The Mapping of Love and Death

NINE

At the hospital, Maisie went straight to the ladies' lavatory and filled a washbasin with hot water. The cuts on her hands began to sting again as soon as she steeped them in the steaming water, and she winced as she leaned forward, rested her forearms on the basin, and closed her eyes for a few seconds while she absorbed the pain. She rubbed her palms together to loosen the dirt and grit embedded in her skin, then pulled the plug to release the bloodstained water, refilling the basin again to rinse away more debris before shaking her hands and pulling a clean white handkerchief from her shoulder bag. Maisie moistened the cloth and began to dab around the deep abrasion to her right cheek, then inspected the wound in a mirror above the basin.

"That's a picture," she said aloud, before continuing to apply pressure around the outside of the graze. She knew she should have added disinfectant to the water, but at the same time, she wouldn't think of bothering nurses in a busy hospital, and they would likely point her in the direction of the casualty department. No, she had been a nurse, she could take care of her own medical problems.

Having done the best she could to diminish bruising and inflammation with a final few splashes of cold water, Maisie made her way up to the floor where Edward Clifton was recovering. As she walked along the corridor, she noticed that the same policeman was on duty, and there were no medical staff in the immediate vicinity of Clifton's private ward. She lost no time in taking advantage of the situation.

"Good afternoon, Constable. Having a good day?"

"Afternoon, madam. I wasn't told to expect you."

"Oh, I expect that because we've met before, Detective Inspector Caldwell probably thought it unnecessary. Do you know how Mr. Clifton's progressing?'

"The doctors are pleased, that's all I know really. It'll be better when his son gets here, I would imagine. Not very nice when no one comes to see you of a visiting hour."

"No visitors? Not even his son-in-law?"

"Son-in-law?"

"What news of Mrs. Clifton?" asked Maisie, without responding to the constable's question.

"According to the nurses, there's been some improvement-her breathing's stronger, though they think that if she comes around, she might not be all there." He tapped the side of his head. "Upstairs."

"Oh, dear-they are such a close couple, it would be devastating for Mr. Clifton to lose her."

Maisie knew the policeman was warming to the conversation. His present task was, at best, boring, so Maisie's presence was a welcome interlude in an otherwise tedious shift-unless of course he was called upon to protect his charge from an interloper.

"What did you walk into this morning, madam? That's a nasty scrape you've got there."

Maisie smiled. "To tell you the truth, I fell over my own feet while rushing across the park. I should have known better than to run. Serves me right for waiting until the last minute to leave for work. By the way, speaking of being in a bit of a hurry-it is visiting time, so I wonder if I might just pop in and see Mr. Clifton?"

"I should have prior permission, but-" He looked to the left and right along the corridor. "Go on. I'll knock in ten minutes, earlier if someone comes along."

Maisie smiled as the policeman opened the door. "Thank you, Constable. Very kind of you." She slipped into Edward Clifton's private ward.

Edward Clifton was lying back on his pillows, awake, yet gazing out of the window to his left. He turned as Maisie entered, and gave a brief nod in her direction by way of greeting.

"How are you, Mr. Clifton?" Maisie came to his bedside, pulled up a chair, and sat down.

Clifton regarded Maisie in a way that reminded her of Frankie. It was the look of a father of children now grown. "I think I might be doing better than you today, Miss Dobbs."

Maisie laughed and touched her cheek. "Oh, this? No, it's nothing. Your wounds are much deeper and more worrisome for the doctors." She quickly changed the subject to make the most of the next few minutes. "I understand that Mrs. Clifton has shown some improvement."

Clifton nodded. "That's what they say." He shrugged. "I'll clutch at any straws out there, but to me progress would be my dear wife recognizing me, talking to me."

"There is cause for optimism, Mr. Clifton."

He nodded in a sage manner, staring out of the window once more, but said nothing.

"Mr. Clifton, may I ask one or two more questions?" she went on, without waiting for a response. "Has your son-in-law been in to see you yet?"

Clifton turned to her. "I think he came before I regained consciousness-I remember the nurse saying he'd been 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 seen Mullen's eyes. In all his days with maps, he said he would never have a chance to survey land and then buy it. Guess I'm a very lucky guy-got the land and I've got the girl.

