Seven Days in May

by Kim Izzo

  Walter gestured to Maxwell. “Why don’t you dance a few steps? Makes you feel alive,” he said. The valet merely sighed. Walter laughed. “I thought as much.”

  Sydney used every ounce of discipline she possessed to focus on playing the piano. She could feel Edward watching her intently as he leaned his elbow on the edge of the instrument and rested his head on his hand. They could easily be in one of the music clubs in the Village.

  Everyone was so consumed by the song that no one noticed when Brooke and Sarah entered the room.

  “I told you, Miss,” Sarah hissed. “It’s dreadful.”

  Brooke marched toward the piano. Hannah was the first to see her and smiled: the larger the audience the better. But her glee was short-lived when it became apparent that the woman bearing down on her was as enraged as a charging bull. She stopped singing abruptly and gulped. Sydney also halted her playing and turned around to see what was the matter. There stood her sister, eyes narrowed, hands on hips. The image would have been humorous if she hadn’t been the cause of it.

  “Brooke—” Sydney began but her sister cut her short.

  “Well, what have we here?” Brooke said, wrestling a note of cheerfulness into her tone.

  But Sydney knew better. She saw her sister look at Edward, who slowly rose to his feet. “We were practising for the ship’s concert,” Sydney explained.

  “How lovely,” she answered. “Edward, I’m surprised to find you here of all places.”

  He looked annoyed. “I came to speak to Sydney about returning to the Regal Suite. It is what you wanted.”

  “You knew I had written to Sydney about that very thing,” Brooke said. She smiled through gritted teeth. “How forgetful you are. And have you convinced her, darling?”

  “We got consumed with the music,” Edward said. “But now that I’ve succeeded in bringing you two together I shall let you discuss it. Good day, Sydney.” He bowed slightly in Walter and Frederick’s direction then without another word departed the saloon—Maxwell not three feet behind him.

  His actions seemed to further humiliate Brooke. As though sensing this, Sarah dashed over from the doorway and shoved the envelope into Sydney’s hands. “For you, Miss Sydney,” she sputtered.

  Sydney and Brooke regarded each other warily. “Brooke, I didn’t mean—”

  “Come now, Sydney, ever since you were a child you’ve gotten your way,” she said. “And now you’ve managed to bring Edward down to your level.”

  Walter coughed loudly in protest, but Brooke took no notice.

  Sydney was about to respond but Brooke raised a hand to silence her and followed Edward out the door. Sarah hesitated.

  “I think you should go with her,” Sydney instructed the maid. The girl took off at a run. Everyone was still silent as mice. She took a breath. “Now, Hannah, from the beginning—”

  When the rehearsal was over Sydney went and stood out on deck to get some sun and air. Walter found her there. He lit a cigarette and they basked in the warmth for a moment.

  “Hannah has a gift, don’t you think?” she asked him.

  “She does,” he agreed. He took a drag from the cigarette and blew the smoke over the railing, watching it disperse on the air. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  Sydney was taken aback. “With Hannah or my piano playing?”

  Walter tossed his cigarette overboard. “With your sister’s fiancé.”

  She flinched. “Edward and I have become friends.”

  “He’s falling head over heels with you,” Walter told her. “And you don’t seem to object, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

  Sydney felt embarrassed, annoyed and defensive all at once. “That’s absurd, Walter. Edward is engaged to Brooke.”

  “That may be, but there are feelings between you two,” he warned. “Be careful. You’re a good girl from what I see.”

  She continued to gaze out at the ocean. “I would never let anything happen with Edward,” she said firmly. “I wouldn’t hurt my sister.”

  Isabel

  The Coach & Horses was a short walk from the Old Admiralty Building. It had rained earlier but by the time Isabel stepped off the bus the sky had cleared. She stepped lively along the sidewalk that was packed with people heading home or out for a pint.

  She was a few feet from the pub’s front door when she caught sight of Henry and Mildred huddled closely. Isabel’s eyes narrowed into tiny slits. She could feel the muscles between her brows squeeze into tight folds. She thought of her mother. Remembering her instructions to never frown or scowl (it caused wrinkles), Isabel smoothed her face and walked directly to them. Henry and Mildred didn’t notice her at first, too busy whispering to each other to hear her footsteps.

