Mr. Churchill's Secretary

by Susan Elia MacNeal

  Chuck made her way toward the copper kettle on the stove but stopped short at the state of the sink, piled high with dirty dishes. “Jesus H. Christ!”

  Maggie shrugged. “The twins.” The twins in question were Annabelle and Clarabelle Wiggett, two pixielike young blondes who also lived in the house, known as much for their thick Norwich accents and incessant giggling as for the catastrophic messes they left. Chuck referred to them, not necessarily unkindly, as “the Ding-belles,” “the Dumb-belles,” and “the Hell’s Belles.”

  Chuck made a low growl in her throat. “Off with their heads,” she muttered, rolling up her sleeves and taking up a dishrag.

  The telephone rang, and Paige jumped to get it. “Hello?” she cooed, as if expecting to hear from one of her numerous boyfriends. Then, “Oh, yes, David—she’s here.” David was David Greene, one of Maggie’s good friends, who worked as a private secretary to Winston Churchill.

  Maggie took the heavy black Bakelite receiver and sat down at the kitchen table, running her fingers over the nicks and scars in the wood. “It’s just that the girl’s gone missing,” David said, his voice solemn. “Actually, it’s a bit more serious than that. But the thing is, we need a replacement. Yesterday.”

  “Wasn’t she murdered a few days ago?” Maggie asked. “Mugged for a few pounds? I saw something in The Times about it. And in Pimlico, too—”

  Paige and Chuck both turned, listening.

  “Look, it’s a terrible situation, Magster, but there’s still a war on and work to be done. Now more than ever. We need to fill the position.”

  “Paige and I have already decided—we’re going to be drivers. The call of the open road and all.”

  “Maggie, my dear, I know you can take dictation and type well. And that’s what’s needed right now. And please, let me emphasize the right now bit.”

  Maggie leaned back in the chair. She could see where this was going. “Well, then, why don’t you do it?”

  “I’m already a private secretary, research and that sort of thing. Besides, I don’t, well—”

  Maggie raised an eyebrow. “You mean you don’t … type?”

  “Not very fast, I’m afraid,” he said. “But you can, and quickly, too. And that’s what’s needed.” Then, “We need you.”

  Maggie was silent. Dishes done, Chuck had turned back to her tea, the mug dwarfed by her large, capable hands. Paige busied herself with the newspaper.

  “Merciful Zeus, woman!” David exclaimed over the crackling line. “It’s a chance to work on the front lines. You’d be doing something important. Making a difference.”

  The knowledge that he was right stung. She could make a difference. But not in the way she wanted, with her mathematic capabilities. As a typist.

  “Working for Mr. Churchill would be one of the hardest and most challenging jobs you can do. And vital as well. But it’s up to you, of course. I can’t say it’s going to be anything but difficult. But if you’re interested, I can make it happen. We’ve already started the paperwork, proving you’re a British citizen in good standing—despite your dreadful accent.”

  Maggie smiled in spite of herself; David loved to mock her American accent. “Would there be any chance of my being involved with the research and writing end of things? After all, with my degree, I could be of more help, especially with things like queue theory, allocating resources, information theory, code and cipher breaking—”

  He sighed. “I’m sorry, Maggie, but they’re only hiring men for those jobs. I understand your frustration.…” Maggie had already tried for a private secretary job, a position traditionally held by young Oxbridge men from upper-class families. Despite being more than qualified, she’d been turned down.

  “No, David. You don’t.” It wasn’t his fault, but still, the truth hurt. She could type and file, while young men her age, like David, could do more—research, reports, writing. It just wasn’t fair, and the knowledge made her want to throw and break things. Immature, she knew, but honest. “I’d rather drive or work in a factory, making tanks.”

  “Maggie—why?”

  “Look, you of all people should know why.” David, after all, wouldn’t be there, either, if they knew everything about him. “You don’t get to judge me.”

