Mr. Churchill's Secretary (41 page)

Mr. Churchill’s Secretary
is not a history, nor is it meant to be. It’s a blend of fact and fiction, of characters and events, both real and imagined.

This book was inspired by a visit to the Cabinet War Rooms in London and its meticulously researched and wonderfully presented exhibits. One of the audio accompaniments to the exhibit was an actress reading the recollections of one of Churchill’s young secretaries, taken from the memoirs of Elizabeth Layton Nel. As I listened to her words and walked the corridors of the War Rooms, I felt a shiver go up my spine—and knew I’d found an extraordinary setting for a story.

Mrs. Elizabeth Layton Nel, one of Sir Winston’s young wartime secretaries, was kind enough to reply to my letter from her home in South Africa in 2004. I told her how much I admired the work she had done, and also how much I enjoyed her memoir. She was generous enough to give her blessing to my using her “mistakes” (“right” for “ripe,” et al.) but did caution me that in reality the secretaries
never
would have had any time for either Maggie’s intrigues or romance.

We’d planned to meet in London at the Cabinet War Rooms for the opening of the Churchill Museum in February 2005, but alas, a difficult pregnancy prevented my
traveling from New York to London. (The indefatigable Mrs. Nel not only made the journey but was honored at the museum’s opening, along with Queen Elizabeth.) A widow since 2000, Mrs. Nel passed in October 2007 and is survived by a son and two daughters.

Her inspiring and important memoir,
Mr. Churchill’s Secretary
, was first published in 1958 and, after many years, went out of print. A new edition of her book,
Winston Churchill by His Personal Secretary
, was completed shortly before her death in 2007. And so her story, I’m delighted to report, is readily available to all once again.

Another of Winston Churchill’s young wartime secretaries, Marian Holmes, didn’t write a memoir, but her quotations in Tim Clayton and Phil Craig’s book
Finest Hour
and the BBC TV series of the same name were incredibly helpful. When I write that Mr. Churchill calls Miss Hope “Holmes” by mistake, that’s an allusion to Marian Holmes.

In fact, according to her diary, Winston Churchill once referred to Miss Holmes as Miss Hope: “He went straight into dictating and I took it down on the silent typewriter. ‘Here you are’—he still didn’t look at me. I took the papers, he reached for more work from his dispatch box and I made for the door. Loud voice: ‘Dammit, don’t go. I’ve only just started.’ He then looked up. ‘I am so sorry. I thought it was Miss Layton. What is your name?’ ‘Miss Holmes.’ ‘Miss Hope?’ ‘Miss Holmes.’ ‘Oh.’ ”

When I read this exchange, I knew I’d found the last name of my heroine.

I was never able to speak with Miss Holmes, who passed in 2001, but Mrs. Nel assured me that they’d had quite the adventure accompanying Mr. Churchill to Russia together.

In addition,
I Was Winston Churchill’s Private Secretary
by Phyllis Moir was also useful in obtaining a glimpse into the lives of Churchill’s typists.

The Fringes of Power: The Incredible Inside Story of Winston Churchill During World War II
by head private secretary Jock (John) Colville provided an excellent insider’s look at the inner workings of No. 10. John Sterling is in no way supposed to “be” Jock Colville, but I did use the name specifically in honor of Mr. Colville.

The excellent BBC TV series
1940s House
, the accompanying book by Juliet Gardner, and the exhibit at the Imperial War Museum in London were instrumental to understanding the time period. Barbara Kaye’s memoir
The Company We Kept
was perfect for everyday details.
1939: The Last Season of Peace
by Angela Lambert,
Bombers & Mash: The Domestic Front 1939–45
by Raynes Minns, and
The Battle of Britain: The Greatest Air Battle of World War II
by Richard Hough and Denis Richards were also invaluable.

Churchill’s own
Memoirs of the Second World War
and
The Gathering Storm
, as well as William Manchester’s
The Last Lion
, Roy Jenkins’s
Churchill: A Biography
, and Martin Gilbert’s
In Search of Churchill
were all important to understanding this extraordinary man and his time.

Thanks to the Jerome Robbins Dance Collection at the New York Public Library for the Performing Arts at Lincoln Center, particularly for issues of
Dance Observer
from the thirties and forties. The Vic-Wells Ballet was established by Madame Ninette de Valois in London in 1931; Frederick Ashton was named the company’s choreographer in 1935. The company was renamed the Sadler’s Wells Ballet in 1940, and in 1956 became the Royal Ballet.
Frederick Ashton and His Ballets
by David Vaughan was a wonderful resource for information on the Vic-Wells Ballet.

In regard to cryptographers and the work done at
Bletchley Park,
Bletchley Park People: Churchill’s Geese That Never Cackled
by Marion Hill,
Codebreakers: The Inside Story of Bletchley Park
by Sir F. H. Hinsley and Alan Stripp, and
Alan Turing: The Enigma
by Andrew Hodges were first-rate.

In 2006, it was discovered that Nazi agents in England had, in fact, embedded Morse code in drawings of models wearing the latest fashions in an attempt to outwit Allied censors. According to the recently released British security service files, Nazi agents relayed sensitive military information using the dots and dashes of Morse code incorporated in the drawings. They posted the letters to their handlers, hoping that counterespionage experts would be fooled by the seemingly innocent pictures.

Readers may find the image online:
http://www.secure.vimigroup.com/news/?p=162

Thanks to the directors, trustees, and staff of the Cabinet War Rooms and the Imperial War Museum, especially Robert Crawford, the director general of the Imperial War Museum, and Phillip Reed, the curator of the Churchill Museum and the Cabinet War Rooms.

