The Mapping of Love and Death

to see me. And I know he's telephoned the ward staff, so he's keeping up with our progress-he's probably calling back to Boston every day so that Meg and Anna know how their mother and I are doing. Tom's dealing with a lot at the moment-company business in London on top of what's happened to us-so I'm sure he's busy.' He paused for a moment. 'To tell you the truth, we've never had too much to say to each other, Thomas and I. Not that he's not a good fellow-he's a fine husband and father-but we simply don't have much in common. If he was sitting here now, we'd both be stumped for conversation.'

'So I expect the last time you actually saw him to talk to was in the foyer of the hotel, prior to the attack in your room.'

Clifton frowned. 'Yes. Yes, I suppose it was.'

Maisie nodded. 'When we last spoke, you said something about a couple close to the entrance. They were arguing, there was a row or something. Do you remember anything more about them?'

After a pause, Clifton responded, and shrugged, as if what he was about to say was unimportant. 'You know, this is going to sound strange, but I remember thinking that the woman reminded me of Anna, our daughter. Something about the eyes, and of course the hair-Anna's the only one who took after me with my dark hair. Yes, she reminded me of Anna. I remember thinking that if anyone ever treated one of our girls like that, I would have had to interfere, do something about it. You see, Martha and I, we always agreed that no matter what happens, our children have their own lives. They choose their mates, and we can't do a thing about it. But I might have had to step in if I was that woman's father.' He sighed, then added, 'Sad. It made me very sad, thinking about it.'

Maisie did not respond immediately, allowing the moment of reflection to linger. To have interjected at once with another question would have been thoughtless after Clifton had revealed his feelings in such a way. She picked up her bag just as a light knock at the door signaled that her ten minutes had come to an end.

'Thank you for your time, Mr. Clifton. I am glad your wife is making progress.' Without thinking, she reached out and held his hand, and he nodded acknowledgment. He may not have been her own father, but he was father to grown children he loved, and he missed them. Releasing his hand, Maisie stood up and walked towards the door. It was only as she reached for the handle that a thought occurred to her.

'Mr. Clifton, may I ask another question?'

'Of course.'

'I know your old family firm, Clifton's Shoes, closed down some years ago. What happened to the company?'

Clifton sighed. 'It was all my fault, I suppose-or my father's for establishing a company based upon male inheritance of responsibility. I heard not a word from my family after I left home for America-that's probably why family means so much to me now, why it's important to be on good terms with my children. They didn't communicate with me again, and I was shut out of any decisions regarding the business; though of course I was not surprised by the latter. I had made my bed, and I was expected to lie in it, come what may, and I was many miles away in any case. As far as I know my sister married, and it was she and her husband who kept the business going after my father passed away. Then her husband died and she sold out to the first bidder at a knockdown price. They weren't business people, and she was also hampered by the company's bylaws, so it had run into the ground-trying to keep that quality at a good price. I believe she married again, but I have no idea what happened after that, except that she was still quite young when she died. And she probably went to her grave having given her life to maintain the claim that not one pair of Clifton's shoes went on sale that would not last a good ten years of solid daily wear.' He looked at Maisie, his head to one side, his eyes now half closed as fatigue claimed him once again. 'Is it important?'

Maisie shrugged. 'I don't know, Mr. Clifton. But I thought I'd ask.'

Maisie sat at the dining table in her flat, with one hand dabbing the wound to her cheek with a cloth soaked in salted water, the other turning the pages of Michael Clifton's journal.

I'm trying to remember her face. I could recognize her in a crowd, such a pretty girl could not be missed. But sitting here on my bunk in this French barn, waiting to go out with my guys again, I just can't picture her. I can imagine the dark hair-thick and glorious hair, like silk down her back when she pulls out the pins and lets it fall. I can barely believe I'll see her in less than a week-four days' leave in Paris. They were going to ship me back to Blighty, but I said it was no good me going back, because I don't have people there. A couple of the guys (the lads, as they say), Mullen and Perry, each invited me home with them, but I said no, I would go to Paris. Pretended I knew someone there. And I do. I do know someone there.