  “I’m sorry.…”

  “You’re sorry? Sorry?” she said, her voice rising in pitch. In the kitchen, the girls all pretended to be very, very busy with what they were doing. “Perfect. You’re sorry. But it doesn’t change anything.” Her pronunciation became more distinct. “It doesn’t change that when I interviewed for the private secretary job, I was more than qualified. It doesn’t change that Dicky Snodgrass was a condescending ass to me. It doesn’t change that John sees me as a mere girl incapable of anything besides typing and getting married and having babies. And it doesn’t change that they hired that cross-eyed lug Conrad Simpson—a mouth breather who probably still has to sound words out and count on his fingers—all because his daddy has a fancy title and he has a … a … a penis!”

  There was silence on the other end, and then the line crackled. In the kitchen, the girls looked at each other in shock.

  “And the fact that you’re absolutely right, I know, doesn’t make it any better,” David said.

  “All right, then,” Maggie said, slightly calmer now that she’d gotten that off her chest. Then she added, “What about Paige?”

  Paige looked up from the paper; “Fifth Column Treachery” was the headline. “What about Paige?” she asked. Maggie waved her hands and shushed her.

  “Paige is American—only Commonwealth citizens allowed,” he said.

  “Chuck?”

  Chuck was still bent over the tea, but her back tensed.

  “Chuck’s training to be a nurse, and she’ll be more than needed soon,” David said. “Besides, Ireland’s not the Commonwealth, you know. Things are still a little … iffy between England and Ireland, if you know what I mean.”

  “Ah,” Maggie said. “Of course.” Chuck was Irish. And with all of the violent history between England and Ireland, as well as the recent IRA bombings in London, Maggie could see why an Irish citizen at No. 10 wouldn’t be considered, let alone approved.

  Maggie took a deep breath. Despite her frustration at the system in place, she knew it was time for her to give up her pride and do what needed to be done. Here’s something I can do for the war effort, she thought, something I can do, and do well. There’s a need, and I can fill it. It was as simple as that. And in wartime, it was all that mattered.

  “All right, then,” she said with a dramatic sigh. “Yes, I’ll do it. Fine. You’ve got yourself a secretary.”

  “Good girl! I had a feeling you’d come through. We’ll see you at Number Ten tomorrow then, eight sharp. There’s a lot of work to be done.”

  “I know. I’ll be there.” And then she added, “Thank you, David. You can count on me.”

  * * *

  Michael Murphy left his flat in Soho early, forgoing an umbrella even though the skies promised worse weather.

  He paused at the curb while he buttoned his old mackintosh against the morning chill, tucking a small worn-leather suitcase tightly between his feet. Around him was a regular Tuesday morning in London—traffic getting heavier, a siren wailing, shops and cafés opening, people walking quickly on the sidewalks or waiting patiently in queues for red double-decker buses. A few drab sparrows picked at crumbs, and the damp air was cut by car exhaust.

  Satisfied he’d never seen any of the faces in the crowd before, he set off for Piccadilly Circus. The statue of Eros with his bow had been removed for safekeeping, and the Shaftsbury fountain was boarded up with wide wooden planks. The area, edged by the London Pavilion and the Criterion, was already mobbed with RAF pilots on leave, Wrens in brown uniforms and bright lipstick, and young boys shouting and selling newspapers.

  They were overlooked by huge billboards: Guinness Is Good for You. Bovril Schweppes Tonic Water. For Your Throat’s Sake, Smoke Craven
A. And just in case one could ever forget the war: It Might Be YOU—Caring for Evacuees Is a National Service.

  Murphy walked down the steep flight of steps to the Piccadilly Circus Underground station, bought his ticket, and then descended further into the bowels of the Tube. As he sank lower and lower into the earth, the cool air smelled of exhaust, rotting rubbish, and stale sweat.

  The train arrived with a loud rumble, and he pushed his way in with the others—businessmen in rumpled suits and felt hats with newspapers in hand, a few soldiers, a nurse with a white winged hat. He transferred from the Piccadilly line to the Northern, noticing a particularly beautiful young woman with a dove-gray pillbox hat and red lipstick, somehow disconcerting so early in the morning. He gave the woman a grin and tipped his hat. She blushed and dropped her eyes.

