Billy gasped for breath. “In ’ere, Miss. Let’s get off the street.” Billy jerked his head to the right, toward a side street.
“Right. A deep breath, Billy, a deep breath.”
Billy fought for air, his gas-damaged lungs heaving against his ribcage so that Maisie could see the steep rise and fall of his chest. He brought his chin down as if to retain more of the life-giving air that his body craved. “Miss . . . I thought I’d never find you . . . that you might’ve gone off with Stratton.”
“What’s happened, Billy? What’s happened?” As she clutched at the cloth of Billy’s overcoat, knowledge flooded Maisie. “It’s my father, isn’t it, Billy? It’s Dad?”
“Yes, Miss. Got to get you to Chelstone. ’e’s awright, comfortable, apparently.”
“What’s
“Miss, stop. It’s awright, awright. Listen to me. It was an accident, with the ’orse this mornin’. Word just came from Mr. Carter. The mare was ’avin’ trouble, so Mr. Dobbs ’ad set up the ropes, you know.”
“I know what they do, Billy.” Maisie was thinking clearly now, and began to walk into Charlotte Street, Billy limping behind her.
“Well, anyway, something ’appened and ’e slipped, then something else ’appened and he got knocked out cold. Rushed to the ’ospital in Pembury, ’e was, for X-rays. Bad old do at ’is age.”
“I want you to telephone the Waite residence. Cancel our appointment.”
“Miss, you ain’t thinkin’ of goin’ on yer own, are ya? Not drivin’ all that way, bein’ as you’re not—”
“Not what, Billy?” Maisie stopped, her eyes flashing at Billy. Yet as she looked at him, rivulets of perspiration oozing from his forehead and running across his cheekbones, tears sprang into the corners of her eyes. “I’m sorry. Thank you.”
“ ’e’ll be awright, you’ll see. Strong as ’ouses, your dad is, Miss. But I reckon I’d better come with you, Miss.”
“No, I haven’t the time to wait while you go to Whitechapel, and you can’t leave without letting your wife know.”
“She’ll be awright, Miss. I can get on the dog’n’bone to the shop up the street. They just ’ad one put in. They’ll run along to ’er wiv a message.”
Maisie shook her head. “I’m going alone. I need you here. There’s business to take care of. Have a rest, a cup of tea, and look after my business for me, Billy.”
“Yes, Miss.”
Maisie started the motor car as he closed the door for her.
“Oh, and Billy, your nose is bleeding again. And I’ll tell you now, Billy Beale, that if I ever learn that you are at that stuff again, I will box your ears for you!”
Billy watched Maisie screech into Warren Street on her way to Kent, knowing that she would push the MG to maximum speed whether on a London road or along a country lane.Faster than fairies, faster than witches,
Bridges and houses, hedges and ditches;
And charging along like troops in a battle . . .
It had been Maisie’s favorite poem as a child, when her mother would set the small, dark-haired girl on her knee, then rhythmically recite the verse, tapping her foot so that Maisie felt propelled forward by the momentum of movement, imagining that she really was in a railway carriage.All of the sights of the hill and the plain
Fly as thick as the driving rain . . .
Pressing the MG as fast as it would go, Maisie sped toward Pembury. Rain was now coming down in thick icicle-like slants across the windscreen. As she moved closer to see the road, wiping condensation from the glass with the back of her hand, her heart was beating furiously against her chest. And still the poem echoed in her mind.Here is a child who clambers and scrambles,
All by himself and gathering brambles . . .
And in her mind’s eye Maisie saw the small kitchen at the terraced house in Lambeth, where she had spent the years before her mother’s passing. She looked again into the kind, sparkling eyes, then over to the stove, where her father leaned against the wall while listening to his wife and his girl laughing together. So long ago; it was so long ago.Here is a cart run away in the road
Lumping along with a man and a load;
And here is a mill and there is a river;
Each a glimpse and gone forever!
Her mother was gone forever, Simon was gone forever. What if her father was lost, too? Maisie cried out as she whirled though Tonbridge and on toward her destination.
Swinging in through the broad driveway, Maisie saw the large brick-built hospital in front of her, the tall chimney at the far side belching smoke. She remembered passing the hospital in an earlier time, when her companion had told her that if the chimney was smoking it meant that amputated limbs were being burned. Maisie had rolled her eyes, sure that she was being teased. But now the chimney loomed over the hospital like an evil genie who would grant no wishes. She parked the motor car quickly and ran toward the main building.
“I’m looking for Mr. Francis Dobbs. He was brought in this morning, injured. Where is he?”
The uniformed porter was clearly used to dealing with the emotions of breathless relatives, but at the same time he would not be rushed.
“Let me see.” He ran his finger down a list of names. But Maisie could not wait, and snatched the clipboard, scanning the names for her father.
“Ward 2B. Where is that? Where can I find him?”
“Easy up, Miss. Visiting time’s over, you know.”The porter reclaimed his clipboard.
“Just tell me where to find him!”
“All right, all right. Keep your hair on! Now then, here you go.”
