Messenger of Truth (33 page)

“I reckon, Billy, that there’s such a thing as serendipity, that if you are meant to move on, you will. And I believe that if you imagine, and keep on imagining, a better life for your family, then events will conspire to present the opportunity to you. And when that time comes, you will make your decision, one way or another.”

“Bit of a gamble, though, ain’t it?”

“So is staying in one spot.”

It was late February before Maisie made an appointment to visit Georgina Bassington-Hope at her home in Kensington. Arriving at the flat, she was surprised to see Nick’s Scott motorcycle standing outside, now with panniers added.

As she waited while Georgina was informed that her visitor had arrived, Maisie heard the unmistakable rat-tat-tat-tat-tat of typewriter keys hitting a paper-filled platen. The journalist was having a productive day. The housekeeper left Georgina’s study, beckoning Maisie to enter. The book-lined room resembled a beehive, such was the level of energy generated by the woman who seemed unable to tear herself away from her work. Maisie was still until, finally, with a forefinger resting on a key, Georgina turned to her.

“One second, just one second while I finish this thought…”

Maisie took a seat next to the desk. Finally, Georgina released the platen, rolled out the sheet of paper and added it to a manuscript alongside the typewriter.

“Maisie, how are you?” She reached out and grasped Maisie’s hand. “Come along, let’s sit by the fire.”

The two women moved to chairs set beside the blazing coal fire.

“I’m well, but more to the point, how are
you
?”

Drawing back her thick copper hair, Georgina wound the waves into a chignon at the nape of her neck, and secured it with a pencil. “I thought I’d never climb out of the hole I’d dug for myself, to tell you the truth. What with the terrible, terrible outcome of your investigation—and I’m not blaming you, no, I blame myself—I thought it would be best if I just went away, take a leaf out of Nick’s book and go off to America or something.”

Maisie’s expression betrayed her thoughts.

“Oh, you are just like Nolly! You’ll be delighted to hear that it’s all over with Randolph Bradley. I’ll get to that in a minute. However, you must know that Piers is expected home in just a few months. What with the verdict of manslaughter, and considering his age, and the circumstances of the crime, he’ll be home by the autumn, according to the solicitors.”

“I’m glad. Are you all coping? What about Emma and Noelle?”

Georgina sighed. “We’re making progress, patching things up, you know. Rome wasn’t built in a day. Nolly’s been a great help, an absolute brick—mind you, she always was. She’s done wonders with Piers and Emma. And with me—and she’s sorted out Harry, come to that.”

“You can tell me about Harry later. What about your sister?”

Georgina shook her head, pausing to gaze into the fire before she spoke again. “Piers was the only one who realized, really understood, that Nolly’s wall of tweedy organization was all that stood between her and the tide of sadness that came with Godfrey’s death. When she went on about him being a war hero, and so on, it was herself she was trying to convince, and I think that none of us really understood her. It was so easy to think that Nolly was all right, you know, ‘Good old Noll!’” She sighed, looking into the flames as if for answers. “But what Piers didn’t grasp was that Nolly might be better than any of us when it came to dealing with the truth, that even though she was devastated when she first saw the paintings, it was as if she knew, as if she understood right there and then why Nick had chosen to use Godfrey as a subject for the piece. You know, people think that Nick and I were close—and of course, we were, we were twins, after all—but Nolly is the eldest, and that’s almost like being another parent. She nursed Nick when he came home wounded, and even though she could moan and groan about him, about his work, she was very forgiving, when it came down to it.”

“Yes, I can see that.”

“She’s both worried and delighted that Harry seems to be sorting himself out.”

“And what’s he going to do?” Maisie was warmed by the conversation and by Georgina’s unexpectedly buoyant mood.

“You’ll never believe this, but Harry has joined a shipboard band, entertaining passengers on their way from Southampton to New York.” She shrugged her shoulders. “I just hope that staff are banned from the gaming tables! Seriously, he said he’d wanted to go to New York for ages, that it’s where his kind of music was born, and that’s where he should be.”

“Following in his brother’s footsteps?”

