Mr. Churchill's Secretary (13 page)

“Sorry?”

“According to John Ruskin,
pathetic fallacy
describes when the weather corresponds to the emotions of the characters. You know, ‘it was a dark and stormy night.’ ” Maggie snapped the picture, then walked closer to try for a better angle.

“See, you’re just so smart, Maggie. I could never be as smart as you and Paige are; you went to university, after all. Here I am complaining about the weather, and you’re quoting dead writers. It’s positively intimidating sometimes.”

A smart woman, yes. So useful. Like a pretty gorilla
. “Are you joking? You’re a dancer with the Sadler’s Wells Ballet—an artist. And you’re gorgeous! Believe me, I’d love to spin on my toes the way you do.”

“It’s overrated, but you’re sweet to say. I started dancing when I was just a little thing, on doctor’s orders. My mum didn’t have the money for it, really, but I had weak knees and flat feet, and the doctor said I might have to wear leg irons. But he’d just been to the ballet and thought the exercises might do me some good.”

Leg irons. Little Sarah in leg irons. “My goodness.”

She smiled ruefully. “All I know is I heard the words
leg irons
and not only did my one class a week but practiced
almost every waking hour. Pretty soon there was no more talk about leg irons, and the school took me on as a scholarship student. When the Vic-Wells Ballet played in Liverpool, my teacher wrote a note to Madame Ninette de Valois, who came to watch class. She said I could come to London and study at the Sadler’s Wells School, on scholarship. I was fourteen, and became a member of the company at seventeen. So I just never had time for much school, or even family. Just ballet, really—all the time.”

“But it must have been such an amazing experience, to find what you love and then have the opportunity to pursue it. The tutus, the roses, all those handsome men …”

“The tutus are sweat-stained and mended, the roses have thorns, and most of the men are big poofs, so there you go. It’s the theater, it’s illusion. None of it is real.” They walked along in silence for a while. A bird on a high tree branch warbled and then fell silent. “There are a lot of sacrifices.”

“Well, of course,” Maggie said. “All that time you put in, the rehearsal schedule, the pressure of performing.”

“And it’s especially hard now, with everything that’s happening,” Sarah said, dropping down onto the soft, sweet-smelling grass under the boughs of the willow. “I mean, we’re at war. The Nazis have taken Paris. Bombs could fall from the sky and we could be invaded at any moment. What does it matter if we’re all dancing around, pretending to be swans or sylphs or whatever? It’s all quite ridiculous, really.”

At the edge of the park, they sat down near a particularly splendid old oak. They could see men removing the stately black fencing to be taken away and melted down for the war effort. Watching them, Sarah, with her long neck, looked particularly photogenic. When Maggie
pointed the camera at her, she nodded, giving permission to shoot away.

“Look, Sarah, I understand how you feel,” Maggie said, camera clicking. “And if you decide you want to make bullets or planes—or whatever—you know Paige and I will be right behind you. But what you do
is
important. You have a real gift, and unlike some people, you have the opportunity to use it. I mean, it’s going to get ugly soon. And what you do—it’s beautiful. Yes, it’s an illusion, but there are going to be a lot of people who’ll need to see that, to have a few hours where they can just get away. Me included.”

“You think so?” Sarah said. “The things I’ve given up—sometimes I just don’t know if they’re worth it.”

Maggie put down the camera and looked straight at her. “I do.”

“What about you?” Sarah asked suddenly. “We live together, but I don’t know the first thing about you, really—other than that you prefer coffee to tea and hog all the hot water. Are you a southern belle like Paige?”

“Goodness, no! Perish the thought,” Maggie said, doing her best Paige impression. Sarah chortled. “I’m from New England, actually.”

“Well, I’m glad you ended up in London, however it came about. Paige, too.” Sarah rose and brushed off the bottom of her trousers. “And I like Chuck quite a bit. But those twins—”

“—can really get on your nerves?”

“Ha! Absolutely.”

Then, “You know, today when I came in, I left my suitcase near the front door. After breakfast, Chuck had it in her room and was going through it. She said she wanted to do my washing.” Maggie looked at Sarah. “Do you think I’m being paranoid?”