Several ink dots speckled the page, as if the writer was thinking of how to express in words the feelings in his heart.

I am a bit more scared each time I have to go out into the field. I play brave. I'm taller than a lot of the men, and for some reason, because I'm an American (they call me the Yank), they expect me to be the most fearless of all. So I just get on with it. We all just get on with it, but we're all scared, standing out there setting up our equipment. We're like sitting targets, like ducks in hunting season, the ones that just land in front of the guy with the gun. But we just work away as if no one was there, as if it was only us and the land. I'm glad I did this. I'm not sorry I enlisted when I did; after all, they need good mapmakers. But I'll be happy to go home again, as soon as the war is over…

Maisie stood up, went into the kitchen, and disposed of the soiled cloth. She allowed the graze on her cheeks to dry, but had wrapped the base of each palm so the cuts would not break open when she used her hands. She returned to the journal, and the letters, trying to reconcile events from one to the other.

Dear Michael,

The days in Paris were lovely. How we were blessed with the weather, only one day of rain. I am sorry about the Wednesday, but our chaperone insisted I remain with the other nurses, so I could not meet you at the arranged time. I'm glad you received my note and did not think that I had stood you up. Our chaperones have been instructed not to breathe down our necks, but at the same time, we are expected to conduct ourselves according to the rules. It seems as if we were not meant to meet on that final day in any case. You must have been so surprised when your brother-in-law turned up in Paris. I wonder how he managed to get there, with so many travel restrictions in place. But it must have been lovely for you to see a member of your family. I know how much you miss them.

I'm not due for more leave for some time, but at least we can write…

Maisie leaned back in her chair. Which brother-in-law met with Michael Clifton in Paris? She could not jump to conclusions and assume that it was Thomas Libbert; after all, the older sister, Meg, was married to a doctor-a doctor who knew Charles Hayden, who was himself in France in the war. Perhaps Meg's husband was also a doctor with an American medical contingent and had sought out his wife's younger brother while they were both serving overseas. Maisie could imagine the family pressing him to locate Michael, to seek him out, perhaps to send their love and to bid him Godspeed.

I will never forget her again. I am the luckiest guy in the world, to have found such a wonderful girl. They'll love her back home, really love her, I'm sure. Teddy always said that I could fall in love at the drop of a hat, but this is for real, forever, I just know it. Now all we've got to do is make it out of this war. I guess the only cloud over our days together was when we bumped into old stiff breeches himself. Mullen thought up that name, and it suits him well-stiff upper lip and all that. In all of Paris, how did that happen, how did our paths cross? He hates me, really hates me. Every time I come in with a new map, he finds fault. He thinks I've done nothing but swan around stateside on my father's dime-but I did my time at Chatham, they just didn't have to teach me from scratch. I know MORE than him, because I've done more and trained harder, and I've said as much-not that they've ever heard of Berkeley here, these Oxford and Cambridge types. I know I said too much, could have been put on a charge for insubordination. Mullen said I ought to watch my mouth, but I've never been pushed like that, never. Told him that when that clown can find oil just by looking at the land, then perhaps he could correct me-I'm not just a cartographer, I'm a surveyor, and I'm done with being kicked around by some busybody stiff-upper-lipped limey who did his best to needle me about a darn shoe company that I know almost nothing about. I never thought I would want to be called something other than Clifton, but in that last week before my leave, I wished I was plain old Smith or Jones. Mullen asked me what he was talking about, so I told him about Dad leaving England, and he said he knew of Clifton's Shoes. Then he asked about the oil, and I told him about my land there. Kind of wish I'd kept my mouth shut-again. I wanted to keep the land a secret until I went home and brought Dad and Teddy out to see it. Even showed Mullen my maps of the valley, and my little piece of it. I beat the Union Oil guys to that piece of land, and they can set up their drills and derricks all around me and I bet they won't get my oil. You should have