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  Of course they were going to discuss Dad. Maisie wondered if Maud had suggested a psychiatrist yet.

  Una beckoned her to the veranda. “Oh, George, I don’t know what to do!” she moaned. “Should I write?”

  Maisie’s heart thudded. “Whatever you want,” she muttered.

  Una nibbled her finger. “I think I won’t. If David hasn’t written, then he obviously doesn’t like me. Maybe that’s why he ran away and never said goodbye. Maybe after he kissed me he decided I wasn’t for him after all. Well, I’m not going to beg.”

  She looked so proud, even though her lip was trembling: like a noble young prince with a shiny helmet of hair.

  Maisie knew exactly what she should say: “Una, let’s go out to the Hut. I have something to tell you.”

  But once again, she couldn’t do it.

  * * *

  Walking with Dad the next afternoon gave Maisie an excuse to avoid Una. She was surprised when he began talking without prompting.

  “Maud looks so well,” he said, “and she’s made such a success of her life. Unlike me,” he added mournfully.

  This was the first time Dad had talked about the present. What could Maisie say that wouldn’t upset him?

  “You were a success . . .” she said slowly. “And you will be again, I’m sure.”

  He shook his head. “There’s nothing left for me now.” His tone was so hopeless and resigned. What darkness did he reside in?

  They were both in darkness. Despite Maisie “doing him good,” as Granny said, Dad seemed more despairing than ever. And Maisie’s agony was even worse now that Una was back.

  She looked at Dad’s glum face. Why not tell him her predicament? He wasn’t the only person with problems! Why should he get all the attention? Maybe he could be a real dad again. Maybe he could even tell her what to do.

  “Dad?” she ventured.

  “Uh-huh?”

  “There’s something I need to tell you. It’s about something I did that was really wrong.”

  Dad looked frightened. “I’m not a good person to talk to, I’m afraid.”

  “But you’re my father!”

  He looked even more scared. “Maisie—I—I can’t cope. Talk to your grandfather. I’m sure he can help.”

  “I don’t want to talk to Grand—I want to talk to you!”

  “No, Maisie.”

  He edged away from her on the bench—as if she were dangerous!

  Maisie sprang up. “All I want is for you to be my dad!” she cried. “But you haven’t been that since you came back from the war. I’m your daughter! I need you! And you just sit around like a stupid lump and expect us all to take care of you. All week I’ve tried and tried to help you. Well, I’m not going to any more!”

  She ran away from him—all the way down the road, behind the rectory and through the trees to the Hut. Her chest heaved, and it felt as though her heart was going to burst into pieces. She collapsed on the mattress, and sobbed until she fell asleep.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Two Confessions

  After Maisie woke up, she stumbled into the rectory, to find everyone in an uproar.

  “Where have you been, chickie? We’ve been calling and calling you!” said Granny.

  “Where is your father?” asked Mum. Her face was pale.

  “I don’t know. I left Dad at the lighthouse. He—he wanted to stay longer so I came back without him.”

  “It’s almost seven o’clock, and he hasn’t come home!”

  Why did Mum look so frantic? “You were so late that I rode your bike to the lighthouse to find you. No one was there! Your grandfather and Chester have gone in the car to look for you both. I was hoping you’d be together. Gregor must be alone out there somewhere!”

  Maisie shrugged. Why was Mum making such a fuss? “Well, Dad couldn’t have gone far. It’s a small island. And he won’t get lost—he grew up here!”

  “Pickle . . .” Mum took her by the hand and led her to the sofa. “You know that we never leave your father alone—but I’ve never told you why. He can’t be left in case . . . in case he harms himself.”

  Maisie was so bleary from sleep she could hardly take in her mother’s words. “What do you mean, harms himself?”

  Mum started to cry. Granny sat down on the other side of Maisie and took her hand.

  “Chickie, it means that your dad is so unhappy that he might try to take his own life. That’s why we’re so worried.”

  Now Maisie was jolted awake. “Take his own life . . . you mean, suicide?”

