This morning the British Ambassador in Berlin handed the German Government a final note stating that, unless we heard from them by 11 o’clock that they were prepared at once to withdraw their troops from Poland, a state of war would exist between us.
I have to tell you now that no such undertaking has been received, and that consequently this country is at war with Germany.
As the speech continued, all present stared at the wireless as though it held the image of a person. Maisie felt numb. It was as if the cold, slick air of France had remained with her since the war—when, she wondered, would they begin referring to it as “the last war”?—and now the terrible, biting chill was seeping out from its place of seclusion deep in her bones. She glanced at Priscilla, and saw her friend staring at her sons, each one in turn as if she feared she might forget their faces. And she knew the deep ache of loss was allowing Priscilla no quarter—the dragon of memory that war had left in its wake; a slumbering giant stretching into the present, starting anew to breathe fire again. Priscilla’s three brothers had perished between the years 1914 and 1918.
Now may God bless you all. May He defend the right. It is the evil things that we shall be fighting against—brute force, bad faith, injustice, oppression and persecution—and against them I am certain that the right will prevail.
Douglas, who had remained standing throughout the speech, leaned forward to switch off the wireless.
Priscilla touched the housekeeper on the shoulder and asked for a pot of coffee to be brought to the drawing room. The cook had already returned to the kitchen, reaching for her handkerchief and dabbing her eyes as she closed the door behind her. Elinor had followed with a muttered explanation that she “had to see to” something; no one heard what it was that had to be seen to.
“Papa . . . what do you think of—”
“Father, Mother, I think I should—”
“Maman, shall we—”
The boys spoke at once, but fell silent when Douglas raised his hand. “It’s time we men went for an invigorating, excitement-reducing walk around the park just in case the day spoils and the rain really comes down. Come on.” And with that, all three of Priscilla’s sons left the room, ushered away by their father, who held up his cane as if it were the wing of a hen chivvying along her chicks.
Silence seemed to bear down on the room as the door closed.
Priscilla’s eyes were wide, red-rimmed. “I’m not going to lose my sons, Maisie. If I have to chop off their fingers to render them physically unacceptable to the fighting force, I will do so.”
“No, you won’t, Pris.” Maisie came to her feet and put an arm around her friend, who was seated next to the wireless. She felt Priscilla lean in to her waist as she stood beside her. “You wouldn’t harm a single hair on their heads.”
“We came through it, didn’t we, Maisie?” said Priscilla. “We might not have been unblemished on the other side, but we came through.”
“And we shall again,” said Maisie. “We’re made of strong fabric, all of us.”
Priscilla nodded, pulling a handkerchief from her cuff and dabbing her eyes. “We Everndens—and never let it be forgotten that in my bones I am an Evernden—are better than the Herr-bloody-Hitlers of this world. I’d chase him down myself to protect my boys.”
“You’re one of the strongest, Priscilla—and remember, Douglas is worried sick too. You’re a devoted family. Hold tight.”
“We’re all going to have to hold tight, aren’t we?”
Maisie was about to speak again when there was a gentle knock at the door, as if someone had rubbed a knuckle against the wood rather than rapping upon it.
“Yes?” invited Priscilla.
The housekeeper entered and announced that there was a telephone call for Maisie, though she referred to her by her title, which was somewhat grander than plain Miss Dobbs.
Maisie gave a half smile. “Who on earth knows I’m here?” she asked, without expecting an answer.
“Well, your father would make a pretty good guess and come up with our house, if you weren’t at home. I daresay they’ve been listening to the wireless too, and Brenda would have wanted him to call. You’ll probably hear from Lady Rowan soon too.”
“Oh, dear,” said Maisie as she stepped towards the door. “I do hope Dad’s all right.”
In the hall, she picked up the telephone receiver, which was resting on a marble-topped table decorated with a vase of blue hydrangeas.
“Hello. This is Maisie Dobbs. Who’s speaking, please?”
“Maisie, Francesca Thomas here.”
Maisie put her hand across the mouthpiece and looked around. She was alone. “Dr. Thomas, what on earth is going on? How do you know this number? Or that I would be here?”
“Please return to your flat, if you don’t mind. I have some urgent business to discuss with you.”