"Mullen?" Maisie said the name aloud, then wrote it out on an index card. She pulled out another card and wrote, "Stiff breeches." If Michael Clifton had risked being put on a charge for answering back in such a manner, he must have been referring to an officer of greater rank. Was it his commanding officer? And if so, why wasn't he put on a charge? Soldiers had been court-martialed for less. On a piece of paper she made a list of inquiries to be made, and it was clear that a visit to Chatham, to the place where the artillery's mapmakers were trained, would have to be a priority. It was the second time in one sitting that she cautioned herself not to jump in with the first thought that came to mind.

Maisie continued reading, though now the events of the day were catching up with her, and her eyes were gritty and dry with fatigue. She checked the time; just half past eight in the evening, and she was exhausted. But she did not want to rest yet, so she picked up another letter and slipped the paper from the envelope, carefully unfolding the foxed and fused pages. At that moment the bell in the hallway sounded, alerting her to a visitor at the front door.

Maisie disliked the fact that as soon as she opened the door to her ground-floor flat, anyone waiting outside could see her. She had asked about having frosted glass installed, but other owners didn't appreciate the need for such expenditure. She wondered who might be calling without being in touch with her first. On the other hand, she did not have a telephone, so an uninvited guest could be expected, though it was rare. Maisie pushed back her chair and began to walk towards the hallway, but then turned around and came back to the table, where she gathered the letters and journal and put them away in a kitchen cupboard. Now she was ready to greet her caller.

As she opened the door to the foyer, she could see Detective Inspector Caldwell, together with his new detective sergeant, waiting on the step outside the main entrance. Caldwell was just about to press the bell again, so she waved to attract his attention and stepped towards the door.

"Detective Inspector Caldwell, to what do I owe a visit to my home-and at such an hour?"

"I think you know very well why I am here, Miss Dobbs-two reasons, in fact."

"Would you care to come in?"

Caldwell and his assistant removed their hats and followed Maisie into the flat. She saw Caldwell look at the painting over the mantelpiece-of a woman standing on the beach, looking out to sea-and the collection of photos, some framed, some simply pinned, that surrounded the painting. He cast his eyes around the room.

"Do take a seat, please," offered Maisie. "Would you care for some tea?"

Caldwell shook his head, though Maisie saw the detective sergeant begin to smile as if he was about to accept the offer. He looked away when he heard Caldwell's quick reply.

"No time to sit here drinking tea, Miss Dobbs, but thank you for offering all the same." He didn't miss a beat before launching into his reason for the visit. "First of all, I want to know-from you-the circumstances of the attack on your person in Hyde Park. Then I want to know why you went to St. George's Hospital and talked my policeman into letting you into Mr. Clifton's private ward."

"Well, one event led to the other, as is so often the case. I was the victim of a robbery in Hyde Park, and because I had hurt my hands and cheek, as you can see"-she held up her hands with her bandaged palms facing the detective-"I went to the hospital to receive treatment. The last thing I want is a case of lockjaw, so I thought I should have the wounds attended to straightaway. While I was there, I decided to go up to Mr. Clifton's ward and ask after his progress. The patient was awake, so I thought I would pop in and see him-after all, it happened to be visiting hour, and I understand he has had no visitors since he regained consciousness. He's an old man far from home, and I thought he might welcome a bit of company."

"Did you talk about the attack?"

"Yes, of course. I inquired about his health."

"Is there anything you'd like to share with us, Miss Dobbs?'

"There is nothing else that I believe is of any great significance to you. It was a rather pedestrian conversation. To tell you the truth, I was rather curious as to why his son-in-law had not visited since he regained consciousness, but Mr. Clifton informed me that he has received messages from him, but they have never really had much in common-those were his words."

Caldwell nodded. "Why didn't you inform us about the robbery attempt in Hyde Park as soon as it happened?"

"I summoned a constable to help me, and though he had tried to give chase-as had I-the robber escaped on foot, probably down into Marble Arch underground station. He took my document case, but there was nothing of value inside. The case is old, a bit tattered, but it holds great sentimental value for me-I would love to have it back."

"Present from a suitor, Miss Dobbs?"

