she reached into her shoulder bag—“here’s the money for a taxi-cab home.”
Doreen began to object, but Maisie countered immediately. “Please, Doreen, take it. I’m too tired to argue my point, and you’re too worn out to be proud.”
The woman nodded, still sobbing, and Maisie left.
Later, having dropped Billy at the hospital, with an instruction to send word if there was anything else she could do, Maisie returned home. The cold silence of the drawing room barely touched her, for she was as numb now as she had ever been when faced with the prospect of death. She had blamed herself all the way home: She should have insisted on coming to see Lizzie earlier. But now, even in her own home, and even from a distance of some miles, she was not without resources. There was a part she could play to help the little girl win her fight for life. She did not bother to remove her coat, but took her place in one of the armchairs and closed her eyes. With her feet square on the ground, her hands resting on her lap, she allowed herself to descend into a deep meditation, as she had been taught by the wise man Khan, and as he had been taught by his elders before him. She sought the timeless state where, according to her teacher, everything was possible.
Maisie had been so full of doubt in earlier days, wondering what this strange practice was supposed to do, and why Dr. Blanche took her to receive instruction in something so embarrassing, so seemingly useless. But later, in her darkest hours, the worth of those lessons was proven to her time and time again, and she had come to hold the word of her teacher in high account. Opening her mind, she imagined the sweet face of Lizzie Beale, the mop of curls, her chuckle when amused, the rosy cheeks and red, red sweetheart lips. She saw her in the hospital and began to speak to the child who was in another part of London. She told Lizzie that her heart was strong, that she could rest now, and that when she awoke, she would be well again. Maisie imagined the child giggling in her bed, her mother and father at her side. And before she opened her eyes, and brought her consciousness back to the room, she petitioned the little Lizzie Beale of her imagination to choose life.
When she finally slipped into her cold bed, pulling the blankets around her, Maisie could not sleep at first, the events of the past week playing over and over again in her mind, with conversations repeated as if the needle were stuck on a gramophone record. To her surprise, the emotion that weighed heavy upon her was anger. She appreciated that her view of the world was blighted by the events of the evening, but even so, she found that, like Billy, she was becoming resentful of the very people who provided both her bread and butter and the roof over her head. Of course, she had been fortunate in life, for hadn’t she managed to straddle the barriers of class, of education and opportunity? But when she considered the money that passed hands, the seeming inequity of a society where people would spend thousands on a painting, while a child could die for want of a few pounds worth of medical attention, she was left with a sour taste in her mouth. At the end of the day, wasn’t it all about who had money, and who hadn’t; who could make money, and who couldn’t? And no matter how pleasant the people might be, wasn’t it just plain unfair that there were those who had the wherewithal to paint all day, when others knew only the bitterness of unemployment, the gnawing hunger of want?
Turning over yet again, Maisie’s divergent thoughts began to blend, with her conscious mind finally giving way to fatigue. She had come to learn that there was often a theme to her work, as if in the dance with fate, cases would come to her that at first seemed unrelated, but were connected, perhaps by emotions raised in the search for truth or by a similarity of circumstance. Since the very day that Georgina Bassington-Hope had retained her services, she had been mindful of the web of connection that existed among that rarified community of people who had money and power. She considered the threads that linked those who wanted high office dearly, and those who would put them there; the relationship between those who wanted something so much that they would pay handsomely to own it, and those who would acquire that object of desire for them.
And couldn’t it be argued that the artist wielded uncommon power? One only had to look at the propaganda created by Nick Bassington-Hope. The gift of a creative dexterity gave him the power to move a population to think in a certain way, and to direct the actions of people accordingly. In the moments before sleep finally claimed her, Maisie remembered seeing a group of students clustered around a recruitment bill on the station wall at Cambridge in the autumn of 1914. It challenged them to do their bit for King and Country. GO NOW, BEFORE IT’S TOO LATE! She was a shameless eavesdropper, listening to the to and fro of words as the young men considered a slogan that amounted to a dare. They concluded that it would be a “jolly good show” and left the station bound for the enlistment office. Now that was power, and Nick Bassington-Hope was ashamed of it. And, in truth, wasn’t she too a little ashamed? Ashamed that she had used the power available to her to attain a flat of her own, when the Beales were struggling to share their home, their food and the income of one man with another family?
MAISIE WAS NOT in the best of moods when she arrived at the office the following morning. Having risen early, she left the house before six, planning to visit the Beales. As she drove down the narrow cobblestone street with terraced houses on each side, she saw a gray fever ambulance outside Billy and Doreen’s house. She parked behind the vehicle in time to see three children being brought out wrapped in red blankets. Already a clutch of local street urchins formed a standing audience to the scene, holding their collars and chanting:
Billy came from the house to send them on their way, shaking his fist as they ran up the road, still singing. He seemed as gray as the vehicle into which his middle child had been gently placed, along with Doreen’s sister’s two children. Turning to go back into the house, he saw Maisie.
“You didn’t ’ave to come, Miss. You did enough last night.”
“What’s happening, Billy? Do you have news of Lizzie?”
“I came ’ome a couple of ’ours ago; Doreen stayed. They didn’t like it, at the ’ospital, but she weren’t leaving with our Lizzie so ill. And what with the poor little scraps all lined up in cots, it’s a wonder they can keep an eye on all of ’em, though Lizzie is in a special ward, because of the operation.” He paused and rubbed his eyes. “They operated as soon as she went in there, had to do the cut ’ere.” He drew a finger across his throat. “Took out ’er tonsils. And she’s been given injections of antisomething or other.”
Maisie nodded. “What do they say?”
“It’s touch and go. They say they’re surprised she’s still alive, still fighting. What with ’er bein’ so young. They said they thought they’d lost ’er in the operating theater, but she started to pick up again. Shocked all of ’em, it did. Like I said, it’s touch and go though. And now they’re taking the others, all except the eldest, who’s not showing any symptoms. Inspector said that was because ’e’s older and in school. They pick up something there to protect ’em, what did the man call it?” Billy shook his head, his exhaustion plain to see.
“He probably has an immunity, Billy. And the others aren’t as far gone as Lizzie. Do you want a lift back to the hospital?”
Billy kicked his foot against the step. “But what about my job, Miss? Can’t afford to be out of work, can I?”
Maisie shook her head. “Look, let’s not worry about that now. I’ll drop you at the hospital. Mind you, I daresay the matron will give you your marching orders; they don’t like family waiting. Our matron used to complain all the time about family getting in the way, and that was at visiting time. Even the doctors were terrified of her. Anyway, come back to work when you’re ready, Billy.”