“It’s where Nick heard the sound of his drummer, so perhaps it’ll be the same for Harry.”

“And what about you, Georgina?” Maisie gestured toward the typewriter. “You seem to have found your muse.”

“My muse is Nick. Come along, I’ll show you.” Georgina returned to her desk, followed by Maisie. She reached for a series of large black-and-white sketches that had been laid out for her to view as she worked at the typewriter.

“Oh, my…”

“Only sketches, but brilliant, aren’t they? So detailed. They’re good enough to exhibit.”

Maisie nodded, pulling a lamp across so that she could better see the work. Nick Bassington-Hope had depicted everyday life on the streets that were home to those who knew only want. Scruffy street urchins, lines of men waiting for work, women struggling to wash laundry at a cold-water street pump—the forgotten of London seen through the eyes of the artist.

“It’s as if he had taken a photograph, as if someone like Frank Hurley were behind the camera, not an artist with charcoal and paper.”

“I know.” Georgina nodded, the color rising to her cheeks.

Maisie lifted her gaze from the sketches and looked at Georgina. “What are you going to do with them?”

Georgina began to speak quickly, her excitement mounting. “After you gave me the keys to the lock-up, I went over on my own to have a look. That’s when I found these, the sketches. I just sat there and wept, not just because they’re Nick’s and I miss him terribly, but because of what they represent.” She swallowed, looking at Maisie intently. “You were right, Maisie, this
is
war, this
is
a battlefield, and I have to do something about it. But I have only one real gift, and that is my skill with words. I can draw a bit, but this is what I work with.” She pulled the pencil from the chignon and held it up to emphasize her point, her unclasped hair cascading across her shoulders. “So, here’s my plan—and let me tell you, I not only have the promise of an exhibition from Stig, but I have a contract from my publisher!” Georgina splayed the sketches across the desk. “There’s a story in each of these, a history, a person whose life others will want to read about—someone who I will
make
them want to read about. And I’m not going to stop there.” She was speaking faster now. “These are all of London, with some of rural poverty in Kent, but Nick hadn’t finished. I’m going to travel across Britain, from London to Birmingham, to Newcastle, Leeds, Sheffield, up to Scotland, and I’m going to tell the story of what’s happened since 1929, what’s happening now. I can’t wait for bloody Mosley to become king—or whatever it is he wants—and rise to the occasion and save everyone, for heaven’s sake!”

“Is that why you ended the liaison with Bradley?” Maisie risked the impertinent question.

Georgina shrugged. “It began to end almost as soon as it started. To tell you the truth, I hadn’t been really inspired since the war—you hit the nail on the head there, Maisie.” With her hands still resting upon her brother’s sketches, Georgina looked out the window and, it seemed, into the past. “I took such huge chances out there in the war, but—oh, it is so hard to explain—there was this thrill, this feeling here”—she touched a place just above her belt buckle—“that told me that what I was doing was right, that I might be taking a risk, might even be killed, but it was a gamble for a good reason. I would have something to show for it.” Her words began to slow, and she shrugged her shoulders. “I missed that feeling, and I think I tried to get it back by having an affair. But it was never right. You see”—she turned so that she and Maisie were face-to-face—“you see, I realized that even though there was the risk, the thrill of an affair with a married man, and an exciting married man at that—it was completely false. Completely without substance. There was no…no…no truth, no solid, meaningful reason to play with that particular fire. Do you understand?”

“I do, yes; I do understand.”

“So now, with this work, with Nick’s sketches there to challenge me, I’ve found that reason again, that old voice saying, ‘Do it, it’s worth it.’ And I can feel it inside me, that the chance, the challenge of taking off on my own is a worthwhile endeavor.”

Georgina spoke for some moments longer, while Maisie encouraged her with a ready smile, leaning forward to show excitement about the expedition and that she was keen to wish her well. Then having submitted her written report, Maisie gathered her belongings, ready to leave, but Georgina touched her on the arm.

