The Report (17 page)

Sunday evening Laurie told Armorel he was going to his court to catch up on paperwork neglected since the inquiry. Instead he put on a coat and hat, tied a scarf high around his face, though the evening was mild, and timed his arrival at St. John’s for just after evensong, a service few would attend, he guessed. He was right. He found McNeely alone, watering the garden in the back close.

“Oh, but you’ve missed the service,” McNeely said, turning.

When Laurie didn’t answer, McNeely nodded and turned back to the bed. He gestured at the spring bulbs beginning to show. “Later in the season I put vegetables in, of course, but—” He didn’t know how to finish. It seemed hopeless to have to justify growing flowers. “I’m glad to see you,” McNeely said.

Laurie waited while McNeely finished watering a small evergreen bed. He noticed but did not ask why he was watering it with wine.

When the cup was empty, McNeely knelt down and cleared some space around a few green shoots beginning to sprout on the site of Mary Casey Cole’s ashes. Then he stood and looked up at the anxious magistrate. Dunne was taller, imperious, but they were close in age.

“Should we go in?” Dunne asked.

“Of course.”

Inside they sat in McNeely’s chamber, infused with the smell of extinguished candles and the old fireplace. McNeely poured them each a whiskey, and the familiar warmth calmed Laurie. They talked about the borough and faith, music and the war. When McNeely lit the fire and refilled his glass, Laurie smiled. He was enjoying himself too much, he thought. He blamed the drink and took another sip.

“Do you think the different backgrounds of people here had anything to do with it?”

McNeely nodded as if expecting the question. He moved forward on his chair but didn’t speak. Laurie respected the deliberation.

“No,” McNeely answered.

“I heard quite a few things in testimony.”

McNeely cringed and closed his eyes. When he opened them he spoke evenly. “Many people in Bethnal Green are from other places. All of them are interested in second chances. I think that’s the main thing they have in common, but it’s a lot.”

“I’m considering leaving something out of the report.”

McNeely stood and began pacing the small room. The space allowed a path away from the small fireplace, along the bed, around the front of the desk, and back again.

“It’s not a war secret,” Laurie said. “Sit down.”

McNeely smiled. “Well, that’s reassuring.” He poured himself another drink, and one for Laurie. He sat. “All right. Tell me.”

The relief of speaking was much greater than Laurie had anticipated. The words rushed out. “I think the government is hiding something about the new antiaircraft weaponry. It’s possible there was an unannounced test that night, something about which the area should have been warned. It’s also possible a woman pushed one of the refugees on the stairs. This first woman to fall no one can find. I have nothing to prove the first theory, and the second comes from a hunch and the testimony of a child. If I include the rockets, I think the report will be suppressed. If I include the push, it will assign blame to no good end. The government will just use her, maybe the whole area, as a scapegoat for an accident that had nothing to do with race.”

McNeely looked shocked but recovered quickly. “I thought they were opposed to scapegoats.”

“Only if they hold elected office.”

McNeely smiled, but Laurie looked sad. “I started out hoping to avoid blame.”

“And now?”

“I don’t know.”

McNeely was shaking his head. “What was her motivation? The one who pushed.”

“Does it matter? Do you think she intended the outcome?”

“No. Right. The people will understand that.”

Laurie shook his head.

“If you don’t include it, aren’t you denying them a chance to forgive?”

“Do I have that power?”

“More than most, I think.”

“I confess, then: I don’t think she would be forgiven.”

“And the government’s mistake, if that’s what the test was?”

“It might be disastrous at this point in the war if the people lost more faith in them.”

“But how can you exclude these possibilities from your report?”

Laurie sipped his drink. “That’s why I’m here.”

McNeely nodded and put his head in his hands for a time. When he looked up, he had red marks on his cheeks. “It’s my job to believe the woman would be forgiven. To believe otherwise would be cynical for a man in my position. And I’ve seen what this disaster has done to people. Some are having a hard time, but others are inspired.”