  “You should come with me. It will be a lark . . .” Henry said.

  Mildred blushed (a little too much, Isabel thought) and giggled. Isabel slid up beside them and they practically leapt apart at the sight of her.

  “Isabel!” Henry exclaimed.

  “Good evening, Henry,” she said.

  Mildred forced a tight smile but her eyes took in every inch of Isabel in her dress, shoes and makeup. “I’m so glad you decided to come tonight.”

  “I thought I’d get a pint with my colleagues,” she explained sweetly.

  “I’m sure you have loads to say to the men, especially Mr. Denniston. He’s already here,” Mildred said coolly.

  “What have you to say, Isabel?” Henry joked, oblivious to the tension. “We were told you were sick as a dog. Here you are all dressed up.”

  “This old frock?”

  “You look like a screen star,” Henry said. “What gives?”

  “I’m sure Isabel has her reasons,” Mildred offered.

  “Nothing at all, Henry,” she answered.

  Isabel stepped into the pub. As always the room was dark and it took a moment for her eyes to adjust. She walked through the main room, past the bar and into the backroom where the code breakers could usually be found. Sure enough, seated at a corner table, half-finished pints in front of them, were Curtis, Rotter, Norton, Anstie and, sitting facing her, Denniston. He saw her first.

  “Well, look who’s decided to show up,” he said, and sprang to his feet. “Gentlemen, stand up for the lady.”

  They obeyed and greeted her warmly, genuinely happy to see her. But it was the looks of astonishment on their faces that was the most remarkable. It was as though they were seeing her as a woman for the first time. She couldn’t blame them. Inside she was flattered.

  “Come have a seat,” Rotter said, and he grabbed a chair from another table and situated it between himself and Anstie.

  “Thank you,” she said. As she removed her light jacket she could feel the men still studying her. She hid her pleasure as best she could by removing her gloves slowly, deliberately, aware that she had a captive audience.

  “Say,” Norton said, “you don’t usually wear colour on your face.”

  “Don’t I?” she asked innocently.

  Curtis kicked Norton under the table. “You don’t comment on a girl’s face, you idiot.”

  Everyone laughed. “Your hair does suit you like that,” Anstie added, then stared at his beer.

  “Thank you, Anstie,” she said.

  “Let me get you a draught,” Rotter said, and got up.

  “Whisky, please, Mr. Rotter.”

  He grinned and nodded. As the men’s behaviour returned to normal, which is to say they relaxed around her again, like she was their old colleague and not some pretty girl they wanted to dance with, she noticed that Denniston was still staring. His expression was unreadable. Was he disapproving of the change in her appearance? Was he suspicious of her absence?

  “Where have you been hiding?” Denniston asked as if on cue, peering at her over the rim of his beer glass.

  “Didn’t Mrs. Burns tell you?” she asked, her voice louder than usual to ensure it didn’t waver.

  He seemed surprised by the question. “Tell m
e what?”

  Rotter appeared with her whisky and she cupped the glass in her hands but didn’t drink. It was time to come clean. These men were accustomed to filtering out the facts and deciphering secrets yet they had clearly missed hers. There would be no holding back. They needed her and by God she needed them.

  “I’m on suspension,” she said, and lifted the glass to her lips. She took a long drink of the whisky as silence followed her words. The men exchanged looks with each other. Not Denniston. He continued to stare at her.

  “I wasn’t informed,” he said. “Perhaps Hall or Hope knew of it.”

  “Perhaps,” she said.

  “Why would they suspend you?” Curtis asked. “You caught stealing a biscuit?” He laughed but ceased immediately when he saw no one else was.

  “Can you tell us?” Rotter asked. “I mean . . . it’s not top secret or anything?”

  “That’s why she’s here,” Denniston said firmly. “Isn’t it, Isabel?”

  Isabel forced herself to stare back at Denniston. “Yes it is, Mr. Denniston.”

  He opened his mouth to speak but the sudden arrival of Henry made him shut it again. Henry was alone. The timing could not have been more perfect. “What’s going on? You all look so serious,” he said, and sat down.