  Granny shuddered. “Yes, but I’m sure he won’t. I’m sure Gregor just went for a long walk. Now, Maisie, come and eat—we saved some chicken salad for you.”

  Maisie wolfed down salad and bread. Then they sat on the veranda and waited, sipping tea. For Mum’s sake, Maisie tried to be calm, but inside she seethed with worry. What had she done? How could she have told Dad those horrible things? If he did what they feared—if he killed himself—it would be all her fault!

  But just as Walker Island darkened against the rosy sky, Dad walked up the stairs with the others.

  “Oh, Gregor . . .” Mum ran into his arms. “Where have you been?”

  He hugged her briefly, then released her and looked at them all. “I decided to see how far I could walk around the island,” he said quietly. “Sorry I caused you such worry. I’m going to bed now.”

  “But don’t you want anything to eat?” asked Granny.

  “No, thanks, Ma. See you in the morning.”

  Dad went into the bedroom and closed the door.

  “Where did you find him?” asked Mum in a low voice, as they settled on the veranda again.

  “Coming up from Fowler Bay,” said Chester. “Gregor seemed all right, Sadie. A bit dazed, but calm. He said he didn’t realize how late it was, and he apologized for making us go out to look for him.”

  “He sounded better than he has since he arrived,” said Grand. “More like his old self!”

  “Well, at least he’s home safely and we can all stop worrying,” said Granny. “I think we all need a wee drop of brandy.”

  Maisie had some, too. It burned all the way down and made her so sleepy that she curled up with her head in Mum’s lap. Mum stroked her hair.

  “I’ll bunk in with you tonight, pickle,” she whispered. “We’ll let Dad sleep in peace.”

  All night Mum pressed against Maisie’s back in the narrow bed, holding her close.

  * * *

  Grand was right: the next morning Dad did seem improved. He was still very quiet, but he paid more attention. He took his dishes to the sink, and he even asked Granny if she wanted him to cut some kindling.

  “Yes, please, my precious laddie!” Her face beamed as Dad went out to the woodpile.

  Maisie was as relieved as anyone else that Dad was safe, and of course she was glad that he seemed a bit better. Most of all, she was thankful that her outburst hadn’t made him do the worst. Already those words “take his own life” seemed impossible.

  They should have told me, she thought resentfully. If I’d known how sick Dad was, I would have been kinder to him.

  After Sunday lunch Dad asked Maisie to go for a walk. She hesitated. What on earth could they say to each other after their terrible conversation yesterday? But how could she refuse? She was so grateful that her father was alive that she would do anything he asked.

  “Let’s go somewhere we can talk,” said Dad. He led her to the beach in front of the house. As she sat down on a log, Maisie braced herself. Was Dad going to scold her for what she had said?

  “Maisie, I want to apologize. What you told me was perfectly right. I haven’t been a good father. It was brave of you to say that.”

  She lifted her head. For the first time in months he looked directly at her. “It wasn’t your fault,” she muttered. “The war did it.”

  “Yes, it did. Something happened that I can never tell you, something that has changed me forever. But it’s selfish to l
et that affect you. I’m sorry, Maisie. In the past six years I’ve neglected you shamefully, but I want to make that up to you. Shall we try again? You had something to say. I’m ready to listen—if you still want to tell me.”

  Why not? Maisie took a deep breath, then spilled it all out, pushing sand around with a stick as she spoke. Her tale seemed to go on forever.

  “So now Una doesn’t know that David is in love with her, and she’s so miserable, and it’s all my fault! I know I have to tell her, Dad . . .” Maisie was crying now. “But I just can’t! What will she think of me, doing such a thing?”

  Dad looked overwhelmed. Had she said too much? Could he cope with this in his still-fragile state? Worst of all, did he think his daughter was a terrible person?

