A young woman, caught without an umbrella, dashed under the eaves of a building, desperate for cover. Grimacing, she looked up at the sky. The rain drummed loudly on the overhang and flooded down the verdigris gutter pipes.
“Are you coming in, miss?”
She looked up to see a gentleman in a well-tailored gray suit. He had thick, white hair, rosy cheeks, and dimples that made him look younger than his years. “Are you coming in?” he repeated.
“Oh, no.”
“It’s not going to let up, I’m afraid,” he said, shaking his head.
She sighed.
“You know,” the man said, “I’m going to be speaking here in a few minutes. Why don’t you come in and have a listen? It’ll get you out of the rain, at least.”
The young woman looked from his face up to the sign above his left shoulder. The Saturday Club, it read. Today’s Discussion: Whose War Is It, Anyway?
“ ‘Whose war’?” she asked. “The Saturday Club—what is it?”
“We’re, well, we like to think of ourselves as … pacifists. After all, no one wants this war. Do you?”
“No, of course not.”
Their eyes met, and she gave him a smile in return.
He opened the door for her. With another look up at the leaden sky, she turned and allowed herself to be escorted inside.
“Neil, how many?” the white-haired man asked.
“Almost thirty, Mr. Pierce,” replied a younger man at a battered wooden table, hastily scribbling the last names. A few angry red spots of acne dotted his chin.
“Let’s get on with it, then,” he said, giving the woman another smile. “Please stay?”
“Yes,” she said, unpinning her hat and smoothing her hair. “I think I will.”
The young woman took a seat at the back of the room and looked around. The yellow paint on the walls was chipped and scuffed. Worn black linoleum covered the floor, and the ceiling was water-stained. The audience was made up of mostly middle-aged, middle-class women and a few older men. The humid air was rank with strong Oriental perfume and liniment. The woman looked up as the man walked through the room and up to the podium.
“Thank you all for coming today,” he said, turning and smiling reassuringly. “My name is Malcolm Pierce, and I’m the president of the Saturday Club. I’m happy to see familiar faces in the audience—and a few new ones as well.” He winked at the young woman, who smiled in return.
He leaned back on his heels. “We at the Saturday Club are united in our belief that this is a waste of war, that Britain has no call to fight against Germany. Hitler is not our enemy. Who is our real enemy? The Jew. The Jew is our enemy—our common enemy, Germany’s and ours. The Jew is our absolute enemy who will shrink at nothing. He knows but a single goal: our complete destruction. And most important to us here in England, let me ask you, Cui bono? Meaning, who benefits from this war?”
A few in the audience started nodding. “Hear, hear,” said an older man with a cane in the front row.
Pierce looked around at his rapt audience. “The Jews, of course! Some here may say, ‘But there are decent Jews, after all!’ However,” Pierce raised a cautionary finger, “the very phrase ‘after all’ proves that these exceptions—mythical exceptions, based on rumor and gossip—are meaningless in our battle against the Jews. Even Martin Luther saw this ‘decency’ for what it was: ‘Know, dear Christian, and have no doubts about it, that next to the Devil you have no more bitter, poisonous, and determined enemy than a genuine Jew.… If they do something good for you, it is not because they love you, but because they need room to live with us, so they have to do something. But their heart remains as I have said!’ ”
Pierce looked at the upturned faces gazing at him in rapt attention. “I think of myself as a patriot, one who speaks out against this war in hopes of saving the lives of Englishmen and women. Germany is not our enemy. Hitler is not our enemy. Who is? The Jews! The Jews are our real enemy—and how they must be rubbing their hands together and laughing as they think about how much British blood will be shed.
“And this is the truth—the real truth—that the current British government, especially the warmonger Churchill, is determined to keep from you. But now you know the truth. And you—we—will not be fooled into going along with Churchill’s propaganda. We will do everything possible to keep Britain out of this war—this unnecessary, unnatural war.” He smiled, dimples flashing. “Thank you for your time.”
When the speech was over and the applause subsided, weak tea and stale biscuits were offered in the back room.