  “Where’s Mildred?” Isabel asked.

  “She got a sudden headache,” he explained, an earnest note of concern in his voice. He was an innocent sort. He could detect no amount of feminine wiles.

  “How awful for her,” Isabel lied.

  Anstie jumped in. “Isabel was telling us she’s been suspended.”

  Henry looked at her. It didn’t seem such a shock to him. “How dreadful,” he said quietly.

  Isabel forced a pleasant expression and turned back to Denniston. “It is true,” Isabel said. “I’m afraid there’s a fallen woman in our midst.” They all sat up straight. “I don’t mean to shock you. It’s nothing to do with the war or Germany.”

  The men relaxed again but were all trained on Isabel, waiting. She took her time. Her wording had to be exact, or did it? To hell with it. I did what I did and it’s time to own up to it.

  “As some of you know, when I was in Oxford,” she began, “I worked for a man named Mr. Chambers. He was a professor of engineering science. I started there as a housemaid for him and his wife. But he soon saw that I had more to offer. He thought I was clever. And as many of you can attest, I’ve always been curious.” She paused as though waiting for one of the men to disagree; when they didn’t, she continued. “He had an interesting hobby—”

  “He has a radio interceptor,” Henry piped in. “Chambers is a friend of Leslie Lambert.”

  Isabel glared at Henry. She had told him about it in one of their many bus rides home. Of course he never got the full story. “Yes, they are very good friends. Mr. Lambert came to the house several times. And on more than one occasion I was allowed to discuss their hobby.”

  “That seems unusual,” Rotter said, not unkindly. “I mean for a maid to be invited to chat with guests. Mr. Chambers is a very forward-thinking man?”

  It was the opening Isabel needed. “He is when his wife is away.”

  Curtis knocked over his beer, causing Norton to leap up to avoid being drenched.

  “Go on,” Denniston said. Of all the men only his expression remained fixed.

  “Let me begin by saying that I’m ashamed of my role in my own story. What happened in Oxford is the biggest regret of my life . . . but the truth is that Mr. Chambers and I were lovers,” she said, taking note of the slack jaws and wide-eyed looks that followed her words. “He said he loved me and that he would divorce his wife. She wasn’t the warmest of women. I didn’t think she cared, to be honest. And even if she had, I’m not sure I did. I was in love with him too, you see. Mr. Chambers believed in me. He took an interest. He thought I was smart. No one had ever taken an interest or thought me clever before but here was this great man, an Oxford professor no less, teaching me Morse code, allowing me to listen to the wireless interceptor and letting me read his books. Then he paid for my typing and shorthand lessons so I might one day better my position. It was glorious.”

  Her throat was parched. She sipped the whisky, thankful that so far none of the men had stormed out. Only Henry seemed uncomfortable. His discomfort was about to get a whole lot worse.

  “Then Mrs. Chambers found out,” she said, and paused. It was like a performance and she held her audience captivated. “Mildred saw George, Mr. Chambers and me together and she told his wife. I was dismissed but Mr. Chambers helped me find this new position. You see, I felt a fool for falling in love with a married man,” Isabel said stoically. “I had learned so much and wanted to contribute to the war effort and it was going well until someone I knew in Oxford came to London and told Mrs. Burns. She suspended me until further notice.”

  The group fell silent. The sounds of the pub’s other customers drifted over to them. A game of darts was in play as was a debate over the cost of beer, which the publican was sure to win. Curtis shifted his chair and the legs squealed against the floor.

  “Why would someone tell Mrs. Burns any of this?” he asked.

  Henry shifted uncomfortably, scrunching his hat in his hands. “It was Mildred.”

  “She told on Isabel twice?” Norton asked, astonished. “Why on earth?”

  “She felt it was her moral duty,” Henry said.

  A collective grunt rose up from the men at the table. “What a load of rot! We’re in a bloody war. You can’t get more immoral than killing, can you?”

