Birds of a Feather

“Yes. Yes, you’re right. We’ve seen a lot of changes since the war.”

“I think people are trying to forget the war, don’t you, Miss? I mean, who wants to be reminded? My cousin— not the one what died over there, but the one who came home wounded from Loos—he said that it was one thing to be remembered, and quite another to be reminded every day. He didn’t mind people remembering what he’d done, you know, over there. But he didn’t want to be reminded of it. He said that it was hard, because something happened to remind him every day.”

Maisie thought of her bath, and how the sheer pleasure of it was a reminder of the past. Even if the reminder was of the opposite sensation, that of cold, of discomfort.

“Well, I’d better be getting along, M’um, let you eat your supper. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Sandra. And Sandra, don’t worry about things changing. It usually turns out for the best.”

Maisie finished her soup and leaned into the chair again to watch the hot coals turn to embers. She would make up the fire just a little before going into her bedroom, knowing that as she drifted into slumber, the tray would silently be taken from her rooms in the same way that a breakfast tray would silently appear as she was pinning up her hair in the morning. The conversation with Sandra had sparked her thoughts in another direction. Perhaps she was ready for change. Not outwardly, though she knew that exterior transformation was a signal of inner change, but in what she envisioned for her future. Yes, perhaps that was a subject worthy of consideration.

As Maisie settled back into the pillows, she thought of the fine line between remembrance and reminder, and how a constant reminder could drive a person to the edge of sanity. Could drive a person to drugs or drink, to anything that took away the past’s sharp edges. But what if the reminder was another human being? Then what might happen?

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Maisie rose early. She washed quickly and dressed in her blue suit, with the collar and cuffs of a white linen blouse just visible underneath. Anticipating a chilly morning, Maisie remembered her navy blue coat, along with her old cloche and black gloves. She grabbed the black document case and left the room quickly.

She was about to open the disguised landing door that led to the back stairs and down to kitchen, when she thought better of it. The girls downstairs might be embarrassed. She would use the main staircase. Then she could knock at the door in fair warning. Straddling the line of her position in the household required some thought.

Maisie knocked, waited a second or two, then poked her head around the kitchen door without waiting for a reply. “Good morning everyone!”

There was a collective gasp from Sandra, Teresa and Valerie. “Oh, Miss, you gave us a fright!” said Sandra. “I was just about to start your breakfast.”

“Sorry to scare you. I thought I’d have breakfast in the kitchen, if that’s all right.”

“Of course it is, Miss. Of course. At least your hair’s nice and dry this morning!”

“Your usual, Miss? Porridge, Hovis and marmalade? You’ll need to stoke up the fires this morning, it’s cold out there. They reckon we could be in for a wintry Easter this year.”

Maisie smiled, noting the change of address again, from “M’um” to “Miss.” Maisie felt like a citizen of two countries, neither here nor there, but always somewhere in the middle.

“Easter’s still a fortnight away and I need to be quick today. I’ll have just a slice of Hovis toasted and a nice cup of tea, thank you.”

“Right you are, Miss. Cup of tea coming up, and toast to follow. Are you sure you don’t want a nice boiled egg?”

Maisie shook her head. “Tea and toast will be plenty for me this morning, Teresa.”

Maisie took some letters from her document case and began to read. She was aware that the girls had exchanged glances, and were mouthing messages to each other. Sandra cleared her throat and came over to the table.

“Miss?”

“Yes, Sandra?”

“Well, we was thinking, you know, and wondered if, you know, you’d like to come to the pictures with us, next Saturday evening. We don’t usually go out together, the three of us girls—we like to make sure that one of us is always in the kitchen, even if there’s no one upstairs—but it’s not as if we’re leaving the house unattended, what with the other staff being here.”

“What’s the picture?”

“It’s a talkie, and a bit scary, I’ve heard. It’s got Donald Calthrop in it. Called Blackmail. It’s about this girl, and she’s courting a fella in the police, a detective, and he—”

“I don’t think so, Sandra.”

“Hmmm, I s’pose anything to do with the police would be like going on a busman’s holiday for you, wouldn’t it, Miss?”

“It’s lovely of you to ask, Sandra. Thank you very much for thinking of me. The funny thing is, I don’t really like the scary ones, they keep me awake.”

Sandra laughed. “Now that, Miss, is funny.”

Having barely touched her breakfast, Maisie left the Ebury Place mansion via the stone stairs that led from the back door into the street, then made her way to the mews to collect the motor car. George, the Compton’s chauffeur, was in Kent, but a young footman had been assigned to keep the garage spick and span, ready for the return of the Compton’s Rolls Royce. The old Lanchester was kept in London, and though now used only occasionally, was cleaned, polished and tended to regularly. Maisie’s MG gave the footman a more substantial daily job.