“I’ve something for you. Call it a gift from Nick.” She held out a parcel wrapped in brown paper and string. “No prizes for guessing, it’s a painting. But one you will find quite extraordinary, I think.”

“A painting, for me?”

“Yes. I found it in the lock-up. A completed watercolor. Quite extraordinary, you know, because he had rolled a note along with it, explaining the subject. It reminded me of you, and I remembered you saying something about bare walls in your new flat, and I thought you might like it so I had it framed for you. Of course, if it isn’t to your liking, you can give it away.”

MAISIE UNLOCKED THE
front door of her flat and called out. “Anyone home?”

Sandra emerged from the box room, a duster in her hand.

“Settling in, Sandra?”

“Yes, miss. I can’t thank you enough. I hope me being here won’t be too much of an imposition.”

“Not at all. We can’t have you living in a hostel until your wedding in June, can we?”

Sandra smiled, beckoning to Maisie. “Come and have a look. Eric helped me move a bed and dressing table in. Got them cheap we did—at a house sale, you know.”

Maisie looked into the room that had already been made cozy by the new lodger.

“And now that I’ve got a job in that dress shop, I can do night classes as well—typewriting’s the thing, you know. I was just about to go and sign up.”

“Right you are, Sandra. I’ll see you later.” Maisie smiled as the younger woman gathered her coat and hat and left the flat. Though she had wondered about her decision to extend the offer to Sandra to live with her until her marriage, she was delighted to lend a helping hand, as others had in turn helped her in the past. And in the way that fortune and providence gravitate toward each other, Sandra had found a new job soon after accepting Maisie’s offer.

LATER, AFTER SHE
had hung the painting on the wall above the fireplace, Maisie dragged one of her two armchairs and set it in front of the fire. Sipping tea from a tin mug, she read the note that Nick Bassington-Hope had left with the painting he’d completed a year before.

Winter, but you would think it’s the first day of spring. The sun is shining, and everything has that look of readiness for rebirth. I had just returned from Lydd when I saw the subject for this painting, and something made me want to paint her. Despite the freezing cold, she walked along the beach and stopped to look out across the Channel, almost as if she were looking into the future. Can’t explain it, but I had the feeling that this was a woman on the brink of something fresh, something new, a woman leaving the past behind. So, what with the promise of spring in the air, I came straight back to the cottage and began to work.

Maisie wondered what Nick had seen on that day, for the picture could well have been a photograph taken on her last visit to Dungeness, as she walked on the shingle and looked out to sea. She finished her tea and sat for some time, studying the painting, thinking about the man who had caught a moment of reflection. Her moment of reflection. She read the note again and closed her eyes.
Readiness for rebirth.
Winter warming to spring; the land new again after battles have raged; a child dead, and a baby born. It was time to move on, to dance with life again.

As always, deepest thanks to my writing buddy, Holly Rose, for keeping me on track with my writing, and for limitless encouragement. More especially, Hol, thank you for your yellow high-lighter—where would Maisie and I be without it? Gratitude must also go to my “old china plate,” Tony Broadbent: thank you for our wonderful conversations about “old London” and for giving me even more research materials with which to breathe life into Maisie’s time and place—my bookshelves runneth over! In addition, my Cheef Resurcher (who knows who he is) has once again been on his toes, bringing golden nuggest of historical significance to my attention.

The Imperial War Museum has fascinated me since childhood, and continues to inspire and intrigue me, not least when I am using the archive and library—thanks must go to the ever-helpful staff, who so efficiently find books and correspondence to support my understanding of the Great War and its aftermath.

To my agent, Amy Rennert—love and gratitude for your powerful blend of experience, knowledge and grace; to my editors, Jennifer Barth (in New York) and Anya Serota ( in London, thank you both for your skillful and sensitive editing, for your insights and that shared uncanny ability to read my mind.

And thanks to my family—for everything: my husband, John Morrell; my brother John and sister-in-law, Angella; my wonderful parents, Albert and Joyce Winspear, who visited Dungeness with me, tramping across the shingle on a bitterly cold day while I made notes for
Messenger of Truth
—that’s what you call support!