Page 17 of The Midnight Carousel

Sir Malcolm exhales loudly as though relieved to have confessed his blunder, a plume of smoke rising to the ceiling.

The situation must be serious because he never discusses money with Maisie.

Or he’s more inebriated than he appears, and has no idea what secrets he’s divulging.

It gives Maisie the confidence to press on.

‘Is there nothing left?’ she asks.

She still can’t grasp how someone could let so much wealth slip through their fingers. Investing sounds an awful lot like gambling if a person’s fortunes can turn so easily.

‘All there is, is what you see. The house, the car, our possessions.’

It’s somewhat reassuring that Sir Malcolm refers to ‘ our possessions’, because it hints at some affection towards Maisie.

Her feelings for him are similar. While she’s appreciative of everything he’s done for her, there’s more to it than that.

Rubbing along together over the past eight years, she’s grown used to his gruff manner, and is reassured by his gentle strength.

‘Will you sell it all?’ she asks, not daring to ask the question on her tongue, which is ‘What will become of me?’

This concern, which has always lurked in the back of Maisie’s mind, rises to the surface whenever there’s trouble.

Achieving some sort of security of her own might help.

For a while now, she’s been wondering how she will occupy her time once the world returns to a semblance of normality.

The restlessness to do something meaningful has returned, but Maisie is lost as to what direction to take.

Should she find a job? Take a leaf out of Mrs Papadopoulos’s book and start a business?

Sir Malcolm shrugs, gives a hollow laugh.

‘And go where?’ He stubs the cigar out and stretches his right hand over to the gramophone on the side table.

‘Hugo has been awfully decent and offered to help out, but a chap can’t scrounge off his younger brother forever,’ he says.

‘No, Maisie, I shall have to continue trying to find a way to start from scratch. I’ve been looking into a few things– a mortgage, for example– but it’s not easy, at my age. ’

There’s a click, click, click as the needle makes contact with vinyl, and the first bars of ‘Kiss Me, My Honey, Kiss Me’ sail into the smoky room. Sir Malcolm falls back, eyes closed, with his thumbs pressed to his temples as though the thought of it all is overwhelming.

Maisie departs from the room quietly. Her mind begins to spiral.

She never wants to experience the poverty of Canvey Island again: the wrenching hunger, the constant cold with only rags for clothes, sleeping on bare earth in a leaking shack, and no firewood for heating.

But how will Sir Malcolm make any money when he can’t concentrate long enough to solve the problem of the servants’ wages?

If he doesn’t muster the wherewithal to forge a way out of this situation, he leaves everyone– the staff, Maisie, himself– at risk of destitution.

No, she can’t allow it.

Her monthly allowance sits unspent in a jar, saved up by Maisie as a safety-net against an uncertain future. This is the type of emergency it was meant for. For now, there are ample coins hoarded to cover the late wages, as well as another week paid in advance to make up for the delay.

Clara’s eyes shine when she’s handed the small envelope. Maisie wants to tell her not to waste it on Madame Rose’s so-called remedies but stops herself. What business is it of hers how other people spend their money?

‘We’re picking apples today, Clara, so wrap up warm,’ Maisie instructs her.

Realizing that if the servants’ wages were neglected, the tradespeople are probably owed money too, Maisie has an idea to harvest their winter crop and offer it in trade to Mrs Papadopoulos.

She can cancel the dress from the seamstress, use fallen branches instead of coal to light the fires, forage for sea creatures as she did on Canvey Island, but milk, cheese and eggs are staples that cannot be replaced.

It won’t solve their problems long term but will buy them some time.

Enough time for Sir Malcolm to pull himself together, she hopes, and for Maisie to show him that she cares and will do everything in her power to help.

The wind skimming off the lake snaps at Maisie’s face the next morning as she twists apples from their stalks, throwing them on to old sheets as Clara sorts them into large bundles.

Working in tandem, they strip ten trees of their harvest within three hours.

Arnold joins in at lunchtime, his strong arms tugging twice as fast as the women’s, so that by the time Mrs Papadopoulos arrives mid-afternoon there are thirty-two bundles of fruit waiting by the front door.

‘You not sleep well?’ Mrs Papadopoulos asks as she approaches Maisie.

