“I could’ve brought ’er round to the front for you, Miss. Anyway, there she is, all cleaned and polished ready for London. Got ’er in plenty of mud down there, didn’t you?”
“The weather has no respect for the motor car, Eric, any more than it has for the horse. Thank you for shining her up again. Did you check my oil?”
“All done, Miss. Everything given the once over. She’d take you from John O’Groats to Land’s End if you felt like the drive, and that’s a fact. Lovely little runner, lovely.”
“Thank you, Eric.”
Maisie parked once again in Fitzroy Street, in exactly the same spot as the evening before. Few people had motor vehicles, so Maisie was regarded as a subject of some interest as she climbed from the gleaming crimson vehicle.
She walked slowly toward the office, knowing that this morning would be a difficult one. Her feet were heavy on the stairs and she knew that to have the energy for the next part of her day, she must bring her body into alignment with her intentions, that her sagging shoulders would not support her spirit for the task ahead.
Unlocking the door to the first-floor office, Maisie was surprised to note that Billy had not arrived yet. She looked at her watch. Half-past eight. Despite his message, Billy was late. She walked to the window, rubbing the back of her neck where her scar had begun to throb.
Placing her hands on her chest, with her right hand over the left, Maisie breathed deeply. As her tension eased, she began to envisage the conversation with Billy, concentrating on the closing words of a dialogue that had yet to happen. Pressing her hands even more firmly against her body, Maisie deliberately slowed her breathing to settle her pounding heart, and felt the nagging ache of her scar abate. That’s a reminder, she thought, every single day, just as Billy’s wounded leg is a reminder. And as she stilled her heart and mind, it occurred to Maisie to question herself: If Lydia Fisher chose alcohol, and Billy narcotics to beat back the tide of daily reminder, then what did
“ ’Mornin’, Miss, and what a nice mornin’ it is, too. Thought I’d need me overcoat this mornin’, I did, but ’ad to run from the bus stop and ended up carryin’ the thing.”
Maisie looked at her silver watch, pinned to the lapel of her jacket.
“Sorry I’m a bit late today, Miss, but there was a bit of an ’oldup on the road. I caught the bus this mornin’, and ’alfway along the Mile End Road, I wished I ’adn’t bothered. Would’ve been quicker to walk—and me with this leg and all. Big mess, it was. Motor car—and you don’t see many of ’em down there—’ad gone right into the back of a dray. Thank Gawd ’e weren’t goin’ too quick. Mind you, you should’ve ’eard them drivers goin’ at ’im.Thought they’d whop ’im one with the whip, I did. One of ’em was shoutin’, ‘Put the traces on ’im, and give the bleedin’ ’orses a rest, the lunatic!’ Oops, sorry, Miss, I was just sayin’ what I ’eard them say. It’s a poor old state of affairs, when motor cars—” Billy fussed as he spoke, avoiding eye contact, taking time to shake out his coat and cap, placing them on the coat stand, then riffling through the newspaper as if looking for something in particular.
“Now then, saw something ’ere this mornin’ I thought you’d—”
“Billy.”
“Got to do with that—”
“Billy!” Maisie raised her voice, then spoke more quietly. “There’s a matter I would like to discuss with you. Let’s sit together by the gas fire here. Pull up a chair.”
His face flushed, Billy put the newspaper on his desk, dragged his chair out, and set it next to Maisie’s.
“Am I getting the sack, Miss?”
“No, Billy, you are not getting the sack. However, I’d like to see a bit more in the way of timekeeping on your part.”
“Yes, Miss. I’m sorry, Miss. Won’t ’appen again.”
“Billy . . .”
“Yes, Miss?”
“I’ll get straight to the point,” said Maisie, realizing this was a prevarication, that she was far from getting to the point. She took another deep breath, and began to speak. “I have been concerned for some time about your— let’s say moods and—”
“I can exp—”
“Let me finish, Billy. I have been concerned about your moods and, of course, about the obvious pain you have been suffering with your war wounds. I have been worried about you.”
Billy rubbed his knees back and forth, back and forth, his eyes on the flickering, hissing flame of the gas fire.
“You know only too well that I was a nurse and that I have some knowledge of the substances administered to the wounded during the war. I saw doctors working in terrible conditions, barely able to practice their profession. When it came to administering morphine and other drugs, they didn’t always know what they were giving, in the way of strength of medication.” Maisie watched Billy, choosing her words carefully as if she were navigating a minefield, trying to keep his attention yet not ignite a rush to defense or the explosive outburst that she feared. Billy’s jaw worked back and forth as he listened and continued to gaze into the fire.
“Billy, I believe you were overdosed on morphine, though you probably didn’t know it at the time. Even when we had wounded men being brought into the casualty clearing station by the hundreds, sometimes people stood out and, as you know, I remembered you. You were one of those it was almost impossible to medicate. You were immediately released to the general hospital, where you were given more medication, then to convalescent care, where more morphine was prescribed to assist you with the pain.”
Billy nodded, but still he did not speak.
“And when the prescriptions ended, like so many, you found that access to a substance with similar qualities was easy, especially in London. Cocaine, wasn’t it? You probably gave it up for years, didn’t you? But when the leg started nagging at you again, you had a bit more money coming in and a local source.” Maisie paused.