  He handed her his large handkerchief. “Oh, pickle, what a lot for you to bear! What you did was very wrong, of course, but you don’t need me to tell you that. And of course you have to tell Una. I think she’ll be angry at first, but then she’ll forgive you. And maybe she and David will even end up together. That’s a happy outcome, you know. Your granny has told me what a fine lad he is. You don’t have to worry that you’ll lose Una’s friendship when she’s with David. You two have always been so close—that’s not going to end. And someday you, too, will meet a boy you love, and the four of you will be friends. I hate seeing you so unhappy. Tell Una right away, okay? Then you’ll feel better.”

  He had his hand on her shoulder. His eyes looked tenderly into hers. He had called her “pickle.” Was this really her distant dad?

  “Okay,” gulped Maisie. “I’ll tell Una tonight. It’ll be awful, but I’ll do it!” Relief flooded through her, because she knew she would.

  “That’s my brave girl.”

  They sat in silence for a few minutes. Above them a raven chortled and croaked, as if it were encouraging Maisie to speak again.

  “Dad?”

  “Mmm?”

  “What did happen to you during the war? What made you change so much?”

  “I can’t tell you, Maisie. You’re too young to hear such things.”

  “I’m fourteen and a half! And I’d like to know, Dad . . . I really would.”

  “Well . . . I suppose I could tell you some of it.”

  Maisie listened intently.

  “I was so impatient to get into the war,” began Dad. “All my friends had gone over—Chester and fellows I knew from university. But they didn’t take younger chaplains until after D-Day. Then I finally heard I would be sent to the Netherlands.”

  Maisie remembered Dad whooping when he’d received the letter. “But then you had to leave us!” she said.

  “Yes, and of course I was sorry about that. But now I could do my bit, like everyone else. Pa was so proud of me. He gave me his travelling Communion kit, the one he had used when he was a chaplain, in the First World War.”

  “What does a chaplain do?”

  “Well . . . many of the things I did at home. On Sundays I conducted services in a field or sometimes in a local church. I said prayers with wounded soldiers and last rites with dying ones. I buried many men, and I wrote letters to their families.”

  Maisie vaguely remembered Mum reading her this in Dad’s early letters, but she hadn’t paid much attention. The war had always been something that only the grown-ups worried about. It seemed more real now than it had then.

  Dad had a faraway look. “I had to do much more than a rector’s duties. I went along with the stretchers to bring back men and helped bind their wounds. Being on the battlefield was tricky with all the canals and dikes. Often I had to crawl on my hands and knees to reach a wounded soldier.”

  “That was brave!” said Maisie. “Grand says you must have seen some terrible things.”

  Her father grimaced. “Yes . . . much too terrible to ever tell you, as I’ve said. But sadly, I got used to them—most of us did. And I wasn’t particularly brave, not nearly as brave as the men who were in actual combat. I just did my duty, but I think I was good at it, and the men seemed to like me. I tried to be a comfort, to jolly them along. They called me ‘Chappie.’ But then . . .” Dad’s face filled with pain.

  “You don’t have to tell me,” said Maisie quickly.

  “Perhaps it would help me feel better if I did. Do you think you can handle it?”

  She nodded, although she wondered if she could. Dad began talking again. Now his voice was strained.

  “There was a young fellow named Johnny in the battalion, only eighteen or so. He’d been with them in Italy, where they’d seen some horrific fighting—some of the worst in the war. Johnny was a weedy chap, almost girlish. I don’t know how he even got accepted as a soldier he had so little muscle on him. His most distinguishing feature was his big eyes—they were full of such misery. The other men avoided him.”

  “Why?”

  “For—for reasons I can’t tell you. Anyway, young Johnny came to me one day and asked to talk. Then I found out why he was in such despair.”

  Now Maisie didn’t want to hear any more. But she had to keep listening, as her father’s voice grew more and more anguished.

  “He told me that his best friend had been killed in Ortona. Johnny had been very close to this fellow—in fact, he talked about him as if they had been brothers. He told me how hopeless he felt. He asked what the point of all this was. He broke down in tears he was so desperate for help and comfort and advice.”

