Pardonable Lie Read Online Free PDF Page A

see them. We’re not even on nodding ‘good-morning’ terms.”
    Priscilla was quiet for a moment, and as she ran a finger around the rim of her wineglass, Maisie regarded her closely. Her demeanor had changed; a tension had moved into her shoulders that Maisie knew came from Priscilla’s heart.
    “What is it, Priscilla?”
    “Oh, nothing. Nothing, really….”
    Maisie leaned back as Priscilla in turn leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. She began to unburden her troublesome thoughts with a nervous half laugh and a joke.
    “You know, m y father would have sent me from the table for this. ‘Only cooked meat on the table’ was a favorite quip as he pricked you on the arm with a fork.”
    “Those who are gone are never far away,” said Maisie.
    “Yes, I know. I’m seeing it more and more in the boys as they get older. Though they never knew their uncles, I see reminders every day, even when one of them is just about to box another around the ears! God, I miss them; I still miss my family, Maisie.” Priscilla took up the ebony holder and, despite disparaging looks from two matrons dining nearby, lit another cigarette.
    “But there’s more, isn’t there?” Maisie rested her hands on the table, not with palms down but relaxed and slightly upturned.
    Priscilla blew a smoke ring and smiled broadly at the neighboring diners. She doesn’t change , thought Maisie.
    “It’s that case you mentioned, Maisie.” Priscilla seemed to falter but then continued. “It made me think of my eldest brother, Peter. As you know, I was the youngest; the boys were all older. Phil and Pat were both killed in 1916, within two weeks of each other, but Peter—I don’t know about Peter.”
    “Don’t know?” Maisie resisted the urge to lean toward Priscilla, instead leaving room for her to continue her story.
    “No. I have no idea.” Priscilla looked at Maisie directly. “It’s my boys growing up so quickly, I think. I pushed it all back after the war, after Mummy and Daddy died. Off I went to France like a shot, drank myself silly for a year, and, thank God, along came Douglas to drag me from the abyss. I adore him, Maisie, and I adore my boys. Douglas and I have helped each other, really, and I don’t want to look back, but…”
    “But?”
    “We never knew where Peter died. His body was never found, though that wasn’t unusual, was it? I never even saw the telegram. My parents had already lost Patrick and Philip, so they burned it, and I’ve been troubled about it ever since. I’ll put it to the back of my mind for a while, and then something—and sometimes it’s something really simple, not a big thing like this case of yours—brings it all back again.”
    Maisie did not respond for some moments. Then she reached across to her friend and took her hands in her own. “Look, Pris, I want you to consider something—and please don’t dismiss my suggestion immediately. I can direct you to someone who, in conversation, can help you to put Peter to rest in your heart. I’m your friend, too close for such work, but Maurice—”
    Priscilla pulled her right hand from Maisie’s grasp, holding it up to stop her speaking. “I know what you’re suggesting, Maisie. I’ve heard all about these newfangled talk therapies, and they’re not my bag. I’d rather listen to an old gramophone record and have a drink and a cigarette until misery finds someone else to pick on.” She paused briefly and changed the subject. “Have you received a letter from Girton asking for contributions to the new fund-raising campaign? I thought I’d send something.”

    M AISIE AND P RISCILLA remained together for another hour or so, reminiscing over dinner about their time at Girton College and their lives since the war. They agreed to meet again for lunch before Priscilla flew from Croydon Aerodrome back to France. But as she left her friend, driving back to Ebury Place with the top down on the MG, for it was a warm Indian-summer