I’m deeply grateful to Victoria Skurnick (a.k.a. “Agent V”), who never stopped believing (and didn’t stop sending out the manuscript). Thank you to Daniel Greenburg, at the Levine Greenberg Literary Agency, for passing my work her way.

I’m forever indebted to Kate Miciak, editor extraordinaire, who took a chance. Thanks also to the fantastic team at Bantam Dell: Margaret Benton, Loyale Coles, and Randall Klein.

This novel never would have seen the light of day if not for the ever insightful, ever patient, and always supportive Idria Barone Knecht—writer, editor, and friend.

I was blessed to have had a wonderful mentor and friend in novelist Judith Merkle Riley.

Many, many people offered support, constructive criticism, and advice as this novel went through its various stages. I’m humbled by the generosity of Lia Abbate, Amy Kass Amsterdam, Jonathan Amsterdam, Nassim Asfeti, Josh Axelrad, Jennifer Barnhart, Paula Bernstein,
Scott Cameron, Jessica Cohen, Veronica Hart, Kimmerie Jones, Rick Knecht, Christine Lloyd, Edna MacNeal, Maria Massie, Matthew O’Brian, Ji Hyang Padma, Suzanne Phillips, Jana Riess, Elizabeth Riley, Lisa Rogers, Linda Roghaar, Rebecca Carey Rohan, Caitlin Sims, Christopher Steele, and Robin Walsh.

And I’m awed by the collective intelligence of the M.I.T. alums who were patient with my endless questions: Bob Amini, Monica Byrne, Wes Carroll, Michael Friedhoff, Mary Linton Peters, Stephen Peters, Michael Pieck, Erik Schwartz, Doug Stetson, and Larry Taylor.

Thanks to amazing babysitters Katey Parker, Andi Salamon, and Emily Ulmer for the time and peace of mind to write.

Thank you also to Danielle Bruno, Fidelma Fitzpatrick, Aymee Garcia, Robert Gardner, Melissa Leeper, Jane Beuth Mayer, Christine McCann, Kathryn Plank, Audra Branum Rickman, Rebecca Carey Rohan, Christine Serchia, and Jennifer Serchia for being all-around wonderful people.

Last, but certainly not least, thank you to Noel MacNeal, who always believed and who made writing possible, and to Mattie, who loves to hear Mommy’s stories.

T
HE MIDDAY SUMMER
sun in Lisbon was dazzling and harsh. But while nearly everyone else was inside taking a siesta, the Duke of Windsor, formerly King Edward VIII of England, kept up his British habits, even on the continent.

He and his wife, Wallis Simpson, the woman for whom he’d abdicated the throne, sat outside at the Bar-Café Europa, which catered to tourists and British expats. The town square was nearly empty, except for a young American couple walking arm in arm and a few pigeons strutting and pecking for crumbs in the dust.

Wallis, slender and elegant, wore a scarlet Schiaparelli suit, a bejeweled flamingo brooch, and dark glasses. She sipped a Campari and soda, the ice cubes clinking against one another in her tall glass. Next to her, the Duke, slight and fair-haired, toyed with a tumbler of blood-orange juice and read
The Times
of London. He was only forty-six, but the strain from the abdication, and subsequent banishment from royal life, made him look much older.

A shadow passed over his page. The Duke looked up in annoyance, then smiled broadly when he saw who it was—Walther Shellenberg, Heinrich Himmler’s personal
aide and a deputy leader of the Reich Main Security Office.

“Shel! Good to see you—sit down,” the Duke said.

“Thank you, Your Highness,” Shellenberg replied in accented English, sitting down on the delicate wire chair. The Duke and Duchess had befriended Shellenberg on their tours to Germany before the war, visiting with Prince Philip of Hesse and Adolf Hitler.

“Hello, Walther,” Wallis said.

Shellenberg removed his Nazi visor hat, with its skull and crossbones, to reveal thick brown hair parted in the center and glistening with a copious amount of Brylcreem. “Good afternoon, Your Highness. May I say you look particularly lovely today?” he said to Wallis, a smile softening his angular features.

“Thank you, Shel,” she replied, warming to his use of
Your Highness
, which Hitler had also used when they’d visited him at the Berghof, his chalet in the Bavarian Alps. Technically, neither Hitler nor Shellenberg needed to address her that way, as she’d never been awarded HRH status by the current king, a snub indeed. His wife, Queen Elizabeth, referred to Wallis only as “that woman.”

As she offered her hand to Shellenberg to be kissed, the scent of L’heure Bleue mixed with Mitsouko—a heady mix of carnations and oakmoss, Wallis’s signature scent—wafted around her in the heat.

“They threw a rock at our window last night, Shel.” The Duke frowned. “Shattered the glass. Could have killed us.”

“I know, sir. Terrible, just terrible.” And he did know—Shellenberg himself had arranged the rock-throwing incident in order to frighten the Windsors, leaving false clues to make it look as though British Intelligence were to blame. If the Windsors were scared
enough, blaming British Intelligence, they’d come around to the Nazis’ point of view, he was certain of it.

“It’s terrible,” Wallis said, smoothing her glossy black hair, cut down the middle with a narrow white part. “They hate us. The British just hate us now.”

“Now, now, dear,” Edward said, reaching over to take her hand. “It’s not the British people. It’s Churchill and his gangsters. And my brother and that wife of his. Silly old Bertie as King George VI, indeed. It’s as if I’d never been King!”

“You can’t abdicate and eat it too, dear,” Wallis said with a tight smile.