“Not that long afterwards. I suppose they had to inform the authorities of his death—the police did that. She came to offer her condolences. Nice woman, very smart, quite sophisticated, like a mannequin, I suppose.” As they reached the front of the house, Firmin turned the lock, opened the door, and stood aside for Maisie to pass. “Mind you,” she added, “I saw her reach into her bag—she leaned over, just like you did to take out those photographs—and when she did, her scarf slipped. She had a nasty scar right across her neck. At first I thought it looked as if someone had tried to take off her head, but then I thought, no, she must have had a thyroid operation. They say you’re left with a very nasty scar if they get in there and mess about with your thyroid.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Firmin.” Maisie turned to her and smiled. “By the way, most remiss of me—may I ask your Christian name?”
“Irma. Irma Firmin. Hard to believe, isn’t it? I said to Carl when he proposed, I said, ‘You couldn’t change that name of yours, could you?’” She laughed. “Anyway, sorry for being rude, but I’ve got to get some sleep now.”
Maisie thanked her for her time, and made her way down the steps and to her motor car, which now had a gaggle of three boys and a girl gathered around like bees on a rose.
“This your’n, miss?” said a lad with red hair and a peppering of freckles across his nose.
“No, it belongs to my boss—so I hope it’s not scratched, or he’ll give me the sack and a bag to carry it in,” said Maisie, smiling as she paused to find her key. “Anyway, why aren’t you all evacuated? And shouldn’t you be in school?”
The tallest boy laughed. “Our mum said she missed us and came down to fetch us home. She said there hadn’t been any bombs, and it looked like that Mr. Hitler had forgotten all about England—he’s got more on his plate over there. And when we got back here, there was nowhere to go to school—the army are in our school now. Mind you, the school board man has been round and said we’ve got to go back down to the country, but Mum said no.”
Maisie looked at the barrage balloons above, and then at the four children, alone in a street with no other children. She reached into her bag, took out her purse, and handed a coin to each child. “Here comes the ice cream man—treat yourselves to a penny dipper each.”
The children’s eyes widened as they looked at the coins, uttering a quick “Thank you” in unison as they turned and ran towards the ice cream man on his bicycle. Maisie smiled for an instant, but her thoughts were elsewhere. In her mind’s eye she could see the scar on Francesca Thomas’ neck, a wound sustained while a young woman, and member of the Belgian resistance during the Great War. But Thomas had prevailed in that fight, killing the man responsible for the death of her husband.
Chapter 12
The London Overseas Reception Board was only a short walk from Greenwich Market. It was situated on the first floor of a modest Victorian building with a shop on the ground floor and a dwelling above. Maisie had managed to park the Alvis nearby, and waited until the manageress, Miss Golding, could spare her ten minutes. She suspected there were only about three or four staff, all told.