Hilda laughed again.
It was really too early in the year to be sitting outside, but it was a bright day and the pub garden was very pleasant and they had it all to themselves. It had been several months since she’d met with Hilda, and Maisie was pleased to see her looking so happy. Besides doing work on the African Survey with Lord Hailey, and some work in independent radio—so much for being sick of broadcasting—and the book, she was also involved with Dorothy Wellesley, the Duchess of Wellington.
“Seems it’s you who has the taste for the aristocracy more than I ever did,” Maisie teased her.
“Yes, I’m quite the social climber,” Hilda agreed, raising her eyebrow.
She asked, so Maisie told her about Broadcasting House, where they were about to move, and how Siepmann was still upset because the Talks director’s office had been designed to Hilda’s specifications, down to the furniture, and no one would give him the money to change it.
They were still laughing when a distant church bell rang.
“Goodness, I’m afraid I have to get on,” Hilda said. They each looked at their watches—Hilda smiled to see Maisie still had the lilac one she’d given her.
“I have almost an hour before I’m meeting Cyril,” Maisie said.
“Ah. He grew up nicely, didn’t he?”
“Well, we’ll see,” Maisie said, but she was smiling. This was only their third proper date. She didn’t count the one from 1927. She had told him not to get any ideas about her, and she had come a long way from being the marrying kind. He said he’d take her company however he could get it.
Hilda paid the bill, waving away Maisie’s money.
“Stay and have another drink. I know you. I know you don’t relax enough.” She squeezed Maisie’s shoulder, dropped a green folder on the table, and was gone.
Maisie stared at the folder. She knew Hilda was still involved with MI5. Was it a lead, maybe? Maisie was constantly chasing stories these days. It was always nice to have one handed to her.
She opened the folder and read.
“Musgrave, Edwin. Born 1881, Selby, Yorkshire. Died 1915, Belgium.”
He had immigrated to Canada in 1900, worked as a painter in the theater. Which must have been how they met. “Married Georgina Allen, 1902. Issue: Maisie Edwina, born 1903.”
Edwina? Georgina had always told Maisie to be grateful enough just to have one name. Edwina. For her father.
“Divorced: 1904. Returned to England: 1904.”
A year. Or less. He had been there that long. Known her. But maybe not. It only opened up more questions.
Worked as a joiner. And joined the army, even though he was thirty-three and could have done his bit from a safer locale. And died before she’d joined the VAD and was stationed to the hospital in Brighton. Died in Belgium, so she wouldn’t have seen him anyway.
There was a photo. Rare, in those days, for a man to have his photo made. Had it been for Georgina?
He was young, with stick-straight hair and Maisie’s prominent nose. His eyes were solemn, chin pointy. His expression was appropriately placid, but there might be something behind his eyes that suggested he was interested in hurrying off to do something else.
Hunger.
Maisie wiped her eyes and went on reading. There wasn’t much left. He had a brother, Maxwell, invalided home in 1916, living in York. A clerk for the county. Two children, Peter and Hannah. Each married. Two grandchildren, Gerald and Samuel.
She closed the folder so as not to let tears drip on it and rested her head in her hands.
She had a family. An uncle Max. Cousins. And she was from Yorkshire, just like Phyllida.
She could write to them. They might know nothing about her, but she could write. Maybe go to York. It would be good to travel more anyway. There was a lot to see. Phyllida might take a holiday with her. And maybe she would come away with a family.
She wiped her face again and tucked the folder into her holdall—stuffing it in with the newspapers, notebooks, pencils, two novels, and a primer on beginner’s German.
Hilda hated being thanked.
I’ll send her tickets to a concert. Something very lively and modern. She’ll love that.
Maisie sauntered off into the evening, swinging her holdall beside her.
AUTHOR’S NOTE