“That’s what I’m calling you about. I think you can help her, Maisie, and I was wondering if you could come down tomorrow instead of Thursday—just a bit earlier than you’d planned. Or are you too busy?”
Maisie bit her lip. “I am a bit busy—but tell me how I can help. I thought the billeting officer was finding out where she belonged, and was planning to situate her nearer children she knows.”
“Well, that’s the thing, love—they don’t know. No one seems to know anything.”
“Oh, Brenda, that’s not right—the child must have a mother and father. She must belong to someone. Someone knows which school she comes from, or even if she’s with the orphanage children, if the poor thing doesn’t have a family. They’re all probably hoping someone else will do the job—they’re just overwhelmed, I would imagine.”
“I don’t know so much, Maisie. And I don’t know how to say this, really I don’t—but it could be because she’s a . . . well, you know, she’s a—”
“She’s a what?” said Maisie. “A little girl with no name?”
“She’s a darkie. A touch of the tar brush, as the billeting officer said.”
“She’s a child, Brenda. She’s a poor love who has been bundled on a train, only now she’s lost.”
“I know that, but the billeting officer says that’s what the problem is. I don’t think she’s all that dark, really,” Brenda went on. “Your father said that you were only a little bit lighter, as a child, on account of your mother’s coloring. And your complexion is as white as mine now, isn’t it, though you do catch the sun quickly, if you’re out in it.”
“I lived in London, Brenda—and no one ever called me a darkie on account of my hair and a tendency to catch a bit of color when the sun shines.” Maisie bit her lip. The last person she wanted to be short with was her stepmother, the woman to whom she attributed her widowed father’s newfound happiness. “I will drive down tomorrow afternoon. I’ll see what I can do to help.”
“She’s perfectly clean. The billeting officer reckons she can’t be five years old yet, but she takes herself off to the bathroom sink every morning, closes the door behind her, and you can hear her washing herself. Yesterday I went in there after she’d put on her nightgown and gone to her bed—and she takes all her things with her everywhere she goes, bundles everything into that little case and won’t let it out of her sight. Anyway, there were her underclothes, all rubbed out with soap and water, rinsed and left hanging over the edge of the bath to dry for the morning. Bless her, the poor little mite. You’d think she was a lot older, the way she’s coping.”
Brenda stopped speaking, and Maisie heard her take a deep breath. She realized that making the telephone call had taken some gumption on the part of her stepmother, who was not one to ask for favors, and could deal with almost any domestic situation. Maisie suspected Brenda was more than a little concerned for the child.
“The thing is, Maisie,” said Brenda, “you do your work and you know how to get people to talk. And this dear little girl must want someone to talk to—she can’t keep all of it in, not at her age, and she’s not said a word since she got here. The little mite looks so lost at times. Even Jook feels it—I can see it in her. She will go up to the girl and put her nose to her dear little hand and gets a pat for her trouble. I’d hoped she’d start telling the dog all her problems, but she might not even speak English, for all I know. That’s when I thought you would be able to get her to say something.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow then, Brenda. I am sure we’ll find a way to help her. And I’ll find out who she belongs to.”
“Thank you, Maisie. Your father said you’d be the one to bring her out of herself. He told me that once you’d had a case where a girl wouldn’t say a word, but you started her talking.”
“I wonder how he knows that.”
“Dr. Blanche and your father would often stop for a chat.”
“It was a long time ago now anyway. Brenda, I’ll do my best to drive down tomorrow, after work. Otherwise it will have to be Thursday.”
While on the underground railway, Maisie could not get the plight of the little evacuee girl out of her mind. The child had probably been put on the train by her mother, trusting the schoolteachers to keep a keen eye on their charges. But at least the child had been fortunate to be placed in a good home where people cared for her well-being—though Maisie pitied the poor mother who had assumed her daughter was now safe in the country, well away from the slings and arrows of war. And she wondered, as the train beat a rhythm, moving from side to side as it wove its way under London, about the little girl choosing not to speak—if it was a choice. Loss of voice could have many causes—shock, pain, distress, fear. But in this case, Maisie wondered if the child was not remaining silent for another reason—to retain a semblance of power in a situation where all power was lost.