Pierce made his way around the room, shaking hands and offering words of welcome. When he reached the young woman, who’d helped herself to a cup of the steaming tea, he stopped. “And what did you think? Are you glad you came in out of the rain?”
“Interesting,” she replied slowly, taking a sip of tea and looking up at him. “Most interesting.”
“Come back and see us next week?”
She smiled coyly. “I might.”
“And may I ask your name?”
The young woman’s smile grew, and she showed tiny, pearly white teeth. “Claire.”
It was inconceivable to Maggie that they were in the garden on such a beautiful Saturday afternoon not to prune the roses but to build a bomb shelter. As in a shelter from bombs. Bombs raining down from the sky. Exploding. That sort of thing.
And yet here they were.
Maggie, Paige, Chuck, and the twins—Annabelle and Clarabelle—had each chipped in a few pounds for an Anderson, a shell-like hut made out of corrugated steel. Two curved pieces of steel acted as the roof and two were the walls, while two other flat pieces of steel, one with a door, made up the other walls. When finished, the shelter was supposed to be six feet high, four feet wide, and six and a half feet long, and in a pit four feet deep with at least fifteen inches of earth heaped on top of the whole contraption.
Under the hot cerulean sky, the girls surveyed the garden, tied pinafores around their waists, and picked up their shovels. They’d marked off the area to dig; now they just had to do it.
Chuck groaned. “Of course it had to rain this morning. Makes the dirt even heavier.”
“All right, ladies,” Paige declared, scanning the directions with the same take-charge attitude she’d used for party planning. “We’ve marked off the proper dimensions. Let’s start digging!”
Clarabelle and Annabelle exchanged a look and then started giggling. Although they weren’t that much younger than Maggie, Paige, and Chuck, with their pixielike physiques and tendency to laugh, they seemed like children sometimes.
Paige was not amused. “What?”
Annabelle, the slightly taller, firstborn twin, often spoke for the two of them. “It’s just that … you sound just like one of our schoolmistresses.”
Clarabelle began. “Miss—”
“—Poulter!” Annabelle finished. “Isn’t she just a dead ringer for Miss Poulter?”
Paige narrowed her eyes.
“Oh, Miss Poulter was really quite nice—” said Annabelle, sensing Paige’s annoyance.
“—and very pretty. And smart. Like Jo March in Jo’s Boys—” Clarabelle chimed in.
“—or Anne Shirley in Anne of Avonlea—”
“—and not at all like Miss Minchin in A Little Princess—”
Chuck glared. “The fucking Nazis are going to drop fucking bombs on us, and all you two twits can talk about is fucking books?” She grabbed hold of a shovel, stalked off, and began digging with a vengeance.
“She’s still annoyed about the dish situation,” Maggie explained. “Maybe … if you two could wash up a little more often?”
The twins exchanged exasperated glances. Then Annabelle whispered, “She’s just so—”
“—bossy,” Clarabelle said.
“And loud!” both twins said simultaneously, setting off a fresh explosion of giggles.
“And her language sometimes,” Annabelle said.
Maggie’s lip twitched; Chuck was indeed bossy, loud, and prone to using profanity. Still, she had her reasons. “Just do your dishes,” she said gently. “And I’m sure everything will be fine.”
They turned back to digging. After months of the “bore war,” the threat of bombs wasn’t just hypothetical anymore. Overhead, Hurricanes and Spitfires roared by in V-shaped formations of three, on their way to France, most likely. German Messerschmitts and Heinkels could be on their way to London any day. Some of the port cities had already been bombed. It was just a matter of time for London.
Shovels in hand, they all ripped up the sod, rolled it back, and then began digging in earnest. The earth smelled damp, rich, and loamy, warmed in the sun. A hundred years and a gallon of sweat later, the five had barely scratched the surface. The back of Maggie’s blouse was soaking wet, and beads of sweat stung her eyes.
They rested on the back steps leading up to the kitchen, gulping glasses of cool water as the sun’s rays slanted and deepened. As Chuck lit a cigarette and pushed back a brown curl, Paige ventured, “You know, I’m sure if we called the boys, they would—”
“No!” Maggie exclaimed. Then, in a more reasonable tone of voice, “We can do it ourselves,” she said, rubbing her sore forearms. A blood blister on her forefinger was starting to ooze. “Eventually.”
