“Maggie. Please.”
“Maggie,” he repeated thoughtfully. “It’s so very good to meet you, Maggie. You’re without a doubt your father’s daughter, but with aspects of your mother as well, of course. I only met her once or twice, but your father always had a photograph of her on his desk. We used to tease him no end about it—how he’d managed to persuade such a pretty girl to marry him.”
Maggie wanted to hear more—she wanted to hear everything—but she knew she had to bring the conversation back to the topic at hand.
“Did you go to his funeral?”
“Did I—” His moist eyes looked shocked.
“You see, I was wondering if you did, or if you know of anyone who did.”
“What on earth would make you ask that? Of course I went to your mother’s funeral.”
“My mother’s?” she asked. “No, this is about my father’s. I—”
“My dear child,” he said, leaning forward. “I never went to your father’s funeral.”
She folded her hands tightly together. “Why not?”
“Because—to the best of my knowledge—your father is still alive.”
Maggie gasped.
“I know he was living alone, not coming in to work, and drinking a bit more than prudent,” Barstow said. “We were all terribly worried about him. His sister was taking care of you, and he—well, one day, he just disappeared.”
“ ‘Disappeared’?” Maggie said, unclenching her hands. “No one can just disappear.”
“That’s what it seemed like. He became increasingly isolated and delusional—and the next thing we knew, he was gone.”
“Yes, but gone where?”
“My dear, I wish I could say. But there was the trench war, you know. Your father and I were friends, and it gives me great pain to say this. I assumed he’d gone to the country or something like that—to get his head back together. But the months went by, and then the years—and he just never came back.”
He didn’t die? Maggie felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise. This is what Aunt Edith was trying to keep from me? But why? “So he could be out there? Alive?”
“It’s a distinct possibility,” Barstow said. “Although, I suppose, any number of things could have happened to him over the years.”
“Do you have any idea where he might have gone?” she pressed. “Did he have a favorite place outside of London?”
Barstow sighed and scratched his head. “It was so long ago.…”
“Please,” she implored.
“Well, I do remember that he spoke quite often of his time at Cambridge. Loved the place. Always had a warm spot in his heart for his days at university. That’s all I can think of.”
Cambridge. Yes, he’d done his undergraduate and doctoral work at Trinity, Maggie thought. It was better than nothing. “Thank you, Professor Barstow.” She opened her handbag and took out a fountain pen and a small notebook. She scribbled something down, ripped it out, and handed the paper to him. “Here’s my number, if you remember anything more.” She rose to leave.
“You know,” he said slowly. “Sometimes people don’t want to be found.”
Maggie was struck by his candor. “I realize that,” she said over her shoulder. “But if there’s a chance, even just a chance—I have to try.”
FOURTEEN
EVEN WITH NIGHTLY air attacks, life went on.
“We have tickets! We have tickets!” Paige called up the stairs.
Anything to do with Sarah and her dancing career—with glamour in a drab wartime world—left Paige giddy with delight. She danced into the bedroom just as Maggie was drawing her bath. Although she applied Odo-Ro-No under her arms, sprinkled with bicarbonate of soda and splashed with violette eau de toilette, like most of her fellow Londoners, she needed a bath.
“Tickets to what?” Maggie grumbled through the bathroom door, feeling annoyed as she stepped out of her dressing gown and into her allotted five inches of lukewarm water. She’d just returned from LSE and wanted to sort through everything Professor Barstow had told her in peace and quiet.
“The ballet, silly. They’re performing again, you know, although curtain time is earlier, because of the air raids. Sarah just called—she’s dancing the lead in Swan Lake! Margot’s sprained her ankle, and Sarah’s going on for her! She’s leaving tickets for us at the box office. We need to pick them up at half past six for the seven-o’clock performance, which leaves us just an hour to get ready. Come on—chop, chop!”