evaded her question and quickly changed the subject. Since Maisie had no desire to share details of the misery of her own home life either, she’d let the matter drop.
A sharp stab of pain and a spurt of warm pus across her palm made Maisie realize that she’d been distractedly digging her thumbnail into one of the large blisters on her left hand. Hoping no one else had noticed, she dabbed at her palm with the corner of her handkerchief. She ought to wash her hands, but she was sure that the harsh carbolic soap was partly to blame for her blisters since it dried out her skin, which was already in trouble from its first exposure to an outdoor life. So if she wanted to avoid washing her hands so much, what she needed was …
Maisie changed course and sidled a little nervously toward the kitchen. Old Crabby had made it clear on the first day that Mrs. McRobbie’s culinary domain was not to be entered without invitation. Mrs. McRobbie was the cook for Shandford Lodge, and was married to the old woodsman, Mr. McRobbie, who had been their primary instructor for all the ax and saw cuts, and also for tool care. He also had an encyclopedic mind when it came to all things flora and fauna in the woods around the lodge, something that Maisie had already found useful when faced with a patch of stinging nettles or if one needed to know, as Helen had the week before, whether the snake wrapping itself around one’s boot was a venomous adder or a benign grass snake. Although Mr. McRobbie tried to be gruff and miserable with them, no one was convinced by the act. His wife’s reputation, however, was truly fearsome, and so Maisie knocked gingerly on the doorframe before her toes had even crossed the kitchen threshold.
“Mrs. McRobbie?” she called tentatively.
There was a rustling and shuffling from beyond the pantry door, and the cook appeared, her tiny frame dwarfed by the enormous sack of flour she was carrying.
“Oh, here, let me help,” said Maisie as she dashed forward and wrestled the sack out of Mrs. McRobbie’s arms. “Where shall I put it for you?”
The cook pointed over to the far counter and Maisie laid the flour down. Hoping this favor might make Mrs. McRobbie more open to a request of help, Maisie quickly asked her question. “Do you have any spare pig fat I could have?”
The older woman gazed at her for a moment. “Pig fat?” she replied. “You mean lard?”
“Oh, well, if lard is pig fat, then yes, lard. Please, if you have some to spare. I have money.”
“Show me,” said Mrs. McRobbie, putting out her hand.
Maisie dug her sore hand gingerly into her pocket to find some coins, uncertain of how much pig fat might cost.
“Not your money, girl! Show me your hands.”
Maisie could see now that the cook wasn’t asking for payment but was holding out her hand, palm up, as John Lindsay had done. Self-consciously, Maisie laid her own hand on top as Mrs. McRobbie leaned forward, clicking her tongue and shaking her head.
“You’re in a wee bit of a mess there, aren’t you? But I’m sure I can find you some lard, if that’s what you think’ll work.”
“That’s what I was told would work,” Maisie said, following the cook into the pantry, “by one of the American chaps we met at the dance last night. He said I should mix it with some Vaseline and smear it on the blisters.”
“An American, was it?” said the cook, as she drew back a white muslin cloth and cut into the large oblong of white fat it covered. “I didn’t know that there were any Americans around here. Were they not the Canadians?”
“Canadians?”
Mrs. McRobbie had retrieved a crumpled sheet of brown paper and was folding it around the white block. “Aye, there’s a whole bunch of Canadian lumberjacks up the road a piece, working on the old laird’s estate, clearing it for another army camp, from what I heard.”
“Oh, I’m not sure,” Maisie said, “maybe.”
She remembered that Mary had said that they were Americans, but had John said that himself? Perhaps not. And then it occurred to Maisie that she hadn’t even bothered to press him further on what he’d been doing to get blisters that matched hers, or about where he was from. In fact, she hadn’t asked him anything about himself at all. Her mother would not be pleased if she knew that, because according to her, a lady should always use the eighty–twenty rule when talking to a gentleman.
“Men like to talk only about themselves,” Mother had said. “Therefore, a lady must ensure that eighty percent of the conversation should be by him or about him, and she should only ever talk about herself as an answer to his direct question, making sure to turn the conversation back the other way as quickly as possible.”
Maisie had snickered with Beth through this lecture, but now, remembering that all that she and John had talked about was her wish to dance and her hands, she was left to wonder if that was why John had abandoned her.
Damn! She hated to think her mother might be right.
Mrs. McRobbie was watching her, and Maisie realized she was waiting for an answer to some question that Maisie hadn’t even heard.
“Sorry?”
“I asked if the chap holding your hands at the dance was handsome.” The old woman’s eyes were sparkling with amusement. “You know, the Canadian.”
“He wasn’t Canadian, I don’t think. And he wasn’t at all handsome.” Maisie tried hard not to blush under the cook’s scrutiny. “Well, yes, he was quite handsome, but he wasn’t holding my hands, other than to dance, obviously, since you have to hold hands to dance, but he wasn’t holding them, not like that.”
“Like what, dear?”
“Like that, like you mean, I mean,” Maisie could feel herself getting flustered.
Mrs. McRobbie’s smile spread wider. “Oh well, there’s time yet.”
As if realizing that Maisie was becoming anxious, the cook suddenly shoved the block of lard into Maisie’s hand. “Off you go now—the others will be waiting for you, I’m sure.”
“Oh, right. Yes. Thank you.” Maisie waved the lard in the air, and as she turned back toward the dining room, Mrs. McRobbie chuckled again.
“And best not put that on your hands just before you pick up an ax, dear. I don’t want Mr. McRobbie being decapitated. He’s to fix the tiles on our roof before the end of the summer, and he’ll need a head for that.”
Maisie smiled as she went back to the dining room. So much for the fearsome Mrs. McRobbie.
Dot, Phyllis, Mary, and Anna had already left the dining room by the time Maisie caught up with them.
“We wondered where you’d gone,” said Dot. “Come on, back to the axes. According to Phyllis, Mr. McRobbie thinks we can move on to snedding tomorrow if we conquer chopping today.”
“Lucky us!” said Mary.
As they passed the office, several girls were still waiting to get stamps for their letters. Beside them, on the table by the office door, was the basket of postcards, enticingly blank, other than the scarlet stamp bearing King George’s head in the top right corner.
Maisie hesitated. Even if she put her money into the honesty box and took a postcard, it didn’t mean she had to send it. Not today, anyway. She could keep it to send for Beth’s birthday perhaps. Or even for Christmas. She didn’t have to send it right now.
But then, why waste tuppence on it now if she wasn’t going to send it till later? That made no sense.
Then it came to her. She would make a deal with herself. If she had exactly the coins to pay for the stamp, she’d get the postcard. If she didn’t, she’d walk away.
Digging her hand into her trouser pocket, Maisie pulled out the small collection of coins and counted them off with one finger. Two shillings, five ha’pennies, and three farthings.
“Damn!”