There were three associations at the top of Maisie’s list: the Ladies’ Refugee Assistance Association, which had been based close to Cambridge Circus; the London Overseas Reception Board, in Greenwich; and the South-Eastern Displaced Persons Relief Board, originally in Folkestone, but now with a small office in Tunbridge Wells. All had been dedicated to registering refugees entering Britain during the Great War, placing them in accommodations, and assisting with clothing, food, and—in the case of many—work. She was not sure what she might find at any of those addresses. The latter two, according to Sandra, had not disbanded following the war, but had been scaled down over the years. As she pointed out, though, the steady trickle of Jewish refugees from Germany over the years had become a flourishing river once again; it was said that the government was looking at placing limits on how many could be received and accommodated.
The Ladies’ Refugee Assistance Association had closed in 1920, though according to her research, a Mrs. Rosemary Hartley-Davies, who now lived in Sussex, was the person to speak to. Maisie decided to first tackle the office of the South-Eastern Displaced Persons Relief Board, managed by a Mr. Martin Thorpe. As Tunbridge Wells was on her way to Chelstone, it would not be too much of a detour to continue to Sussex to visit Mrs. Hartley-Davies.
Maisie was now well used to her new motor car, an Alvis 12/70 drophead coupe, but given intermittent showers, she kept the roof in place rather than risk a top-down drive to Tunbridge Wells the following day.
The South-Eastern Displaced Persons Relief Board was located in a makeshift office in the lower ground floor of a house not far from the new Kent and Sussex Hospital, in the Mt. Ephraim area of the town. The hospital, which had been built only five years earlier, seemed so very modern when compared to the older architecture of the town, from the Georgian Pantiles to the great number of houses and shops built during Victoria’s reign. When the railway was built in the mid-1800s, a new brand of resident—the commuter—found Tunbridge Wells to be a most agreeable town and so very convenient for London. Now there were new huts in the grounds of the hospital—erected, Maisie guessed, to receive the many wounded expected if war came.
“I can spare you about fifteen minutes, Miss Dobbs,” said Martin Thorpe once they were seated in his office. He regarded her over half-moon spectacles and only sat down after Maisie had taken a chair. “We have become very, very busy again, offering support for refugees coming from over there in Germany, Austria, and so on—but fortunately, we know the ropes.” He had spoken the words “over there” in an imperious manner; at the mention of Germany his nostrils flared as if a plate of foul matter had been placed on the table in front of him. He wore a gray suit of some age; his tie was askew and his shirt collar seemed as if it had been turned, and not in recent weeks. He was balding, and there was a faint shimmer of perspiration across his pate.
“Thank you so much, Mr. Thorpe. I understand your late mother was one of the founders of the South-Eastern Displaced Persons Relief Board.”
“Along with my wife, my mother-in-law, and several other women in Folkestone. As you probably know, refugees were coming over in their droves more or less as soon as the Kaiser’s army began rolling towards Belgium and France. I was an officer in the Buffs—the Royal East Kents—and after I was wounded, I couldn’t just sit about, so I helped out. Not that I was very much help at the time. Anyway, after the war there was quite a lot of work to do in terms of assisting with repatriation, and as my mother was getting on, and my work brought me to Tunbridge Wells, we decided to keep a small office going here, and were given leave to do so by the government. Frankly, not a lot of rubber-stamping went on—as long as we helped them to go after the Armistice, they let us get on with it.”
“Do you still have records of the refugees you helped?”
“In the depths of our cellarage, we do. One never knows when one might need the information, though we have been thinking of just burning the lot, now we’re into another war—God help us.”
“Do you think you could find out whether you have records for either of these men?”
Maisie passed a sheet of paper to Thorpe, who squinted as he read the names. He passed a hand across his scalp and rubbed it against his upper arm, as if to remove any moisture picked up on the way. “I’ll have one of my helpers have a look for you, but I’m afraid it won’t be today, or tomorrow—in fact, I don’t know when we’ll have the time. But as soon as I know, I could drop you a postcard.”