“That’s good to know. And it’s also possible the sound many heard wasn’t a new weapon but just a few boys setting off bottle rockets. With disastrously poor timing. Did you hear anything unusual that night?”

“No.” McNeely poked the fire.

“For God’s sake! You see? Maybe I’m just trying to leave a margin of doubt until I see or hear something irrefutable. Tilly is only eight years old.”

McNeely looked up. “Tilly?”

“Do you know her?”

“I do.”

“Her mother lost another daughter—”

“Yes, I know.”

They sat in silence for a while, until McNeely suddenly rubbed his forehead. “You know James Low sent a resignation?”

“Oh, yes.”

“What about that?”

“It doesn’t mean anything.”

McNeely was quiet a few moments. He refilled his glass, stirred the fire. “What are you going to do?”

“I told you, that’s why I’m here.”

“So am I to give you an answer or just absolve your conscience?”

“Just? It seems like a big job to me.”

McNeely smiled. “Well, it’s my practice to always hope people aren’t as bad as the worst thing they do.” He offered Laurie another drink, but the magistrate declined. McNeely corked the bottle and put it back on the shelf.

“And perhaps we should only sometimes be held accountable for the unintended consequences of our actions,” Laurie said.

“Good,” McNeely said. “Sounds sensible.”

Laurie considered a moment, then put down his glass. “I have to go.”

McNeely nodded and moved quickly to open the door. “Still, I don’t think you should omit anything. Maybe the best you can do is include everything you know. Then no one can blame you.”

“But I’m not worried about that,” Laurie said. He shook his head at the minister and smiled. He knew the import of the secret he’d charged McNeely with, yet rarely had Laurie felt such confidence. “Thank you,” he said. “You’re a good man.”

McNeely blushed and bowed.

When the magistrate had gone, McNeely washed out the glasses and straightened his room. The fireplace embers were still glowing when he got into bed and prayed.

“Please let me do no harm.”

He had no clear idea about anything. His calling, such as it was, had seemed so much simpler before the war. Then, he’d had something to offer. A more complete vision of goodness. Now it seemed he merely legitimized the plans of others. The word “extract” came to mind. Ada had extracted his goodwill and allegiance. Would he have forgiven her if she’d told him? People think they want the whole truth, but they’re far happier with only as much as they can forgive. Maybe that’s why he didn’t tell Laurie about Ada’s plans? Did it really matter that hers was the first push that night? Every person who didn’t stop trying to get into the shelter after it was clear the path was obstructed was guilty of something. Some part of the outcome was on all those hands, the fatal pressure divisible by the number of people present. An incalculable burden, the blame they all carried. That’s what Bertram knew, wherever he was. What sort of document could explain that?

“May the reports of the world help us through,” he prayed. That is probably what we need most, he thought. More reports. And he fell asleep thinking he was glad for the world that it had Laurie Dunne.

Three days after his meeting with the minister, Laurie wrote his cover page.

Sir, I have the honor to report that in accordance with your written instruction forwarded to me on March 10, I opened an inquiry on March 11 into the circumstances of the accident at a London Tube-station shelter. Eighty witnesses were examined, of whom four were recalled. The following report is the result of that inquiry.

Laurie allowed himself a glass of port and the triumph of Beethoven’s Violin Concerto, then addressed the package to the Right Honorable Herbert S. Morrison, MP, and sent it by messenger. The date was Tuesday, March 23, 1943.

Paul was the second of Mrs. Loudon’s guests down for breakfast. A tinny recording of Vivaldi’s
Four Seasons
was playing on the radio, and a German couple in matching wool jumpers, one red, the other blue, was already seated. They had two thermoses on the table, also red and blue, and a neat and spacious backpack at their feet. They had their hands wrapped around steaming cups of coffee, and while Paul watched, Mrs. Loudon brought out two bowls of oatmeal.

“Good morning!” they called.