The twins sighed. “We don’t really need an Anderson, do we? We could always just go down to the basement.…”
“And be crushed if the house collapses?” Maggie asked. “Or burned to a crisp if a bomb sets it on fire?”
The twins looked at the house and shared a chagrined expression, realizing Maggie’s logic.
“I don’t know how you can stand it, Chuck,” Annabelle said, leaning back and swatting at a buzzing fly. “With Nigel enlisted in the RAF now.” She looked at Chuck sideways. “Any idea where he’s going to be sent? And when?”
Chuck took a long drag on her cigarette; her hands were shaking. “No, no idea,” she said. “Could be anywhere …” Her voice broke. “He’s training now. Probably up north, in Scotland maybe. I know he can’t say anything, but—”
Clarabelle patted Chuck on the shoulder. “It’ll be fine, Chuck. You’ll see. Everything will be all right.”
Maggie, Paige, and Chuck, and then even Annabelle, looked at Clarabelle, then at the pieces of the Anderson shelter, then back to Clarabelle. “I mean, Nigel will be fine. More than fine. A hero, in fact.”
Chuck blinked hard. “Bloody hell,” she said finally, wiping her eyes with her sleeve.
“Right, then. Back to work, ladies.” Maggie stood up, brushing dirt and leaves off the seat of her trousers. “And do you know what I think our shelter needs? A nice big bottle of gin.”
Across the Atlantic Ocean, in one of Wellesley College’s faculty apartments, Edith Hope couldn’t sleep. It was her age, she told herself; it was hot flashes and night sweats and needing to use the toilet every few hours.
She looked up at the bedroom ceiling, shadows from the maple tree branches outside the window dancing in the silvery light from a waning moon.
Not to mention the fact that her niece was in a country about to be invaded by Germany.
She turned over and flipped the down pillow to the cool side but still couldn’t get comfortable. She threw off the gray-silk duvet, the one her hair was beginning to match. Guilty conscience, Edith? she thought. Maybe. Probably.
Edith’s last argument with Margaret still rang in her ears and haunted her dreams. She hadn’t wanted to send her to London. But when her mother, Margaret’s grandmother, died, there wasn’t any other option. Edith wouldn’t—couldn’t—go back to London, to that place where time compressed and old hurts would feel just as raw as they had twenty-some-odd years ago. And she was still, after all this time, determined to keep her word.
And yet.
And yet it had been hard on Margaret. Edith sighed. Margaret hadn’t understood. And why should she? She was young and had her life in front of her.
“I’m a college graduate now,” Margaret had snapped any number of times before she’d left. “Don’t you think it’s time to start treating me as an adult?”
An adult? When Edith looked at her she still saw a newborn, small and mewing like a kitten. She saw an inquisitive toddler, a precocious child, and a determined teenage girl. But a grown woman? Edith tried not to let her lips twitch into a smile. “I’m well aware of your age, Margaret. And if you want me to treat you like a grown-up, you will need to behave like one.… I’m sorry, but there it is.”
And that was the end of the discussion.
Until, of course, Margaret started to make noise about staying in London—poppycock and nonsense about truly living in London, not merely getting a job long enough to sell the house and then returning to Boston, where she belonged. What’s that girl thinking? In response, Edith had sent off the letter, revised and rewritten so many times, she knew it by heart.
Wellesley, Massachusetts
Margaret,
I feel it is my duty to write to tell you how disappointed I am by your decision to stay in England. When I asked you to go, it was simply to oversee the details of the house sale, so that the money would offset the cost of M.I.T. It seemed a perfect opportunity for you to see something of the world before going back to your studies.
However, now that war is beginning in earnest, I feel that it was the wrong decision; I should never have allowed you to go. Perhaps you’ve been too sheltered all your life, and this first taste of freedom was too intoxicating. But I will warn you that ultimately it will come to naught. Why do you think women such as myself have fought so hard to be educated, to work in academia? Do you realize the sacrifices we made for your generation?