Maisie shook her head, not rising to the bait. "No, from the staff I worked with when I was in service. They bought me the case when I left to go up to Girton College in 1914. It was such a big event, not just for me but for all of us-one of their own going away to college. So they had a whip-round and bought me the very best document case they could afford, and it has lasted all this time."

Caldwell heard the catch in her throat as she spoke, and responded in a softer tone. "We'll see if we can get it back for you, then. If we can do that, we'll likely catch the thief-and you never know how valuable he might be to us."

"Thank you. Now, if you don't mind…"

"Yes, of course. Much obliged to you, Miss Dobbs. Please try to remember to request a visit to Mr. Clifton until further notice. And I'd appreciate being kept informed of any leads you might uncover in this case. It was a violent attack on two prominent visitors to our country. I'm expected to get to the bottom of it in short order."

"I'll keep you posted."

Maisie saw the men to the door and bid them good night. She returned to her chair by the fire, which she had not ignited earlier, but because she felt chilled, she knelt down and turned on the gas jets, lowering the flame for the sake of economy. Instead of sitting on one of the two armchairs, Maisie pulled a cushion towards her and made herself comfortable seated on the floor in front of the fire. She found the combination of heat and flame almost hypnotic, and allowed her mind to wander.

It was not until she spoke of the loss of the document case that she had realized how much it meant to her. She was but seventeen years old when a special "below stairs" supper had been organized for her at Chelstone Manor, where most of the household staff were located over the summer months. War had been declared on August 4, and in September, the staff were happy to send one of their own on her way to better things. The document case earned a few scratches at Girton, then was put away when she enlisted for nursing service after just two terms. It was brought out again when she returned to complete her studies in 1919-after she had already been wounded, had recovered, and then worked in a hospital for the shell-shocked. The fine leather became even more scuffed when she became assistant to Dr. Maurice Blanche, as she filled it daily with papers and files and the accoutrements of her trade. The bag had been repaired where stitching had loosened, and had required a new clasp some years earlier, but she had never been without it since the end of the war.

Now it was gone, and in her mind's eye she saw the staff gathered around the table on the day it was presented to her. There was Enid cracking a joke, always a bit sarcastic, always sharp. Dear Enid, who had died in a munitions factory explosion. Mrs. Crawford was still there, not yet retired, and Carter, the butler, before the years began to tell. She had no idea, then, what she would make of her life. No thoughts of love had entered her mind, her drive to educate herself usurping all other measures of happiness, contentment. Priscilla, Simon, the girls who had served alongside her in France-they were all yet to come, on the day she opened the box and drew back the fine tissue to reveal the aroma of good leather, soft to the touch. The path from there to here had been far from straight, had looped back and forth, yet always with an imagined place ahead-that she would be a woman of independent means and would rise above her circumstances.

As she sat by the fire in her own flat, the retreat and refuge she'd imagined in those dreams, she thought about other places where she had laid her head. There was the room in Lambeth-why had she lived there at all? She came from Girton, straight to London to interview with Maurice. Then when he'd sent word that the job was hers, she found lodgings in the only area she could afford and knew at all, the place where she'd grown up: Lambeth. Her room was clean, tidy, and there was a meal in the evening when she arrived home, but she walked through the slums each day, through streets of depression and want. She had realized, even then, that her choice to live in a place so compromised, among people so wretched, was due to the fact that she was still numb. Living in such troubled quarters was tantamount to touching her skin with a hot needle-it reminded her that she was still alive, that she was not dead, that the war might have taken so much, but it had not taken her life.

It was later, after Maurice retired and she set up her business on her own, that at the behest of Lady Rowan she came back to live at the Comptons' Ebury Place mansion. Her rooms were more than comfortable and clean, they were light and cozy, and her every need was catered for-yet she had still not found her place, had never quite felt at home. She was neither this nor that, not one class or the other. Now, as she reflected upon her journey and the years past, she realized she had come this far and had no idea what might come next, or what there might be for her to aspire to. She understood that she knew only how to climb mountains; having reached a certain place of elevation, she was unaccustomed to the view of the road already taken, and where her next steps might lead. Losing the document case had been akin to losing a suitcase of clothes on a very long journey. She knew neither the next destination, nor how she might prepare to travel.