Sarah laughed. “Chuck? A spy? Hardly. She probably
just knew you’d been working hard and wanted to help out.”

“It just seems very … personal. You know, going through my things.”

“Maggie, you’re an only child. People who grew up with siblings, well, we’re not as precious about our belongings. If you don’t mind my saying.”

She’s probably right
, Maggie thought. Chuck grew up as the oldest of seven siblings; she was probably just used to playing mother hen.

“By the way, have you ever gone to see them?”

“See who?”

“Your parents.” She took a moment to phrase the next words. “Their graves.”

Maggie sighed. “I haven’t. I know, I know—I’ve been meaning to. But somehow …”

“Seeing them will make it real?”

“Something like that. I don’t remember them at all—but somehow I keep hoping that there was a mix-up—and that—” Maggie rose and dusted off her skirt. “Silly, isn’t it?”

“Not at all,” Sarah replied. “Should we head back now?” It was getting darker; they’d been warned that any attacks would most likely happen at night.

Sarah linked her arm through Maggie’s as they walked quickly back to the house, eyes surveying the skies in uneasy silence.

“I don’t like being played,” Pierce said, his voice low, blending under the clattering of mismatched china and bent, tarnished cutlery in the Phoenix Café, a tiny, dark, and narrow tearoom just off Oxford Circus. Thick black tape in crosses on the windows obscured the scene outside and dimmed the light. “Not by you, Claire. And not by—”

Murphy gave his most dazzling grin. “Father Murphy,” he said, fingering his collar.

“Mr. Murphy,” Pierce said, the corners of his mouth pursing with annoyance. He took a sip of tea from a cup with a hairline fracture, painted with purple and gold pansies. “What you and the rest of your group have achieved since the IRA officially declared war on England is remarkable.”

“The S-Plan,” Claire said. “S for Sabotage. Devlin’s idea.”

“Right, right,” said Pierce. “All those banks, Tube platforms, train stations, and post offices bombed, people panicking. Jolly good show, that. Good for Devlin.”

Claire smiled. “Glad you think so. Now that you know who I am—who we are—let’s talk about how we can work together. As we see it, the most dangerous development right now was Chamberlain’s stepping down and Churchill taking over. Chamberlain would probably have broken if London was attacked, but Churchill—”

“Drunken sot,” Pierce muttered.

“—isn’t going to give up without a fight.”

Pierce folded his hands neatly. “And how do you suggest we deal with Mr. Churchill?”

“Assassination. For starters.” Murphy grinned. “And a few other tricks as well.”

Pierce raised an eyebrow.

“And with my help and your resources, we have the perfect in,” Claire said to Pierce.

“I know what the Saturday Club brings to the table,” Pierce said. “But what can you offer?”

Claire leaned in close to Pierce and whispered in his ear, her breath warm and sweet, “We happen to have a connection to one of the Prime Minister’s staff.”

June 4, 1940. Maggie had finished her work typing copies of the Prime Minister’s latest speech and was determined
to watch him give it at the House of Commons.

She put on her hat and gloves and made her way from No. 10 to the House of Commons. Walking over the worn tile floor, she was conscious of how many men who decided the fate of England had walked these same steps. She made her way up to the Civil Servants’ Gallery, behind the Speaker’s chair, and took a seat next to David and John. As the pale men in dark suits assembled below, the benches crowded and the visitors’ gallery overflowing, the room hummed with nerves and an undercurrent of fear.

There were the M.P.s, of course; there were the journalists, diplomats, the public. Maggie could see the face of Lord Halifax, Leader of the House of Lords and a long-standing Churchill critic, drawn and set. Former U.S. Ambassador to England Joseph Kennedy, another Churchill detractor and supporter of appeasement, had returned from the States and was in the Diplomatic Gallery, his long, thin face inscrutable.

Then the Prime Minister entered the room. He waited for the chamber to settle, scanning the audience, looking from one face to the next, acknowledging each.

Maggie had typed countless versions of the speech and knew it inside and out.

