Mr. Chartwell

by Rebecca Hunt

  “Beth!” She forced the trolley into reverse.

  “Please, Es, it’ll only take a minute.” Beth picked up the book she’d thrown, working it into its notch on the shelves. “But I’ve got to speak to you about my confession.”

  Beth bullied herself to wait patiently for Esther to ask what she meant. She found herself resistant to bullying.

  “Look, I wanted to say sorry for the other day.”

  “What other day?”

  “Yesterday when I teased you about going on a date …”

  “Oh, that other day.” Esther twisted her bangs, making them a tube. The tube fell back on her forehead. “It doesn’t matter, Beth. I was being touchy, that’s all.”

  “No you weren’t.”

  Esther put on an amused frown. “Hey, there’s nothing to apologise for. I honestly hadn’t thought about it.”

  “That’s not strictly true, is it … we both know that.”

  Esther presented her palms as white flags: You got me. It was a sweet admission. They went to a table, Beth speaking close and low.

  “It’s nearly the date, Michael’s date. I could have smacked myself for forgetting.”

  “Did you forget?”

  “Not really. You know me, Es, I can barely identify the days of the week, let alone the date.”

  Esther clucked her cheek. “I wish I couldn’t.”

  Beth delivered her proposal. “We want to invite you to stay with us, me and Big Oliver. Just until it’s over.”

  “Oh, Beth.” A feeling in Esther rocked on its base and threatened to spill. “You don’t need to do that.”

  “I rather think we do.” Beth was serious, hesitant about what she was about to say. “I’m probably being … I don’t know, I suppose I think that … I see something in you, just over the past couple of days, and it worries me. You seem very quiet.…”

  “I’m always quiet.”

  “Except that no, you’re not. And never this quiet, certainly not this distracted. I don’t think you should be by yourself.”

  “I’m not by myself.” It escaped from Esther. “What I mean is that I’ve got you and Big Oliver, so I’m not alone.”

  “What about when you’re at home? Your parents moved to Devon and you have a tendency to be antisocial, unless Big Oliver and I physically force you, so when you’re at home you’re alone then.”

  “Ha.” Another unintentional sound, hurriedly amended. “I’m fine, Beth. Thanks so much for your offer, but I’m fine.” She gave Beth a smile of high independence, the Brownie pledge with three fingers.

  “You won’t come?” Beth wasn’t put off. “If it’s because you can’t stand the idea of living with Big Oliver I can make him sleep in the car.”

  Esther pictured this. She grinned.

  “And if it’s because you can’t stand to live with me I’ll make you live with Big Oliver for a while. You’ll quickly see your mistake.”

  A laugh now. “You two are so lovely. Especially since Michael … you know, since …”

  Beth scratched into her hair. Her nails collided with a knot and dragged at it. “I can’t believe it’s been two years.”

  Thoughts of Michael tunnelled through the rubble burial of the past two years. They emerged at a better time, at the times before, at one particular time not far before when they had gone to the Welsh coast. Beth remembered them all on the beach, the octagon of blue shade from an umbrella, escaping towel corners held by rocks; a lifeguard’s flag fluttering fast and fierce with a silky sound.

  Esther noticed Beth’s face. It was the blank stare of an internal cinefilm, that little nostalgic dream. “Are you thinking about Michael?”

  “And all of us. Remember when we played cricket on the beach?”

  Esther did: the four of them, pegged to the sand with their thin midday shadows; Beth stood with a hand making a brim, wearing Big Oliver’s T-shirt in a curious turban, Esther and her the gossiping fielders. Then a faint thwack, both useless as the ball sailed past; Beth trotting after the ball under wails from Big Oliver as Michael racked up hundreds of runs in his shorts and Esther’s floral sunhat; Big Oliver finally tackling Michael to the floor as he morris-danced from the wickets, bat in the air; Beth toeing around in the surf, darting from the ball which rode on cold waves. And then them on their stomachs drinking wine because it was Michael’s birthday, patches of the sand red as plastic beakers overturned in a salty breeze; the pouring of wine into a beaker which took off and had to be chased. Worms made spirals of wet sand over the flats left by a retreating sea. Now an exploration to rock pools in the stone cove near the cliffs, the shallow water warmed by an afternoon of sun. Four biologists searched for seaside celebrities, perhaps a crab or a fish, or a starfish, and found burgundy anemones which retracted into balls of liver when menaced by a foot. This was followed by long evenings in the pub, plates and plates and plates of heavy food creating their well-loved expression “and a salad of chips.”