Paul decided to serve himself from the buffet. Cheese and dark bread, some desiccated apple slices and tea. He had brought notes for the documentary with him and was trying to plan that day’s interview with Dunne when he noticed Mrs. Loudon standing over the Germans’ table, holding a paper bag with a ribbon of twine.

“Are you sure?” she said, frowning at the contents.

The Germans shook their heads.

“Mrs. Loudon,” Paul said. “That’s from me.” He bumped the table as he stood, nearly spilling his tea. “For you.”

“Why?” she said.

“I thought I’d replace what I drank the other day. All that orange juice.”

“I’m sure the High Street B and B doesn’t need your charity.”

If Paul had detected even a hint of what he’d expected—embarrassment or gratitude, a fleeting reappraisal—he would have let it go. But she seemed only indignant, annoyed, and he decided he’d had enough.

“You’re right,” he said. He took back the tea and Cadbury bar. “These aren’t for you.”

Laurie was pleased the kitchen was cleaner than before, and he smiled a bit when he saw that Paul had decided to wear a jacket again, though without a tie. Laurie was in jacket and tie, so the two were as close as they might ever come. A strong scent of lemon cleaner filled the room.

“I have a friend, Mrs. Beckford, who comes to clean sometimes,” Laurie explained.

“That’s good.” Paul nodded. “You know, I saw a dead fox on the way here today. Near the road. I think of them as being so clever. They rarely get hit.”

“It’s true.” Laurie looked around the kitchen. Lemon cleaner and dead foxes were not what he’d planned to discuss. “So, how much do you have written?”

“On the documentary? I won’t fill in a lot of it until we do the interviews.”

Laurie waited.

“It’s about half-done.”

“And you’ve been working how long?”

“Two years.”

“Do you find writing hard?”

“What about you, Sir Laurence? You’re famous for writing the Bethnal Green report in five days.”

“Miserable time.”

The television was on, and even with the sound turned low, the bouncing images and occasional applause of the Wimbledon final distracted Laurie. It had come down to the two players who most interested him: the American, Smith, and Ilie Nastase.

Paul sat straighter. “I’d like to go over something you said before. You mentioned that a refugee was the first to fall.”

Laurie turned. “Did I?”

Paul was surprised. “You did.” He waited, but Laurie remained quiet. “Well, so this is interesting for a couple of reasons. First, I wonder—”

Laurie stood and walked to an old phonograph in the corner of the room. He put on a record, and after some hissing and popping, a violin began. He turned up the volume so that it could be heard over the television. “Has Tilly told you about it?”

“I talked to her yesterday and she asked me to give you her regards. She said you shouldn’t discuss the accident.”

Laurie nodded. “And she’s never discussed it with you?”

“No.”

“I knew that from the beginning. Do you know this piece?”

Paul shook his head.

“Beethoven’s Violin Concerto.” Laurie listened for a minute, then abruptly lifted the needle. “The only one he wrote. I used to love it.” He walked back to his chair and sat down.

“Sir Laurence, excuse me, but—”

“The refugee situation was very difficult,” Laurie said. “I thought it wrong to blame a moment of fear and annoyance for the whole disaster.”

“What are you talking about?”

Laurie hesitated. He glanced at the television. Nastase was angry, disputing a call. Telling Paul would take something away from the boy forever, and yet he knew he was going to do it. Long life and disappointment gave him the right.

Laurie took Armorel to celebrate in the West End. Her pricked thumb was sore from the final push on the landscape, and they’d left Georgina in bed with a fever, but they were nevertheless in high spirits. He believed in his report; she believed in her landscape. As they stepped into Wheeler’s, he kissed her, surprising them both.

“Great things ahead.”

Armorel smiled and squeezed his hand.

But Laurie heard nothing from the government for two days. Biscuit production to be reduced by half, he read in the
Daily Mail,
along with the final Wings for Victory total, a staggering £162,015,869. The next time Laurie heard the home secretary’s voice, it was on the radio, via a public news conference, announcing that the flower-by-rail ban would be lifted in time for Easter.