‘Just tired after picking all these apples,’ Maisie lies, hoping her voice is light enough to mask her desperation. ‘I thought you could offer fresh apple juice to your customers. We could barter, if you like? Milk, cheese and eggs for apples.’

Mrs Papadopoulos examines her face with dark eyes. She’s the kind of woman who doesn’t miss a thing.

‘Let’s see fruit.’

Impressed by the quality of the produce, Mrs Papadopoulos cancels the Fairweather debt, offers a month’s supply of whatever Maisie wants and reserves the rest of the crop for further payment down the line.

Maisie shakes on the deal, relieved that they won’t starve for now at least. She couldn’t bear to relive the twist of her stomach craving its next meal.

Picking apples day after day in the chill of winter is back-breaking work.

She would have thought nothing of it on Canvey Island, but her body has become softened to outdoor labour, and she can continue only by ignoring the scream of her muscles, and the blisters on her feet.

Tree by tree is relieved of its burden until the final row is left– the strip of orchard near the place where Billy disappeared.

It’s four years since Maisie has ventured to this part of the grounds.

She braves the view, taking stock of the landscape.

There it is, strangled by bindweed, which creeps up the poles.

The carousel, older, dirty, reclaimed by nature, sits waiting, a flash of bright colour against the slate winter sky.

Two dozen horses frozen in time are poised to gallop to faraway places.

Lapland. Camelot. Timbuktu. Up to the moon and back again.

Even in this state, it takes Maisie’s breath away.

Who wouldn’t fall under its enchantment?

It doesn’t feel nearly as bad to be here as Maisie’s imagination had led her to believe. Her mind whirls into a wild plan; there might just be a way to keep them from ending up on the streets after all the fruit is picked.

Maisie finds Sir Malcolm in the study, poring over a newspaper, his hand poised over a china cup that appears to contain tea but is probably bourbon, because his expression is glazed as he glances up.

‘Yes?’

She ignores his sullen tone. ‘I was wondering if you have a moment to discuss a way to make money.’

He folds the newspaper, careful to smooth out the wrinkles. ‘What are you proposing, Maisie?’

‘It’s the carousel,’ she replies. ‘That afternoon the local children came over was wonderful before…’ Her voice tails off. Before the tragedy.

‘Before the Wadham boy went missing,’ Sir Malcolm finishes the sentence.

She feels tears stir at the corners of her eyes as the image of Billy’s sad face in the moments before he vanished pops up. This was a terrible idea. She can’t go through with it.

‘Yes,’ she whispers. She takes a deep breath. ‘I was going to suggest we open up the carousel and charge for it, Sir Malcolm, add a few games like hoopla or hook-a-duck, but even talking about it brings back bad memories.’

Sir Malcolm’s mouth pinches. They have never properly discussed that fateful afternoon.

‘Life can be brutal, we both know that,’ he says with a sigh.

His sullenness is replaced by a softer look in his eyes than Maisie has ever seen there.

‘Terrible things happen every day, and there’s not a damned thing we can do about it.

’ He leans back in his chair. ‘I had been half thinking to sell the carousel, to be honest– it’s just been sitting there for all these years, and the proceeds would certainly be useful.

But perhaps doing something positive with it might help offset the bad associations.

Something good that other people will enjoy, like the time we had at the Clacton funfair. ’

Maisie inwardly smiles at the thought of that happy day.

‘But do you think people would want to come here?’ she asks, now racked with doubt about her own idea. ‘After what happened?’

Though it’s been four years, with a war in between, news did filter through to the local press at the time. Sir Malcolm taps his fingers together, wearing his contemplation face.

‘It’s a fair question,’ he replies. ‘But it could have happened anywhere. Most people will understand that. And I don’t believe lightning can strike twice.’ He checks his pocket watch. ‘I have a call with Duke in a couple of minutes, but let’s pick up this discussion later. Over dinner, perhaps?’

‘I’d like that,’ she answers, meaning it.

As she turns to leave, Sir Malcolm speaks again.

‘And, Maisie, I really do think you’re on to something here.’

Maisie’s heart is racing as fast as her thoughts.

A lightness enters her mind, a glint of hope for the future.

As soon as she leaves the study, she sets about opening the other rooms, drawing back curtains and removing dust sheets, throwing open windows to let cold air run through the house and chase away the ghosts of war and any remnants of the influenza.