  “Yep, two years. Incredible, isn’t it?” Esther was cut off by a new thought, the desire to ask it a hot coal in her. “Beth, he never talked to you about anything, did he?”

  “Who, Michael? Talked about what?”

  A politician made an ordeal of twisting in his chair and glaring at them, the chair creaking. Their voices became miniscule.

  “… Talked about what?”

  “I don’t know, about what he was going to do? You didn’t have any suspicions, never suspected.…”

  “What?” Beth’s expression was perplexed. “Of course not, Es.”

  Esther picked through her words and found them to be empty shells. She said it anyway. “I thought we were happy, Beth, I thought Michael was happy with me.”

  “You were happy,” Beth said firmly. “Esther, it’s not a sign of the relationship between you.” She shook her head, positive. “You know what Michael was like. He was always very …” She abandoned the sentence.

  Yes, Esther knew. They had talked about it many times, dissecting it.

  “Anyway, what made you ask?”

  A critical cough came from the window.

  “I’m not sure.” Esther turned to the cough and saw an indignant man. His scowl was a low-wattage warning. It will get high-wattage, the scowl said. She was back at her lumpy complaining trolley. The wheels started to give under the persuasion of a persistent hip. Esther whispered to Beth, “Sorry, I’m not sure why I asked.”

  “You promise nothing’s wrong?”

  Black Pat lit in ultraviolet, that great head, teeth. The image flashed and sank. Esther restacked the books, occupied with the task. “I promise. I think I’m in a bit of a funk.” She corrected it. “A lot of a funk, actually.”

  Beth had an idea. “Here, I know how to cheer you up.” She passed over a packet of sweets. “Have a few of these.”

  Esther took more than a few and then smiled through a face like a stuffed pocket. Beth poked a round cheek and this nearly ended badly.

  “Oh, I forgot to tell you.” Beth gave Esther’s bottom a friendly slap. “Dennis-John wants to talk to you.”

  “Ukh, Dennis-John.” Esther shut her eyes. “What about?”

  Beth was in the doorway, now in the corridor, her voice recklessly loud. “Probably something horrible. Better go after you’ve finished with that trolley. He says he doesn’t want you hiding in corners all the time.”

  “But I like hiding in corners,” Esther said to the empty corridor.

  CHAPTER 19

  2.05 p.m.

  Dennis-John hit his typewriter, striking the carriage-return lever. With a shrill ping the carriage smashed to the right. He talked and typed.

  “Esther, I wonder if you realise what’s happening on Monday, the twenty-seventh of July.”

  Esther watched the typewriter. The ministry of fingers raged against the keys. “Umm. I’m not sure.”

  “You’re not sure.” Dennis-John stopped typing. He shared an indulgent smile with his lap, expecting this answer. “Then let me explain.”
He looked up his forehead at her.

  Dennis-John had a dark auburn head of hair, parted to the side. This styling was a never-ending crusade. The hair was wilful and wanted to break out into thick bohemian waves. Sometimes, when Dennis-John was drunk, or feeling beaten, or in a sustained fury, the hair succeeded. For this reason his hair could be used as an emotional barometer by those who knew him. Today the hair was absolutely dominated.

  “Monday the twenty-seventh is the date Sir Winston Churchill will retire from Parliament. There will be a congregation of national press baying at the doors and Sir Winston will be making a short speech.” Dennis-John waited to see if she was able to comprehend the information so far, faithless in her abilities. Good, the evidence was located. Bravo. He carried on.

  “Sir Winston will need to formulate this speech, and will do so in his characteristic style, dictating it in the study of his home in Kent. We need someone meek to be there as secretarial assistance.”

  Esther was waiting for it. “I’m that meek someone?”

  “Yes.” Here a grin simmered. “You’re roguishly meek.”