Laurie rang immediately. “When are you releasing the Bethnal Green report?”

Morrison demurred.

“I find it hard to believe that the sale of flowers is more important than the content of my report,” Laurie said.

Morrison ticked and hummed. “I’m surprised to hear from you, actually.”

“Why?”

“What is it? A psychological portrait? Social history? Fiction?”

“The people demanded a report, if you remember.”

“I remember. They also demand flowers.”

“This is absurd.”

“We cannot release this.”

Laurie looked out the window. “If it’s a matter of some editing,” he began, “perhaps I could—”

“I’m afraid not, Mr. Dunne. In addition to the fact that it dramatizes the events of a regrettable accident, the prime minister feels it favors too much the victims of just one disaster.”

“The prime minister has read it?”

“I’ve discussed its contents with him.”

“But if he read it himself, he’d understand what I tried to do.”

“The prime minister feels that giving them a report, particularly this report, will advance the idea that investigations of this nature are now de rigueur.”

“I see. You prefer to give them flowers.”

“Exactly.”

“Oh, for God’s sake. Surely Bethnal Green is an exception.”

“We’ll say it would be incautious to release it, that it contains information vital to the running of the shelters or some such, information we can’t allow to fall into enemy hands.”

Furious, his mind racing with ideas, Laurie said, “What if I refuse? What if I distribute it myself?”

“Mr. Dunne! The War Cabinet has decided this report cannot be released. Imagine if the enemy read it. What a brilliant strategy for them. They’ve got us so scared, we’re killing ourselves!”

“But the people are desperate.”

“You should have thought of that and given them something they could read. This report would only disrupt the home front.”

“No! It’s meant to restore their hope. Without it they’ll just blame you and the government.” Laurie caught his breath and slowed down. “I’ll publicize the rockets. I’ll say that’s why you won’t release the report.”

“I wouldn’t do that.” Morrison ticked and spoke slowly. “I think the better part of this conversation is over.”

When Laurie did not respond, Morrison thanked him for doing an exemplary job in Bethnal Green. “That was the most important part, really. You handled them very well. You gave them the ceremony they needed, and they trusted you.”

“Ceremony? This is not finished,” Laurie said, and hung up.

On March 26, Herbert S. Morrison addressed reporters in Covent Garden. “Tomorrow, daffodils from Wales!” he announced. “Flowers for Easter. The ban on flower transport by rail is no longer in effect.”

When a reporter asked about the Bethnal Green report, Morrison turned serious and said he had not yet had a chance to read it.

“Mr. Dunne carried out this inquiry with thoroughness and expedition and made a lengthy and informative report. After talking with him I am satisfied that acts of culpable negligence are not properly to be included among the causes. He has also convinced me that we need not worry about the most pernicious of the rumors. It is difficult to judge how far all the factors that contributed to the accident could have been foreseen and provided against, but every precaution is being taken to ensure it won’t happen again.”

“When will you publish the report?” the reporter asked.

Morrison hesitated. “Many aspects of the incident concerned civil defense arrangements related to acts of war, about which it is undesirable that information should be given to the enemy. We must consider that question very carefully.”

But the reporters could hear the beginning of an about-turn. “Not publishing will cause widespread misgiving in an already unhappy area. Are you prepared for a repercussion?”

“If it comes to that,” Morrison said, “I will put up with it for our national safety.”

Picking up on Morrison’s opening, another reporter said, “If we’re getting flowers back, can we have weather reports again, too?”

Morrison laughed, and the reporters laughed with him. “Not so fast, mate. The war’s not over.”

This was certainly true. In June the English sewing circles delivered their landscape, and in July the RAF destroyed Hamburg. The firebombing was massive, the newspapers reported. German women fled the now uninhabitable city with burned parts of their children in suitcases. The pilots received commendations from the king, and wardens all over London were told to watch carefully the entrances to Tube-station shelters. A reprisal came, and the V2 flying bombs, but nothing like the crush at Bethnal Green ever happened again.