon each tile was the name of an employee of Waite’s International Stores lost in the Great War. There were at least one hundred, each name accompanied by the town in which the man had worked. Above the names a banner of colored tiles formed the words: IN LOVING REMEMBRANCE—LEST WE FORGET.
Maisie’s eyes filled with tears as she was taken once again by the grief that still assailed her when she least expected it, when the sharp and dreadful memories came to her unbidden. Maisie knew the recollections were not hers exclusively. A shared grief often seemed to linger in the air, perhaps borne on a soft breeze carrying the name of one who was lost heard in conversation or remembered at a gathering, and the realization that one or two of that group were gone, their laughter never to be heard again. It was as if the sorrow of every single man and woman who had lived with the fear or reality of losing a loved one to war had formed an abyss to be negotiated anew every day.
Composing herself, Maisie approached an assistant at the cheese counter, who had no customers to serve at the moment.
“Excuse me.”
“Yes, Madam, how may I help you today?”
“I just wondered about the names on the wall.”
“Oh, yes, Miss. Tragic, we lost so many. Joined up as pals, a lot of ’em. The Waite’s Boys, they called themselves. Mr. Waite had that memorial started as soon as the first were lost. There’s one in every Waite’s shop, all the same, all the names in every shop.”
“You must all think a lot of him.” Maisie inclined her head, seeking a response.
The assistant smiled. “Yes, we all think a lot of him, Madam. And he looks after all the families.” He nodded toward the memorial tiles.
“You mean financially?”
“Yes, there’s not one of those families wants for anything. They get their groceries every Christmas, and a Christmas box—money, you know—and they get a bit off their groceries if they shop at Waite’s. Got special little cards, they have, to get the money back. And if anyone’s taken poorly, well, Mr. Waite’s office is under orders to look after them.”
“I see. Very generous, isn’t he?”
“Very.” The assistant moved to end the conversation as a customer approached, then continued. “Read through those names, Madam, and you’ll see why Mr. Waite has a personal interest in the families.”
Maisie looked above the door and read: “Gough, Gould, Gowden, Haines, Jackson, Michaels, Richards”—her eyes focused on the bottom of one column, then rose to the top of the next—“Waite . . . Joseph Charles Waite, Jr., London.” She could read no further.
CHAPTER THREE
On Tuesday afternoon, following her visit to the branch of Waite’s International Stores, Maisie telephoned the offices of Carstairs & Clifton and requested an immediate appointment with Mr. Gerald Bartrup, for whom she had received a personal recommendation. She had no doubt that her request would be granted, for new customers seeking investment advice were thin on the ground in such times. Maisie was curious about the relationship between Bartrup and Charlotte. Had theirs been a love match that had soured with time and deeper familiarity? Or had Charlotte been pressured by her father to make a suitable marriage? The engagement had ended, but was there still a connection? If so, Charlotte might well have appealed to her former fiance upon fleeing her father’s house.
She alighted at Bank underground station, and walked to the redbrick building that housed the offices of Carstairs & Clifton. A doorman directed her to the reception desk, where her appointment was confirmed, and she was directed to a staircase, at the top of which she was met by another clerk who escorted her to Mr. Bartrup’s office.
Bartrup, a man of medium height, about thirty-eight years old, with a receding hairline and a rather florid complexion, came from behind a large mahogany desk and extended a hand. “Ah, Miss Dobbs. Delighted to meet you.”
“And I you, Mr. Bartrup.”
“Do take a seat. Would you like some refreshment? Tea, perhaps?”
“No thank you, Mr. Bartrup.”
Bartrup took his place behind the desk, and placed his hands together on the leather blotting pad in front of him.