  “That’s why she did it,” Henry said defensively, refusing to look at Isabel. “Mildred, I mean Miss Fox, felt it was her duty to ensure the Admiralty retained the highest of standards for employees.” He looked at Isabel at last. Isabel pressed her red lips together and inhaled. There was no way she was going to tell the men about the blackmail. It wasn’t up to her to explain Mildred’s actions, nor to get her a job with these men. Isabel had to restore her position on her own terms.

  “Just what we bloody well need at Room 40,” Norton scoffed. “Jealous women out to stab each other in the back.”

  “Mildred isn’t part of Room 40,” Parish reminded him. “Isabel is.”

  “So what’s to happen?” Anstie asked Isabel. “When can you come back?”

  “I’m not sure I can come back,” she said. “Mrs. Burns said she is thinking it over. I’m to meet her tomorrow morning. There’s a chance she’ll keep me on—”

  The men’s posture slackened a little with relief. “Thank goodness!”

  She shook her head. “In the kitchen.”

  Denniston had emptied his glass and lit a cigarette. She watched him. He was so composed, so cold. She had underestimated him. Or perhaps overestimated her own value to the team.

  “That’s why I’m here tonight. I decided to let you all see the real me. The tarnished Isabel Nelson,” she said, and smiled. “I wanted to tell you the truth and ask for your help. I want my job back.”

  The silence returned as the men exchanged looks with one another. Except for Henry who once again was fixated on his footwear, and Denniston who was playing with a pack of matches.

  “I’m not sure what we could do,” Rotter said at last.

  “I’m hoping one of you will speak to Mrs. Burns on my behalf.” She directed her words at Denniston. “Mr. Norton was right when he said Room 40 doesn’t need jealous and spiteful women doing battle. There are too many real battles to be won. I can put what happened behind me and I hope you gentlemen can as well. I work hard and will continue to. I stand here humbled by my own regrettable actions. I want only the opportunity to redeem myself. I’m to meet Mrs. Burns tomorrow morning at nine a.m. to hear her decision.”

  Denniston stubbed out his cigarette even though it was only half done. “Gentlemen, it’s time we got back to our job,” he said, and stood up. He was always the de facto leader of Room 40 and the men followed his lead. Isabel sat still.


  “Good evening, Isabel,” Rotter said quietly as he passed her. The other men echoed his words as they each walked by. She hadn’t expected a uniform cheer of rah-rah-rah, but she had hoped for a more concrete sign of approval and acceptance. Isabel reminded herself that these men were following Denniston’s orders to get back to work. They wouldn’t show emotion, but that didn’t mean they didn’t feel it.

  When it was Henry’s turn he paused as if he wanted to say something, but deciding against it he simply nodded at her, then followed the others. Denniston waited until it was only the two of them and paused in front of her. She couldn’t bring herself to look at him.

  “Don’t give up, Isabel,” he said. She met his gaze and a thin smile unfurled across her mouth. He smiled back, the faintest of smiles. “I always find right wins out in the end.”

  Then he was gone and she was left with only the sounds of the dart game.

  MAY 5

  Isabel

  She hardly slept all night. But a lack of sleep wasn’t going to affect her course of action. Isabel took only a cursory glance at the lipstick on her dressing table before picking it up. Her finger expertly glided the colour across her mouth. She rubbed her lips together. Perfect. She put her hair up but not in the severe bun. Instead a chignon with soft wisps would do nicely. If Mrs. Burns wanted to paint her as a scarlet woman then she’d better dress the part.

  She clattered down the steps of the boarding house and out the door. The skies were overcast again but there was a hint of blue peering through the murk and it was warm enough to make do with a cardigan. The bus ride seemed longer than usual. She was anxious to get this over with. She could scarcely tolerate Mrs. Burns’s fierce eyes and witchy demeanour. Who was she really? Why was she or Mildred Fox any better than her?

  The bus left Isabel in Trafalgar Square, which was packed with people on their way to work or the galleries. A group of schoolchildren were climbing up the stone lions as their schoolmistress was trying in vain to chase them down. Isabel touched the statue of Lord Nelson for luck, then walked down Whitehall, passing several navy and army personnel. Then she was standing once again in front of the Old Admiralty Building. Isabel paused briefly to work up the courage and then stepped inside.