  He remained standing on the train, then got off with a crowd of passengers as the doors slid open at Euston station. Instinctively, he reached into his coat and felt for the butt of his pistol.

  It was there, hard and reassuring.

  He walked along with the rest of the crowd, hanging back just slightly, until most had proceeded up the staircase, leaving a momentary lull before the next train arrived.

  In one smooth, practiced move, he reached into the case and released a catch activating the bomb inside. Then, in another quick motion, he dropped it in one of the gaping rubbish bins.

  Walking briskly now, he headed up the stairs. There was a man with a fleshy, florid face playing “The Sailor’s Hornpipe” on a slightly out-of-tune violin. Murphy threw a few coins into the open case, pausing to wink at the woman in the gray hat, who’d stopped to listen. She blushed again.

  Continuing through a turnstile, he jogged up another steeper set of stairs and then into the open air. He walked a few blocks and spotted a café across the street.

  He went in and took a seat by the large plate-glass windows, the dark wood chair scraping over the black-and-red tile floor.

  Then he looked up at the waitress and ordered a pot of tea.

  Murphy was enjoying his first sip when the ground shook slightly and the battered wooden tables and chipped flowered china dishes trembled for just an instant.

  There was an uneasy silence as the other patrons stiffened, wondering what had happened, waiting.

  The crowd began murmuring, some rising to see what the outside commotion was about. A baby began to cry, and his mother held him tightly against her.

  Then people, some battered and bloody, faces contorted with shock, began to walk past the café’s window. And they’re the lucky ones, he thought.

  The man caught sight of the young woman in the gray hat, the one he’d favored with a wink. It was askew, and her lipstick had smeared. A gash on her face wept blood, dripping dark and red onto the light gray of her suit. She walked past the window of the café, unseeing.

  From a distance, the wail of sirens could be heard, growing louder as they approached.

  Murphy left a few coins on the table for his tea and then went out into the throng, savoring the confusion and chaos he had caused.

  TWO

  NO. 10 DOWNING STREET, the historic black-brick office and home of the British Prime Minister, appeared austere and unassuming, especially compared to Parliament, Big Ben, and all the other grand Gothic government buildings in Westminster. It was almost ascetic in its simplicity—as if to say that while the other buildings might be there for display, this was where government actually met, where work was really done.

  Downing Street had been closed to the general public since the previous September. The building itself was sandbagged and surrounded by coils of thick barbed wire, braced for imminent attacks.

  Maggie Hope walked up the steps, past the guards, and knocked. The door opened, and she was led by one of the tall, uniformed guards past the infamous glossy black door with its brass lion-head knocker, and through the main entrance hall. She passed through, barely noticing the Benson of Whitehaven grandfather clock, the chest from the Duke of Wellington, and the portrait of Sir George Downing. They continued up the grand cantilever staircase. From there, they took a few turns down a warren of corridors and narrow winding passageways to the typists’ office, ripe with the scent of floor polish and cigarette smoke. The guard left her there.

  She took off her brown straw hat with the violet faille bow and removed her gloves. The silence was cut only by the loud ticking of a wall clock and the low murmur of conversation a few rooms away.

  Then, a voice: “How do you do, Miss Hope.”

  Standing in the doorway was a tall, slim woman in her early fifties. Her glossy black hair was threaded with silver and pulled back into a sleek chignon. The inherent beauty of her face was obscured by heavy black-rimmed glasses perched at the end of her nose. “I am Mrs. Catherine Tinsley,” she said, her mouth pursed.

  “How do you do, ma’am? My name is Margaret Hope—but please call me Maggie.”

  Mrs. Tinsley looked down her nose and took the girl’s measure. Pretty little thing, she sniffed, but too young, too thin, and far too pale. And that ghastly red hair pulled up into a bun. At least she had the common sense to dress in a plain suit and flat shoes. Not like that other young chit, Diana. Poor girl. Nasty bit of work, that.

