A Lesson in Secrets_ A Maisie Dobbs Novel - Jacqueline Winspear [97]
“Would you tell me what happened?”
“My mother could tell you what happened before my father was taken away. I was not a child, but probably not quite old enough to see anything but the black and white of it all.” She sighed. “Sometimes, it makes me so tired, so exhausted, just thinking back over those years.”
“Let’s sit over here, on this bank.”
Maisie took off her jacket and laid it on the ground. She sat down on one side, patting the remaining fabric for Alice to sit next to her. “There, that works very well.”
“It won’t do your jacket any good, though, will it, Miss Dobbs?”
“Maisie. Please continue to call me Maisie. Now, tell me about your father.”
Tears came into the young woman’s eyes, tears that she brushed away with the back of her hand.
“They were very happy, my parents. Very much in love. But if I was to look back on it, I think they were very idealistic. I didn’t realize how different we all were until I started seeing my friends’ parents, who seemed so ordinary. My parents were always involved in something, and even before the war they had become quite vocal about their support of peace among nations. My father went to a peace march in 1912, and we all went along, too. If one of us couldn’t walk, then they carried us.” Alice stopped speaking. She pinched at the grass, pulling up small clumps and throwing them aside. “My parents truly believed in what they saw as an increasingly aggressive tone in government. To tell you the truth, we—my brother and I—picked up the argument, the discussion we heard around the table, and took it to school, which made us stand out a bit. So, later, Mother started teaching us at home. And she told stories. Both Mother and Father told stories for us, and they said that if you could teach children about peace, there would be no more wars. We were taught never to fight, never to raise a hand towards another, and to turn the other cheek. I think that was especially hard for Adam, because he was such a big lad for his age—every boy in school wanted to pick on him for a fight, but he just walked away. I think we were all relieved when we came home for school, and my mother had quite a row with the school board man.”
“I’m sure she did,” offered Maisie. “What happened to your father, in the war?”
“He protested against conscription, and he registered as a conscientious objector.” She swallowed, and rivulets of tears ran down either side of her face. “My father was a very, very clever man, Miss Dobbs. He had been a teacher, and a writer of political essays, all of which were published. He was firm in his resolve, and he could argue his point with clarity and without resorting to rancor or sarcasm; he didn’t need to be disrespectful. Even though I was young, I remember that listening to him argue a point was like watching a concert pianist dance his fingers across the keyboard, or a ballerina execute her steps to perfection. The men at his hearing clearly despised him. I am sure he angered them simply by the way he expressed himself—he was quite imperturbable. So instead of being sent to do hard labor, such was the vehemence—and, I think, the sense—of his argument, that he was sent to Wandsworth Prison, which had a terrible reputation. And we had no means of support in the family. We were living in a cottage close to the school where he taught at the time, and after his hearing, my mother was given notice to leave. She was very worried, so for a short time we went to live with my father’s aunt.”
“Rose Linden.”
The drying tears had left water marks across Alice Thurlow’s skin, and her eyes were red-rimmed. “Oh, yes, of course, that’s how you found us. Rose was so kind, and so was her husband, though they ended up losing the regard of her husband’s family. We were like the unclean, you see—the family of a conchie. My mother told me she would have to get us away as soon as she could, as it wasn’t fair on Aunt