Maisie Dobbs

'Three brothers, Maisie.' Priscilla leaned forward to take the cigarette stub from the holder, and to press in a fresh cigarette, which she took from an engraved silver case drawn from her pocket.'When you grow up with three brothers you forget your cuts, scrapes, and bruises, and concentrate on your bowling arm, on coming back in one piece from the hunting field, and on not being run over by the lugworms when they come to the table. And unless you show that you are as good at everything as they are, you find that you spend virtually all your time running behind them screaming like a banshee, 'Me too, me too!''

Priscilla looked over her shoulder to the gardens beyond the window and bit her bottom lip. She turned and continued telling her story.

'The chauffeur taught us all to drive. At first it was only going to be the boys, but I threatened to tell all if I was not included. And now the fact is, my dear, I simply cannot have them in France without me. It's 'Me too, me too!''

Priscilla wiped the hint of a tear from the inner corner of her left eye and smiled.

'So, what do you say to a party this evening? Despite my dismal record, I have permission to go out--probably because they will soon see the back of me, and also the hostess this evening is a benefactor. How about it, Maisie? You can go back to wherever it is you go to wash the ashes from your sackcloth tomorrow.'

Maisie smiled and looked at Priscilla, sparkling in defiance of what was considered good behavior for young women at Girton. There was something about her friend that reminded her of Lady Rowan.

'Whose party?'

Priscilla blew another smoke ring.

'Given by family friends, the Lynches, for their son, Simon. Royal Army Medical Corps. Brilliant doctor. Always the one who remained at the bottom of the tree just in case anyone fell from the top branches, when we were children. He leaves for France in a day or two.'

'Will they mind?'

'Maisie, I could turn up with a tribe and no one would turn a hair.

The Lynch family are like that. Oh, do come. Simon will adore it. The more the merrier for his send-off.'

Maisie smiled at Priscilla. Perhaps it would do her good. And Priscilla was leaving.

'What about permission?'

'Don't worry, I'll take care of that--and I promise, all above board. I'll telephone Margaret Lynch to make the necessary arrangements.'

Maisie bit her lip for just a second longer.

'Yes. I'll come. Though I've nothing to wear, Pris.'

'No excuse, Maisie darling, absolutely no excuse. Come with me!'

Priscilla took Maisie by the arm and led her to her own adjacent room. Pointing to the chair for Maisie to take a seat, she pulled at least a dozen gowns of various colors, fabrics, and styles from her wardrobe and threw them on the bed, determined to find the perfect dress for Maisie.

'I think this midnight blue is really you, Maisie. Here, let's just pull the belt--oh gosh, you are a skinny thing aren't you? Now let me just pin this here . . .'

'Pris, I look like two penn'orth of hambone trussed up for the butcher's window.'

'There. That's just perfect,' replied Priscilla,'Now step back, step back. Lovely. Very nice. You shall have that dress. Have your Mrs. Whatever-Her-Name-Is at Chelstone hem it properly for you.'

'But, Priscilla--'

'Nonsense. It's yours. And make the most of it--I saw a bill posted yesterday that I memorized just to remind myself to have some fun while I can.'

Priscilla stood to attention, mimicked a salute, and affected an authoritarian mode of speech: TO DRESS EXTRAVAGANTLY INWARTIME IS WORSE THAN BAD FORM. IT IS UNPATRIOTIC!

She began to laugh as she continued adjusting the blue silk dress on Maisie's slender frame.

'I'll have no need of evening dresses in France, and besides, there will be new styles to choose from when I get back.'

Maisie nodded and looked down at the dress. 'There's another thing, Pris.'

Priscilla took up her cigarette, placed her hand on her hip, and raised an eyebrow.'Now what's your excuse, Maisie?'

'Priscilla, I can't dance.'

'Oh, good Lord, girl!'

Priscilla stubbed out the cigarette in the overflowing ashtray, walked over to her gramophone near the window, selected a record from the cabinet below, placed it on the turntable, wound it up using the small handle at the side of the machine, and set the arm across the record. As the needle caught the first spiral ridge in the thick black disc, Priscilla danced toward Maisie.

'Keep the dress on. You'll need to practice in what you'll be wearing tonight. Right. Now then, start by watching me.'

Priscilla positioned her hands on imaginary shoulders in front of her, as if held in the arms of a young man, and as the music began she continued.

'Feet like so, and forward, side, together; back, side, together;watch me, Maisie. And forward, side, together . . .'

A Car