… which then became:
13/1/21/13/3/18/5/25 3/15/20/20/1/7/5
10/17/21/5/5/14/19 3/15/21/18/20 18/15/1/4
23/5/14/5/5/4/20/15 20/1/12/11
And, finally,
MAUMBREY COTTAGE
10 QUEEN’S COURT ROAD
WE NEED TO TALK
TWENTY-THREE
MAGGIE PICKED HER way carefully through the streets of the town, narrowly avoiding being hit by a bicyclist. “Watch it, lady!” he called through the darkness.
“I’ll try,” she muttered. She passed closed-up shops, a restaurant, a pub—shutters dark, but the strains of “Roll Out the Barrel” still managed to penetrate. She gave a wry smile. Even in the midst of the blackout and war, people still found it in themselves to sing.
As she passed out of town, still moving cautiously, the darkness began to feel thick. She could have been anywhere. But still, after a few wrong turns and a stumble that left her ankle sore, she found herself on Queen’s Court Road.
Maumbrey Cottage was fashioned from round, gray stones and covered in ivy and hawthorn. By the light of the moon and stars, it looked like something out of a fairy tale. No seven little men or big bad wolf to meet me, Maggie thought. Just the Mad Hatter. She switched off her blackout torch, a slim pencil of fragile light piercing the darkness, and took a deep breath. She knocked at the door.
After a few heart-wrenching seconds, she heard footsteps and then the squeak of the door as the man she recognized as her father answered. “Come in,” he said in a surprisingly reasonable voice. “May I take your coat?”
Dumbly, she walked into the light, shrugged off her coat, and looked around. There was a small parlor with low beams and a kitchen beyond, and a steep staircase with dark Tudor woodwork. The room was cozy from a roaring fire.
“Please sit down,” he said. “Tea? Or perhaps something stronger? I think I might have some brandy around still.”
“Brandy. Please,” Maggie said, sitting down gingerly on the moth-eaten velvet sofa. Who is this man? He seemed perfectly fine now. His eyes had lost the glazed expression they’d had at Bletchley and now seemed warm and sane. He poured amber liquid into the two snifters and gestured to the couch.
There was a silence. Then he began, “You broke the cipher. I thought you would. And now I suppose you’re wondering—”
The hour, the lack of sleep, and the shocks of the last few days were starting to make Maggie feel frayed at the edges. “Why, yes,” she said. “I am.” She took a sip of the brandy. It felt hot going down her throat.
“Margaret,” he began. “I know this is difficult. Before we begin, I want to show you something.”
He got up and went to a large cardboard box on the small table. “All of this,” he said, putting the box down next to her on the sofa, “was for you. Is. If you’ll still have it.”
He sat back down, and she turned toward the box.
Gingerly, she lifted the lid.
Inside were presents. Lots of presents, some wrapped in pink paper, some in silver-and-blue tissue. Some of the wrapping paper was old and yellowing, while some looked brand-new.
Maggie picked up one of the packages. It was small and wrapped with faded butterfly paper.
“Open it,” her father instructed. “Please.”
She tore off the paper, and inside was a small, white stuffed lamb with a yellow-satin bow and a tiny silver bell around its neck.
“Ah, the lamb,” he said. “That was for your third birthday.”
She put it down and stared at it. “Well, you’re a little late,” she said, trying unsuccessfully to hide the bitterness.
“I know,” he said. “I want to try to explain. When your mother died, I thought I would lose my mind. I did, actually, for a while. Was hospitalized for a year or so. When I finally came out, Edith had already taken you to America. I was in no shape to care for a child.”
“So why these?” She gestured at the pile of gifts. Does he really think that these will make up for everything I’ve gone through? Growing up without a father? Thinking he was dead all this time? The lies? The deceit?
“Oh, Margaret,” he said. “I never stopped thinking about you. I thought of you every day. And I bought those presents for your every birthday. But Edith said that you’d been through enough. And my grip on reality was precarious enough that I let myself be convinced that you were better off not knowing me.”
“And do you think that’s true? Or do you think that was easiest for you?”
Edmund looked at his hands.
“Why didn’t you stay and fight for me?”