Mr. Churchill's Secretary: A Novel

by Susan Elia MacNeal

  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.”

  TEN

  CLAIRE AND MURPHY lay in his narrow bed, only a candle flickering in the darkness. The room was spartan, with yellowing wallpaper ripped and curling at the edge of the water-stained ceiling. The smell of that night’s supper, turnip stew, seeped up from the kitchen.

  “Father Murphy, where did you learn to do that?” Claire asked, her hand trailing down his smooth chest under the thin, worn sheet and scratchy gray blanket.

  “Ah, the Lord works in mysterious ways, my love,” he answered, stroking her hair.

  They lay in silence for a moment, listening to a drunken couple make their way down the corridor outside.

  When the couple had passed, Claire whispered in his ear, “You know, a lot of women would be scandalized, even by the thought of being with a man in a boardinghouse room.”

  “I’m not just any man, I hope,” Murphy said, pushing silky hair out of her eyes.

  “No, of course not,” Claire answered. “You’re my sweet Mike.”

  “Glad to hear it,” Murphy said. “It gets easier, doesn’t it? Leading a double life, I mean.”

  Claire rolled onto her back and stretched. “I don’t know about that. When I’m with you, I feel alive. The cause, you, thinking of Ireland—it’s so real. My other life is just going through the motions, really. That girl is a simpering fool.”

  “She’s part of you.”

  Claire said, “Of course. I deliberately kept a lot of the basic facts of my life and hers the same. But I leave out the important details. My father, who spoke Gaelic. Witnessing countless atrocities against us. Hearing Jim O’Donovan speak and getting involved with the Óglaigh na héireann. Meeting you. Falling in love.”

  “But surely you must like being her.”

  Claire reached over him to the bedside table, where there was a pack of cigarettes. She took one out, lit it with a mother-of-pearl-inlaid lighter, inhaled, and then blew out the smoke slowly. “I did. I mean, at first it was easy.” She took another drag. “But then things changed. Chamberlain declared war. And that awful, awful man became Prime Minister.”

  “In some ways it’s been a godsend.”

  “Yes,” Claire agreed, lazily stretching the hand with the cigarette over to the ashtray, where she tapped off the ashes. “Churchill’s dead set on leading England into this foolish war. But foolish for them, not for us. Ireland’s still neutral, and we have a fantastic opportunity to help England’s enemies.”

  Murphy sighed and took the cigarette from her, taking his own slow drag. “It’s too bad you couldn’t have gotten the typist’s job in Churchill’s office. Would have made all this a bit easier.”

  “I know, darling. But look, our plan is good—great, even. It will succeed. And we will bring down this corrupt government.”

  “Amen, my child,” he said, grinding the cigarette into the ashtray. Then he leaned in and kissed her deeply. “And now, where were we?”

  * * *

  “I spoke the other day of the colossal military disaster which occurred when the French High Command failed to withdraw the northern Armies from Belgium at the moment when they knew that the French front was decisively broken at Sedan and on the Meuse,” the P.M. intoned, pacing back and forth on the Persian carpet in front of his desk in his office at No. 10. He was squinting, as though picturing the phrases in his mind’s eye, as Maggie struggled to type them.

  “… The disastrous military events which have happened during the past fortnight have not come to me with any sense of surprise. Indeed, I indicated a fortnight ago as clearly as I could to the House that the worst possibilities were open; and I made it perfectly clear then that whatever happened in France would make no difference to the resolve of Britain and the British Empire to fight on, if necessary for years, if necessary alone.”

  As he dictated, he paced the length of his office. Words were rolling off his tongue, and Maggie kept up as best she could.

  “… There remains, of course, the danger of bombing attacks, which will certainly be made very soon upon us by the bomber forces of the enemy. It is true that the German bomber force is superior in numbers to ours; but we have a very large bomber force also, which we shall use to strike at military targets in Germany without intermission. I do not at all underrate the severity of the ordeal which lies before us; but I believe our countrymen will show themselves capable of standing up to it, like the brave men of Barcelona, and will be able to stand up to it, and carry on in spite of it, at least as well as any other people in the world. Much will depend upon this; every man and every woman will have the chance to show the finest qualities of their race, and render the highest service to their cause. For all of us, at this time, whatever our sphere, our station, our occupation or our duties, it will be a help to remember the famous lines:

  “ ‘He nothing common did or mean,

  Upon that memorable scene.’ ”

  The Prime Minister stopped at the window. “… We must not forget that from the moment when we declared war on the 3rd September it was always possible for Germany to turn all her Air Force upon this country, together with any other devices of invasion she might conceive, and that France could have done little or nothing to prevent her doing so. We have, therefore, lived under this danger, in principle and in a slightly modified form, during all these months. In the meanwhile, however, we have enormously improved our methods of defense, and we have learned what we had no right to assume at the beginning, namely, that the individual aircraft and the individual British pilot have a sure and definite superiority.

  “Therefore, in casting up this dread balance sheet and contemplating our dangers with a disillusioned eye, I see great reason for intense vigilance and exertion, but none whatever for panic or despair.”

  At that, Maggie looked up. Did he really believe that? Or was truth just another casualty of war—the war of rhetoric he was waging for the British spirit?

  And at this point, did it even matter?

  “… What General Weygand called the Battle of France is over. I expect that the Battle of Britain is about to begin. Upon this battle depends the survival of Christian civilisation. Upon it depends our own British life, and the long continuity of our institutions and our Empire. The whole fury and might of the enemy must very soon be turned on us.

  “Hitler knows that he will have to break us in this Island or lose the war. If we can stand up to him, all Europe may be free and the life of the world may move forward into broad, sunlit uplands. But if we fail, then the whole world, including the United State
s, including all that we have known and cared for, will sink into the abyss of a new Dark Age made more sinister, and perhaps more protracted, by the lights of perverted science.”

  He turned back to face the room and stabbed each word with his cigar for emphasis. “ ‘This was their finest hour.’ ”

  After these words, he slumped down at his desk, head in hand.

  “Go and type for your life,” he said, without glancing in her direction.

  “Yes, sir.” Tears stinging her eyes, she ran to get copies of the speech ready.

  Later, much later, Maggie looked up from the papers and folders covering her wooden desk as Nelson wound his way around her ankles. “Your calculations are off,” she said to John as he dropped off a memo in the underground typists’ office. It was not without satisfaction. It helped her forget all of the thoughts she’d been having. Thoughts about bombs. About war. About her parents.

  John had been working in the War Rooms for days without respite. His dark suit was looking rumpled and wrinkled, as though he’d slept in it—which he probably had. His face was pale, and his thick, curly hair stood out at odd angles from his head. His eyes were sunken and haunted.

  “I beg your pardon?” He sat down and rubbed his temples, his face beginning to turn crimson. In his opinion, Maggie was one of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen. And she was different—so very different—from any other woman he’d known. She was smart—brilliant, really—and wasn’t afraid to speak her mind. Especially to him. From the moment he’d met her, she had unknowingly broken down most of the defenses he’d long held in place, and when she was present, no one else seemed to matter.

  John didn’t think war was the time for romance, and the office was certainly not the place. And then there was the fact that he knew more about Maggie and her place in the scheme of things than he was allowed to let on.