And for you to throw it all away, to stay in a country hunkering down for war, to waste your talents … It’s a slap in the face. Why do you think I left London for the States? One reason was the Great War; believe me, you don’t want to go through something like that. Leave it to the British.
Come home, Margaret. I insist. You can’t do anything more in London.
Edith
There was the war, there was the threat of imminent invasion.
There was also the chance, however slight, that Margaret would find out the truth about her father.
And that was what worried Edith the most.
FIVE
AT NO. 10, Maggie had seen Mr. Churchill only in passing, always in a hurry, his endless Romeo y Julieta cigars leaving a pungent trail of smoke behind him wherever he went, faithfully shadowed by his private detective, Mr. Walter Thompson. But it was obvious when he was in—the office crackled with electricity and there was a sense of urgency in the air.
Mrs. Tinsley had come down with a bad case of flu. Despite her exclamations that she should stay and work, she was being sent home by Miss Stewart.
“Really, Miss Stewart,” she managed to croak, “I’m quite capable of—”
Notwithstanding her air of genteel diffidence, Miss Stewart wasn’t having any of it. “Mrs. Tinsley, you’re not well. You must go home and rest, so you may return as quickly as possible at full strength.”
“London may be attacked at any moment, and—”
“Mrs. Tinsley, I must appeal to your common sense.” Miss Stewart pulled out her trump card. “What if the P.M. became ill?”
Mrs. Tinsley paused to consider. Then she sneezed into her starched cambric handkerchief. “Oh, very well. But it’s only for one evening.” She stood up and put on her hat, stabbing it with long pearl-tipped pins. “I assure you,” she declared as she made her way out the door, “I shall return tomorrow, first thing.”
As the sound of Mrs. Tinsley’s footsteps echoed down the hallway, Miss Stewart gave a gentle sigh and folded her tiny, plump hands. “Miss Hope?”
Maggie was typing a letter to one of the constituents. “Yes, Miss Stewart?”
“I think it’s high time you worked with Mr. Churchill. Would you mind stepping in tonight?”
&nb
sp; “Of course not, ma’am,” Maggie replied. As nervous as she was, she wanted to get started.
“Very well, then, dear. Go into his study and wait. He’ll be coming in from dinner and will be here shortly.”
Maggie did as she was told and found herself in the Prime Minister’s study. It was large, with dark wood paneling, a red Persian carpet, and several oil paintings of the seaside in ornate gilt frames, with W. Churchill signed in thick script.
Her heart was beating so loudly she was sure everyone in the building could hear it. With sweaty palms, she rolled the paper into the typewriter. She arranged and rearranged her fountain pens and thick, stubby pencils. She looked up at the black hands of the clock a half-dozen times. She waited. And waited.
And waited some more.
Nelson, Mr. Churchill’s cat, came into the room and jumped on a cushioned window seat, sitting down and tucking his paws and tail under him.
Maggie looked out the window at the dying light. It was a glorious June evening—bright and warm in the waning sunshine, growing chilly in the shadows. She could hear the low chimes of Big Ben and then the lighter bells of the Horse Guards Parade strike the hour.
The fine weather was a blessing, because beneath the thin veneer of civility and pleasantries, England was a nation bracing for the worst. Underneath their polite façades, people were anxious, uneasy, depressed, fatalistic. Children were being evacuated to the countryside. Plans were proposed to relocate the royal family to Canada. The contents of the Tate and the national museum had been put into storage. Dogs were being put down. People were warned about fifth columnists, spies living among them. A blackout was in effect night after night.
The men, more than a million, who were too old, too young, or too infirm to serve in the military, joined the Home Guard. There were no guns for them, so they armed themselves with hunting rifles, swords, billy clubs, golf clubs, and pickaxes. Those without carried broom handles or pepper—to throw in the face of the enemy. It would be easy to laugh, Maggie thought, if it weren’t so desperate. And so very brave.
Mr. Churchill's Secretary: A Novel Page 5
