'Maisie. It's in 'ere that I'm talking about.'
Frankie Dobbs pressed his hand to the place that still held grief for his departed wife.
'I'm talking about your 'eart, Maisie. Mind out for your 'eart.'
The sun was shining by the time the engine met the end-of-the-line buffers at Charing Cross station. Maisie checked her face in the shell-shaped mirror on the bulkhead between the carriages. She had never been one to fuss over her appearance, but this was different. This was important.
Once again butterflies were holding court in her stomach, and once again she was filled with the joyous anticipation of seeing Simon Lynch. She opened the heavy wooden door and stepped down onto the platform.
'Maisie!'
'Simon!'
The young officer swept Maisie up into his arms and unashamedly kissed her, much to the delight of people rushing to catch trains, or anxiously waiting for loved ones on the platform. There was usually little cause for humor or delight at a wartime railway station, filled as they often were with war wounded, anxious farewells, and the bittersweet greetings of those who would have such a short time together.
'I have missed you so much. I can hardly believe we are here.'
Maisie laughed, laughed until the tears fell down her cheeks. How she would hate to say good-bye.
The time spent at the Lynches' London house could not have been more perfect. Simon's parents welcomed Maisie into their home with great affection, as if she were part of the family. Mrs. Lynch personally showed Maisie to a guest room to 'repair after the long journey.'
Maisie's fears that she might have to field questions about her father's line of business proved to be unfounded, and she was asked only about her time at Cambridge and whether she might return when the war was over. Simon's parents understood that talk of 'intentions' was almost futile at such a time, and the joy of having a dear son home was not to be sullied by questions that might give rise to discord. Time was too short.
Simon and Maisie had one more day together, then Maisie would leave early on Sunday morning for France. After lunch Simon escorted Maisie to Charing Cross Station again, and spoke of what they would do the next day.
'So, I've managed to get the car, lucky, eh? I'll leave early for Chelstone, then we can have a nice day out together--perhaps go on to the Downs.'
'That would be lovely.'
'What is it, Maisie?'
Maisie looked at her watch, and at the many men and women in uniform at the station.
'Remember to come to the groom's cottage, Simon. Not to the main house.'
'Oh, I see. You're worried about me coming to Chelstone, aren't you?'
Maisie looked at her hands, and at Simon.'A little.'
'It doesn't matter to me, Maisie. We both know that there are bigger things to worry about. Besides, it's me that has to worry about Chelstone, what with the formidable Mrs. Crawford waiting to render judgment!'
Maisie laughed.'Yes, Simon, you may have a good point there!'
Simon held her hand and escorted her to the platform. The arrival of her train had just been announced.
'Tomorrow will be our last day together.' said Simon. 'I wish I understood time, Maisie. It vanishes through one's fingers.'
He held her hands together in front of his chest, and touched each of her fingertips in turn.
'Maurice says that only when we have a respect for time will we have learned something of the art of living.'
'Ah, yes, the wise man Maurice. Perhaps I'll meet him one day.'
Maisie looked into Simon's eyes and shivered. 'Yes, perhaps. One day.'
Simon arrived at Chelstone at half past nine the next morning. Maisie had been up since half past five, first helping Frankie with the horses, then going for a walk, mentally preparing for Simon's arrival. She strolled through the apple orchards, heavy with blossom, then to the paddock beyond.
Half of what was, before the war, grazing for horses, was now a large vegetable garden providing fresh produce not only for Chelstone Manor but also for a wider community. In a time of war, flowers and shrubs were seen to be an extravagance, so every cottage garden in the village was almost bereft of blooms. Even the smallest postage stamp of land was needed for growing vegetables.
Maisie made her way back to the cottage and waited for Simon. Eventually the crackle of tires on gravel heralded his arrival. Frankie drew the curtains aside to look out the window in the small parlor.
'Looks like your young man is here.'
Maisie rushed from the room, while Frankie stood in front of the mirror, adjusted his neckerchief and pulled down the hem of his best waistcoat. He rubbed his chin, just to make sure, and took off the flat cap that almost never left his head. Before going to the door to meet Captain Simon Lynch, Frankie took up the cherished sepia photograph of a woman who looked so much like the girl who had run joyously to the door. She was tall and slender, dressed in a dark skirt and a cotton blouse with wide leg-o'-mutton sleeves. Though she had fussed with her hair in anticipation of having the photograph taken with her two-year-old daughter, there were still stray curls creeping onto her forehead.
Frankie ran his finger across the glass, tracing the line of the woman's face. He spoke to the image tenderly, as if she were in the room with him, for Frankie Dobbs had prayed for her spirit to be at his side today.
'I know, I know . . . go easy on 'im. I wish you was 'ere now, Love. I could do with a bit of 'elp with this.'