  “Well, Miss Hope,” she said, taking a seat behind the larger of the wooden desks, which had a brass lamp, “please call me Mrs. Tinsley. I am Mr. Churchill’s senior secretary. Even though Mr. Churchill has been Prime Minister for only a short while, you should know that I have been with the family for more than twenty years.”

  She looked at Maggie over her glasses to make sure she was suitably impressed.

  Maggie tried to arrange her face in such a way as to show that she was.

  “I do hope you’ll work out better than the other girls we’ve had.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Especially the last one, Maggie thought grimly as she took the small, hard seat opposite Mrs. Tinsley’s desk. “I’ll do my best, ma’am.”

  “That’s why you’re here. And don’t think Mr. Churchill will be too pleased about it. He doesn’t like new staff.”

  This is going well, Maggie thought with a sinking heart. Is it too late to go melt scrap metal? Her office skills were good—but would they be good enough?

  After all, she wasn’t really a secretary but a Wellesley graduate, summa cum laude, Phi Beta Kappa, fluent in German and French, about to start working toward a doctoral degree in mathematics from M.I.T. Or she had been. Not that Mrs. Tinsley—or anyone else at No. 10—cares.

  “In any case.” Mrs. Tinsley sighed, shaking her head. “It’s bound to be difficult at first.”

  Maggie drew herself up in her straight-backed wooden chair and lifted her chin. I’ll show you, she thought. I’ll show all of you. “I’m ready for anything. Ma’am.”

  “Very well, then,” Mrs. Tinsley said. “But remember—if you leave now, no one will hold it against you.”

  It was a long day.

  Maggie met Miss Stewart, a petite and plump older woman with watery blue eyes and snow-white hair with a wide pink part, another of Mr. Churchill’s secretaries. She spoke in a soft, melodious voice. She whispered that because “He” was spending the week at Chequers, the Prime Minister’s official country house, the office was quieter. The atmosphere was much more intense, she said, when “He” was in.

  Fantastic, Maggie thought. I can only imagine Mrs. Tinsley under pressure.

  Maggie was also introduced to Richard Snodgrass, head private secretary. The bastard who kept me from getting the private secretary job, she thought.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Tinsley. But Mr. Snodgrass and I have already met.”

  Several months ago, Maggie had been up for a job as one of the illustrious private secretaries but didn’t get it. No women allowed. No girls in the precious private secretary sandbox, Maggie thought. In the caste system of No. 10, women were the secretaries—the typists. Men, usually Oxford or Cambridge graduates of the upper class, were the private secret
aries, who did the research, drafted reports, and ventured opinions, while the women took dictation.

  Richard Snodgrass was short, made to look even shorter by his striped double-breasted suit. His greasy black hair was combed over his bald spot. His hands were small and soft, and he blinked rapidly, as though coming into the light after a long stretch of darkness. Like a little mole, Maggie thought. She caught a whiff of vetiver cologne.

  “Mr. Snodgrass, Miss Hope is our new typist,” Mrs. Tinsley said.

  “Of course,” he said stiffly, the name ringing a bell.

  “I obviously made quite an impression with my sparkling personality,” Maggie said drily.

  “So glad to see you’ve found your proper place here at Number Ten, Miss Hope. I’m sure you’ll do well—with the rest of the ladies.”

  Maggie forced her lips into a tight smile. “Thank you.”

  “Miss Hope. About the private secretary job …”

  Oh, this should be good, she thought.

  “You may be very smart. For a woman.” He coughed. “But you see, women—even smart women, university-educated women—have the bad habit of going off and getting married. You just can’t count on them to stick around and get the job done. Especially in wartime.”

  Maggie was silent, inwardly fuming.

  “After all, if we made an exception for you, pretty soon there would be all kinds of women insisting on doing work on higher levels. And then where would we be? Who’d do all the typing?”

  Snodgrass laughed.

  The two women didn’t.

  Maggie had the feeling Mrs. Tinsley was just as angry as she was.

  “Mr. Snodgrass,” Maggie began, before she could stop herself, “how is Mr. Simpson working out?”