The P.M. began with defeat in Belgium, the disaster of France, and the “German scythe” that had cut down their armies. He talked about the desperate fighting in Boulogne and Calais, the alleged duplicity of King Leopold, the evacuation at Dunkirk.

He praised the bravery of the troops, the medics, the civilians. But while his words were thick with respect and gratitude, he was very clear on one point: “We must be very careful not to assign to this deliverance the attributes of a victory. Wars are not won by evacuations.”

He sang the praises of the RAF: “May it not also be
that the cause of civilisation itself will be defended by the skill and devotion of a few thousand airmen? There never has been, I suppose, in all the world, in all the history of war, such an opportunity for youth. The Knights of the Round Table, the Crusaders, all fall back into the past: not only distant but prosaic; these young men, going forth every morn to guard their native land and all that we stand for, holding in their hands these instruments of colossal and shattering power, of whom it may be said that ‘When every morn brought forth a noble chance,’ ‘And every chance brought forth a noble knight,’ deserve our gratitude, as do all of the brave men who, in so many ways and on so many occasions, are ready, and continue ready, to give life and all for their native land.”

Throughout the House, people began to stir, shouting, “Hear, hear!” in agreement.

Maggie looked over at John, whose face was grim. She nudged David. “Is he all right?” she whispered.

David shrugged, then whispered back, “A friend of his in the RAF was shot down over France. He sometimes feels that’s where he should be, instead of Whitehall.”

“Oh,” Maggie said.
Well. That explains a lot
.

“We are told that Herr Hitler has a plan for invading the British Isles. This has often been thought of before. When Napoléon lay at Boulogne for a year with his flat-bottomed boats and his Grand Army, he was told by someone, ‘There are bitter weeds in England.’ There are certainly a great many more of them since the British Expeditionary Force returned.”

There was a low rumble of laughter that traveled through the House, when minutes before it might have seemed impossible that anyone should ever laugh again. Maggie knew how the P.M. had written and rewritten those lines, and yet his delivery was so effortless.
Quintessential
British humor
, Maggie thought,
telling Herr Hitler to bugger off
.

The speech turned somber again. As the Prime Minister continued, Maggie could feel the temperature of the crowd changing. The crowd was utterly still, hanging on his every word, breathing as one. Every last man and woman would march with him, fight with him—they were ready to lie down and die with him.

For there was no question of where he would be—the front line.

“Even though large tracts of Europe and many old and famous States have fallen or may fall into the grip of the Gestapo and all the odious apparatus of Nazi rule, we shall not flag or fail. We shall go on to the end.”

He didn’t need his notes anymore. He flung them down and looked into the crowd, meeting their eyes. “We will go on to the end, we shall fight in France, we shall fight on the seas and oceans, we shall fight with growing confidence and growing strength in the air, we shall defend our island, whatever the cost may be.”

Throughout the House, and doubtlessly all over England, chins raised and hearts beat faster. Maggie felt a shiver run through her, a shiver of fear, but somehow a powerful wave of ancient strength and honor as well.

The P.M.’s voice rose and rumbled with emotion. “… We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender!”

The crowd roared its approval. Several M.P.s were in tears. Even Halifax and Kennedy had the grace to look moved. The majesty and grandeur of the English language, in the hands and on the lips of Winston Churchill, had power that even the threat of bombs couldn’t subdue. Maggie’s lips silently formed the words along with the Prime Minister, so many times had she typed them.

“… And even if, which I do not for a moment believe, this island or a large part of it were subjugated and starving, then our Empire beyond the seas, armed and guarded by the British Fleet, would carry on the struggle, until, in God’s good time, the New World, with all its power and might, steps forth to the rescue and the liberation of the old.”

At the very back of the House, one M.P. rose from his seat and, slowly but loudly, began to clap. One by one, more people began to stand and join in, until finally the entire chamber shook with strength and power. Maggie, David, and John stood and clapped until their hands were sore and raw. Maggie’s heart was bursting with pride, and there was a lump in her throat that made it hard to swallow.

When, finally, the Prime Minister had left and people began to file out, Maggie turned to David. “You were right,” she said. “And I thank you from the bottom of my heart for helping me get this job.”