  She spoke to Dennis-John’s ear, a safer, less explosive part of his head. “Doesn’t Sir Winston have a secretary?”

  “His secretary has been taken ill. I received a message to see if I could find a substitute, and I put you forward, as I recalled that you worked as a secretary for the MP of an East London constituency.”

  “Yes,” Esther said hesitantly. “Quite a while ago, though.”

  “And I believe that you have many years’ experience of secretarial positions, yes? You’re capable of undertaking dictation, shorthand, and touch typing.”

  “Isn’t there an actual secretary who would be more—?”

  “No.”

  This was difficult to believe. “Really? Because—”

  Dennis-John ploughed in with his logic. “It was a personal request from the prime minister and I couldn’t refuse. The House of Commons Library is respected for its dedication to precision and quality. Our devotion to exactitude is legendary, part of the fabric of Westminster folklore. Judged by this folklore the library staff are like …” Dennis-John didn’t have an example. Now he did. “They’re like werewolves for prudence.” Not so great, actually pretty bad. Dennis-John saw that he had to curb the folklore element. His hand switched, ordering her to ignore that. “So when an emergency calls for a studious, careful individual, they come to me. We’re trusted and reliable. And I am therefore trusting and relying on you.” He bobbed his head at her. “A nice compliment for you, and I am not a man who practises overindulging his staff with praise.”

  “Okay,” Esther said. She tried to appear complimented. “Well, thank you for putting me forward. I’ll certainly do my best.”

  “Har, you’ll certainly do more than that,” Dennis-John corrected. “You’ll aspire to do my best. Anything less than that, the inadequacy of your best, is completely inappropriate. Do you understand?”

  Dennis-John observed Esther, searching for proof that she had understood. Yes, there it was. A new statement needed to be expressed.

  “Esther, Churchill is not a man to suffer fools, so be careful to act with this in mind. Don’t make any girlish comments. Don’t ask stupid questions, and to clarify, all questions will be stupid. Don’t use less than double-spaced lines. Don’t giggle—”

  “I don’t think I ever giggle,” Esther cut in. “I definitely don’t do it much.”

  “And a man of Churchill’s age has earned the right not to have his day of rest overly disrupted. For the sake of speed you will take Sir Winston’s dictation straight on to a typewriter, as his secretaries did in the war. So don’t bash the typewriter, don’t bash at it.” Dennis-John remembered something. “Although he only uses Remington typewriters, a specially adapted version imported from America and designed to be noiseless.” He checked himself. “However, this is not an invitation to type like an ape.”

  “I won’t do any ape typing,” said Esther, and then, “Gosh, noiseless typewriters?”

  “And …” Dennis-John didn’t enjoy talking to his staff about delicate matters, especially his female staff, fearing crying scenes. He thought Esther looked like an easy crier. But looking at her he knew the subject had to be broached. He advanced on it without further delay, charging it. “Esther, it’s essential to present yourself presentably.”

  Esther considered what he meant, didn’t know, and asked.

  His thumb sought the area under his chin, stroking it. It was the motion used to get a cat to swallow a tablet. “Be presentable. The way you are now, with that outfit”—he swallowed his tablet—“it’s in need of revision. The outfit needs fundamental revision.”

  She stared down at her clothes, down at the brown brogues water-faded in patches, stockings in grooves at the ankle.

  Dennis-John noticed her pinching at her thighs, trying to hitch the stockings through her skirt. “You can’t go to Churchill dressed in your usual jumble-sale finery.”

  “My jumble-sale finery …”

  “Esther, it is not”—Dennis-John shook his head twice: two epic sweeps—“is not acceptable attire for such a serious, momentous occasion in the presence of such a serious, momentous man. So smarten up, yes?” He had a further suggestion, dealing it out. “You could even risk a foray into cosmetics.” A hand moved around his face in a circle. “You know, the pastes women carry in their handbags … the pastes …” The hand rotated as he searched for the names, mentally ransacking the products his wife used. He found one: “Rouge! Like rouge.” Dennis-John finished his efforts. “Go and talk to your painted friend Beth. She’ll know.”

  Esther remained in front of him. Half of her wanted to leave, sick of his rude commands. The other half wanted to stay for this reason, entertained.

