“But—”
“No, you can’t, Maisie. You can’t commit to grave visiting, I won’t allow it. When he’s laid to rest—or whatever they call it when you’re cremated—it will be a rest for those close to him as well. I agree with her wholeheartedly that it represents a release, a letting-go for all concerned.”
Maisie said nothing.
“Hello? Hello? Can you hear me?”
“I’m here, Pris. And I think she’s right too, though it came as rather a shock at first.”
“Yes, of course it did. Now then, I am going to lounge in a deep bath this evening, seeing as Elinor has the boys back under her thumb once more and all is well in my world. My darling Douglas will be here soon, along with my motor car, and my cup will runneth over.”
Maisie nodded, though there was no one to see her. “Good night, Priscilla. See you at half-past nine tomorrow.”
“Sleep tight, dear Maisie. And don’t fret, it will soon be over.”
Maisie walked slowly back, glad to return to the flat that she now saw as a cocoon. She thought about what Billy had said, about throwing on the clod of dirt, of releasing something of the memory into the earth. What did one release with a cremation? Where was the ritual, the ending of the story, when there was no grave to visit, no place to set down a posy of primroses or an armful of fresh daffodils? She sat for a while, and though the evening was not cold, she placed a florin in the gas meter and ignited the fire. She felt chilled to the bone, yet when she considered Margaret Lynch’s decision, she could not help but feel it was a good one, and wondered if she had settled upon it, in part for her sake.
MAISIE STOOD TALL when the final hymn was announced, feeling the numbness in her feet, which had been cold since she went to bed last night. It was no ordinary cold but a deep seeping dampness that could not easily be countered by exterior warmth. It was bitter and clammy and, in truth, it had been with her since France, since the war, and there were days when she thought it would freeze up through her body and turn it to stone.
Margaret Lynch stood between Maisie and Priscilla, and as they opened their hymnbooks to the correct page, she felt Simon’s mother lean against her. Maisie closed her eyes for a moment and rooted her feet to the ground, so that Margaret might share her strength, and then, though it might be considered presumptuous, she linked her arm through the older woman’s to offer greater support. Margaret Lynch patted Maisie’s hand and nodded, and as air gushed from the organ’s bellows, the introduction began and voices rose up in unison.
I vow to thee, my country, all earthly things above,
Entire and whole and perfect, the service of my love;
The love that asks no question, the love that stands the test,
That lays upon the altar the dearest and the best;
The love that never falters, the love that pays the price,
The love that makes undaunted the final sacrifice.
As the second verse began, the coffin was moved back through a divided curtain toward the incinerator. When the curtain closed again, Simon was gone from them forever. Maisie felt his mother increase the pressure on her hand, and she in turn drew her closer.
Later, following an early luncheon at the Lynch house in Holland Park, Maisie and Priscilla waited until the other guests had departed before taking their leave.
“Are you sure you’ll be alright, Margaret?”
“Yes, of course, Priscilla. I am in need of rest, so I will go to my room and put my feet up.” She reached out toward Maisie and Priscilla. “I am so glad you were both here.”
Priscilla kissed the air next to Margaret’s left cheek, while Maisie stepped back. Then, just as Maisie was about to hold out her hand to bid the bereaved woman goodbye, Margaret took her by the shoulders and looked directly into her eyes.
“Please come to visit me, Maisie. I shall be here in Holland Park for a week or two while my belongings are packed up and sent to Grantchester. So, please come.”
“Of course. I would be delighted.”
“Thank you.” She held Maisie’s hands in both her own. “Thank you. For all that you were to him.”
HAVING DEPOSITED PRISCILLA at the Dorchester once more, Maisie pulled her watch from the black document case and checked the time: two o’clock. She had to be at the repository at half past three; in the interim, she would go straight to Denmark Street, a mecca for London’s musicians.
Andersen & Sons, Luthiers, was halfway along the narrow street, just off Charing Cross Road. A brown awning kept the sun’s rays from the window, in which a gentleman mannequin, garbed in evening dress, was seated on a chair with a cello positioned ready to play. The bow had been tied to his hand to hold it in place, and it looked as if he might come alive and draw it across the strings at any moment.
A bell rang above the door as Maisie entered the shop. All manner of stringed instruments were positioned around the four walls. Guitars were hung from hooks, as were lutes, balalaikas, ukuleles, violas and violins. Two harps were set on the floor, along with a cello and a double bass. Mahogany counters flanked either side of the shop, displaying strings, clamps, an assortment of plectra, and other tools of the string musician’s trade. Just inside the door, a stand held a selection of sheet music that had become dusty and curled. And at the back of the shop, through a velvet curtain tied to one side, she saw two men working at facing benches. Each surface was illuminated by two electric desk lamps, though the shop itself was dimly lit, probably to save money and to protect the instruments. The older of the two men also used a substantial magnifying glass, which had been bolted to his workbench.
As the door closed, the younger man rubbed his hands with a cloth and came out to greet Maisie.
“Can I help you, madam?” He executed a shallow bow as he spoke.
“I wanted to speak to Mr. Andersen, if I may?”
“Which one? There are three, with only two of us here today.”
“Then it would be Mr. Andersen, Senior.”
The man, who was about thirty, went back to the workshop, calling “Dad, lady to see you,” and pushing the curtain aside as he returned to his work. The older gentleman, his shoulders hunched from years of leaning across the workbench, came to greet her.
“May I help you?” He spoke with an accent, which Maisie identified as being Danish or Swedish.
“I have come to see you about a violin you repaired, some years ago.”
The man smiled, his gray-blue eyes kind, while the white woolly curls on his head made him seem endearing, like a favorite uncle in a child’s fairy tale. “I keep perfect records, and I remember my customers, though I am more likely to remember their instruments.”
“The violin belonged to a man named Jacob Martin, but seeing as he was Dutch, it may have been Maarten.” Maisie emphasized ten, her tongue touching her teeth as she spoke.
Andersen frowned. “I remember Jacob well. His surname was originally van Maarten.”
“Van Maarten?”
“Yes. He changed it when his daughter, Anna, was born. Jacob was born and bred here, and he wanted his family to be assimilated.” His pronunciation of the word was deliberate, syllable by syllable. “He came into the shop often, as his bakery was close to Covent Garden, so he would stroll up after the market folk had come for their pastries in the morning, the traders for their coffee and sausage rolls. We had a shared love, you see, of the instruments.” He paused. “But why do you ask of him?”