  Dad’s voice became bitter. “But I was no help at all. I just mouthed the usual clichés—that God was with him, that we all felt hopeless sometimes, that we were fighting to get rid of Hitler and just had to get on with it. I said a prayer with him and told him to carry on. I think—and this is the worst—I think I even despised him a little for his weakness of character.”

  Silence. Then, in wooden words, Dad continued. “The next day Johnny deliberately stood in the line of fire and was killed. Those of us who witnessed this hushed it up. I wrote to his parents and said he’d died valiantly, but he didn’t—he took his own life. And it’s all my fault! I should have seen how desperate he was. I could have had him sent away on leave because of battle fatigue. I should have. But I didn’t.”

  “Oh, Dad . . .”

  “So you see, Maisie, I was—I am—a complete failure as a rector. I thought I could carry on with that role when I returned, even though I was a fraud. For six years I crushed any thoughts about my role in Johnny’s death. I thought I could force my guilt to disappear. But of course it didn’t. It grew inside me like a festering wound until it had no choice but to burst. On Easter morning I couldn’t play-act anymore. I lifted up the bread and wine, and all I could see was blood on my hands—Johnny’s blood.”

  Dad began to sob. Huge, shaking, terrifying sobs, an ocean of tears. Maisie lifted one of his hands and held it tight, until the crying began to subside. She had never seen a man cry before . . . least of all her father.

  “Oh, Dad—oh, my poor Dad . . .” she whispered. “Maybe it wasn’t your fault. Maybe Johnny would have done it anyway, no matter what you said.”

  Her father looked up and grimaced. “I need that handkerchief back.”

  He mopped his wet face. “I don’t think Johnny would have killed himself if I’d recommended that he go on leave. I’m not going to excuse myself—I was responsible for his death. And what I did—what I didn’t do—means I can never go back to being a rector.”

  They sat in silence for a long time. Then Maisie had to ask a question.

  “Dad?”

  “Mmm?”

  She took a deep breath. “Yesterday when you went for that long walk, were you—were you going to do what Johnny did? That’s what they were all worried about.”

  “I won’t lie to you, Maisie. After what you told me, I realized what a crummy father and husband I was. I felt utterly useless! I started walking, to where the road ends at Fowler Bay. I went down to the water, and for a moment or two I considered putting rocks in my pocket and walking into the sea and drowning
—like that English writer did during the war. I thought I might end my life.”

  “But if you’d done that, it would have been all my fault!”

  “Oh, pickle, is that what you’ve been thinking? It wouldn’t have been at all your fault! Your words triggered my despair, but anything could have done that. There’s something wrong with my mind right now, and that’s nothing to do with you, Maisie. And I was only considering taking my life. I sometimes have, in these past dreary months. But then I remembered something.”

  “What?”

  “I remembered that you needed me. That you asked me to help you and that perhaps I still could. It made such a difference. So you see, it wasn’t your fault at all—it was just the reverse. By telling me the truth, you made me realize that I could try to be a real father.”

  Now it was Maisie’s turn to cry. “You are . . . you’re the same father you’ve always been!” she choked out.

  “You know that’s not true, pickle. Since I came back from the war, I’ve been a lousy father and a lousy husband. You and your mother expected me to be the same as before—but I had no energy left to feel anything.”

  He was looking away from her. Maisie longed to hug him, to comfort him and be comforted—but something in his rigid body told her he wasn’t ready for that yet.

  Then Maisie said slowly, “If it wasn’t my fault that you thought of killing yourself . . . then it wasn’t your fault that Johnny did! Don’t you see? There must have been something wrong with his mind, too, something that the war did.”

  “It was my fault,” said Dad again. “I didn’t understand then that you could have something wrong with your mind—now I do. Now I understand Johnny’s despair. But it’s too late.”

  How bitter his voice was! He had retreated into his darkness again, and Maisie couldn’t think of any words to bring him back.

  “Dad . . .” she finally ventured. “Couldn’t you tell this to Grand? Maybe he could help you.”

  “No,” said Dad firmly. “Pa keeps trying to have a talk with me, but I can’t confess this to him. It would make him even more disappointed in me than he already is.”

  “But—”