  Seeing her there dry-eyed, Dennis-John congratulated himself. No crying scenes. With unnaturally generous sympathy, he said, “Listen, Esther, no one’s expecting you to compete with Elizabeth Nel, but you’ll have to get over that because I’m confident you can make a decent job of it. Churchill isn’t difficult—he’s simply specific in his secretarial requirements. So just remember: Do everything right, do it silently, paste on some rouge, wear something coherent with other women your age, no apishness.”

  “Who’s Elizabeth Nel?”

  Dennis-John wasn’t through with his list: “Don’t even think about joking. If I find you’ve been making any jokes, japing around, I’ll take more from you than your job.”

  “I don’t think I’d have the nerve to make any jokes.” Esther imagined it. “And if I’m honest I’d be too nervous to laugh if he told me a joke.”

  “You will laugh should Churchill tell you a joke,” said Dennis-John. “You’ll laugh instantly, and for a courteous amount of time.” He waggled his mouth, deciding. “For ten laughing seconds.”

  “Sorry, who is Elizabeth Nel?”

  “Ah,” said Dennis-John. “Elizabeth Nel. She was a wartime secretary, a celebrity in the secretarial community. Nel was with Churchill on VE Day, taking his final night’s dictation. A true professional and a favourite of Churchill’s. Anyway, we will send you down to Chartwell on the afternoon of the twenty-sixth. That’s a Sunday. You’ll be needed for approximately one hour or so.”

  “Sunday?” Sunday: It came over her in a snowfall of soot. Esther couldn’t explain it to him.

  Dennis-John saw her basset-hound expression. A classic malingering expression.

  “Transport.” Dennis-John thought of the obstacle and crashed through it. “We’ll send someone down with you, someone to drive you.”

  “I could drive myself? I have a car so I could easily—”

  “What you’ll easily do is get easily lost in the miles of rural roads. Chartwell House isn’t on your bedside table, Esther. It’s in the countryside of Kent.”

  A click of fingers from Dennis-John, calling to another female library clerk. “Hey! I need you to get me whatsit … that new library clerk called …
him, the new …” Another flurry of clicks came, first as research and then as the answer. “Yes, get me Corkbowl.”

  The woman went, back seconds later. Corkbowl came, acting the serious professional to impress Dennis-John. He shot Esther a furtive grin and she smiled back.

  Dennis-John wanted to know, “Can you drive?”

  He could. He owned a cream Morris Minor, the glove box stuffed with rubbish. Corkbowl scratched at a cheek and there was the sound of stubble.

  “You’ll be accompanying Esther to Chartwell House on Sunday afternoon. Corkbowl, I assume you’re a competent driver?”

  Esther mouthed “Sorry” at Corkbowl.

  Dennis-John didn’t wait for a response. He was typing again, head bent.

  “You should be,” Corkbowl mouthed back.

  “Esther, work!” barked Dennis-John, watching her with psychic powers from his scalp.

  CHAPTER 20

  2.55 p.m.

  Clementine was in the kitchen garden, pulling weeds from around the parsley. She picked some mint, bruised the leaves between her fingers, and breathed it in. A large orange cat basked near her, swatting the ground with its tail. Then the cat’s ears flattened back and it hissed.

  “Jock, behave yourself.” She turned to see Churchill slowly advancing across the lawn towards her. Not long back from Westminster, he walked up through the orchard of pear and apple trees surrounding the lake. The orchard led in a path to the kitchen garden, where it connected with a stone archway. Black Pat, trailing behind Churchill, noticed the cat and picked up the pace, overtaking. The cat pressed down onto its stomach. As they got nearer it gave a livid squall and shot off, vanishing over the high brick wall Churchill had built himself.

  “I don’t know what’s got into him,” Clementine said in surprise.

  “Who knows,” said Churchill, knowing exactly, watching as Black Pat moved over the cat’s scent, nose to the ground and burning to give chase. Black Pat restrained himself, sitting next to Clementine, his back to her. Clementine pulled her shirt tighter. “My, I just caught a cold breeze.” She looked at the brilliant sky. “There’s a real chill suddenly, how curious.”