Maisie Dobbs Read Online Free PDF

posture, Maisie nodded acknowledgment, a small movement that brought Celia Davenham back to the present. She nodded in return, brushed at her skirt, stood up, replaced her gloves, and quickly left Vincent’s grave.
    Maisie was in no hurry. She knew that Celia Davenham would go home now. Home to play the loving wife, the role she would assume as soon as she walked through the door. It was a role that her husband had seen through easily, although his conclusions had been erroneous. Maisie also knew that the second’s glance and the deliberate acknowledgment she had initiated between herself and Celia ensured that the other woman would recognize her when they met again.
    Maisie lingered for a while at Donald’s grave. There was something healing in this ritual of making a comfortable place for the dead. Her thoughts took her back to France, to the dead and dying, to the devastating wounds that were so often beyond her skill, beyond everyone’s. But it was the wounds of the mind that touched her, those who still fought their battles again and again each day, though the country was at peace. If only she could make the living as comfortable, thought Maisie, as she tidied a few more stubborn weeds in the shadow of Don’s headstone.
    “Making a nice job of that one.”
    Maisie swung around, to see one of the cemetery workers standing behind her, an older man with red, bony hands firmly grasping the handles of a wooden wheelbarrow. His ruddy complexion told of years working outdoors, but his kind eyes spoke of compassion, of respect.
    “Why yes. It’s sad to see them so uncared for, isn’t it?” replied Maisie.
    “I’ll say, after what those boys gave for us. Poor bastards. Oh, Miss, I am sorry, I forgot—”
    “Don’t worry. It’s as well to voice one’s feelings,” replied Maisie.
    “That’s the truth. Too much not said by ’alf.”
    The man pointed to Donald’s grave.
    “Haven’t seen this one being tended for a few years. His old Mum and Dad used to come over. Only son. Killed them, too, it did, I reckon.”
    “Did you know them? I would have thought it would be difficult to know all the relatives, with so many graves,” said Maisie.
    “I’m ’ere every day ’cept Sundays, that is. Been ’ere since just after the war. I get to know people. ’Course, you don’t ’ave long talks, no time for that, and folk don’t always want to talk, but, there again, there’s those that want to ’ave a bit of conversation.”
    “Yes, yes, I’m sure.”
    “Not seen you before, not ’ere.”The man looked at Maisie.
    “No, that’s true. I’m a cousin. Just moved to the city,” said Maisie, looking at the man directly.
    “Nice to see it being taken care of.”The man firmed his grip on the wheelbarrow handles, as if to move on.
    “Wait a minute. I wonder, could you tell me, are all the graves here, in this part, war graves?” asked Maisie.
    “Yes and no. Most of these are our boys, but some lived a long time after their injuries. Your Don, well, you’d know this, but ’e ’ad septicemia. Horrible way to go, ’specially as ’e was brought home. Lot of folk like to bury ’em ’ere because of the railway.”
    The man set the wheelbarrow down, and pointed to the railway lines running alongside the cemetery.
    “You can see the trains from ’ere. Not that these boys can see the trains, but the relatives like it. They’re on a journey, you see, it’s a— you know, what do they call it, you know—when it means something to them.”
    “Metaphor?”
    “Yeah, well, like I said, it’s a journey, innit? And the relatives, if they’ve come by train, which most of them do, can see the graves as the train pulls out of the station. They can say another good-bye that way.”
    “So, what about that one there? Strange, isn’t it? Just one word, the Christian name?” asked Maisie.
    “I’ll say. The whole bleedin’ thing was strange. Two years ago ’e came, this one. Small family burial. ’e was a