Mr. Churchill's Secretary

by Susan Elia MacNeal

  “Look, I don’t mean to insult you,” John said, tracing an ancient pint ring stain on the wooden table. “It’s just that … these are uncertain times—as Diana Snyder learned too late.”

  “The girl who worked at Number Ten?” Nigel said.

  “The papers said she was mugged,” Chuck said. “Her wallet was missing. Open-and-shut case.”

  “Of course that’s what the papers say,” John said. “It’s wartime. Things happen. Unpleasant things. And sometimes they aren’t as straightforward as they seem. Certainly you don’t believe everything you read in the papers, do you?”

  “So you think she was … murdered?” Maggie asked. “Why?”

  “Let’s just say it’s an ongoing investigation.”

  “Mercy, John,” Paige said, conjuring her best southern-belle accent and wrapping her arm around Maggie. “Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean everyone’s out to get you. Besides,” she said, sniffing, “no one’s even noticed my new hat—spent nearly all my clothing rations on it.”

  Chuck rolled her eyes; Maggie gave her a gentle kick under the table.

  John didn’t rise to the bait. “Wouldn’t be a problem if the U.S. was actually in this war.”

  “I truly believe that America will join the fight,” Maggie said.

  “Yes, one can always count on the United States to do the right thing—after all other options have been exhausted,” John said.

  Maggie was about to retort when David rose gracefully to his feet. “Right-o, then, let’s not tear each other apart when there are plenty of Germans just waiting to do that very thing. Let’s go dancing, shall we?”

  “Fine,” grumbled Maggie and John simultaneously.

  David turned to Paige. “And may I say, my dear, I love your hat. You look absolutely adorable in it.”

  Paige glowed beneath her confection of bluebells and ribbons. “Why, thank you, David. You’re a true gentleman.”

  THREE

  AT THE BLUE Moon Club, the light was dim. Trumpets and clarinets blared through clouds of smoke and Shalimar as the group crammed into a small velvet banquette lit by a low-shaded lamp. As the Moonbeam Orchestra played a cover of Jelly Roll Morton’s “King Porter Stomp,” a group of dancers on the floor twisted and shimmied through intricate turns and lifts. There was a narrow marble bar and a small sign next to the bald, nervous-looking barman, proclaiming NO GIN.

  “Well, we’ll just have to drink champagne, then, won’t we?” David said. “Might as well, while our money’s still worth something.”

  Chuck and Nigel hit the dance floor, moving with more enthusiasm than grace, while the rest of the group settled into their seats.

  David elbowed John. “Look—over there. Is that …”

  John squinted. “Simon Paul? I think it is. Heard he’s been working for Halifax.”

  At a table across the dance floor was a young man, tie askew, a distantly amused expression on his pale, fleshy face. He reminded Maggie of a painting of a young Henry VIII at the National Portrait Gallery, a big fellow, good-looking in a slightly paunchy way. His ginger hair was wavy, and his skin, especially around the nose, was reddish. David waved him over.

  A jovial expression transformed his features as he walked across the dance floor to the table. David rose to his feet. “Si, it is you, you old sod! How long has it been? Five years now?”

  Simon gave a tilted smile. “ ’Thirty-six, old boy. Graduation—spring of ’thirty-six.”

  “Ah, the infamous Simon,” Paige whispered to Maggie as the young men talked.

  “ ‘Infamous’?”

  “He was up at Oxford with John and David. NSIT.”

  “NSIT? What’s that mean?”

  “ ‘Not Safe in Taxis.’ A real taxi tiger. As opposed to ‘Very, Very Safe in Taxis, Probably Queer.’ Now, hush …”

  “… lifetimes since Magdalen,” Simon was saying. “I’ve heard what you two have been up to, working for old Winnie. Is he really as drunk as people say?”

  John’s eyes narrowed. “Hardly.”

  David remembered his manners. “Maggie, Paige, may I present Simon Paul. Oxford man—friend, scholar …”

  Simon laughed. “You forgot drunkard.”

  Paige held out her hand for Simon to shake, but instead he leaned across the table to kiss it.

  “Delighted to meet you,” he declared, keeping Paige’s hand in his. Then, to Maggie, “And you—you look just like one of those glorious Rossetti redheads.”

  “Why don’t you sit down, Mr. Paul?” Paige cooed. Under her breath, “Maggie, move over.” Maggie slid in farther, and Simon sat down next to Paige.

  “Please, call me Simon.”

  “So you all know each other from school?” Maggie asked.

  “Oxford, Magdalen College,” David said. “Parties, punting, picnics, Pimm’s …”

  Simon took out a pouch of tobacco and a paper and proceeded to roll a cigarette. “Those were the days, eh, boys?” He finished rolling his cigarette and put it in his mouth, removing it only to pull a few stray tobacco leaves off his tongue with his broad fingers before lighting up.

  “And now he’s working as a private secretary to Lord Halifax,” John concluded.

  “Halifax?” Maggie said. “Britain’s Foreign Secretary, right? He was with Chamberlain for appeasement, right?”

  “Now, now,” said Simon. “Just because he’s a Tory and hunts the occasional fox …”

  “He was tight with Ambassador Kennedy,” Paige ventured. “Saw him around the offices quite a bit. Quite the hatchet-face—not at all attractive.”

  “Halifax believes in realpolitik,” Simon said. “Without commitment from Russia and America, this war …” He shrugged.

  “Thank God he didn’t become Prime Minister, and Churchill got the job instead,” Chuck rejoined.

  “Had a bit of a falling-out there, didn’t we, boys?” Simon said, taking a long drag on his cigarette.

  “Nice to see you’ve come around to our viewpoint,” John said.

  “Wouldn’t say that, really—wouldn’t say that. What are we fighting for, anyway? Hitler doesn’t want England. If we leave him alone in Europe, we’ll all be having dinner together by Christmas.”

  “How about for the duration of the war,” John said, “there’s one national government—one England. Come, now—even Halifax is part of the coalition.”

  “I still don’t see why British blood needs to be spilled in this mess,” Simon said, rubbing out his cigarette. “Goddamned waste, if you ask me. If we keep going along Churchill’s path, this entire island could look like Calais. Western Europe has fallen. France is falling, even as we sit here with our pints. There’s only going to be about twenty miles of English Channel between us and the Germans once they take France. Perhaps a poor peace is better than a miserable war.”

  “A ‘poor peace’? Are you mad?” John said, his voice tight.

  “If we don’t survive, there’s no hope,” Simon rejoined. “As Lord Halifax was quick to point out.”

  David colored. “I doubt a ‘poor peace,’ as you say, would ever come to pass,” he said. “As the Boss once said about Hitler annexing Austria, ‘After a boa constrictor has devoured its prey, it often has a considerable digestive spell’—that is, before attacking again. What do you think a ‘poor peace’ would ultimately bring?”

  “That’s why we need to act now,” Simon said. “Play the Italian card.”

  “The ‘Italian card’?” Paige asked.

  “Some people,” John said, giving Simon a pointed look, “believe that Hitler listens to Mussolini. And if we give him some of our Mediterranean territories, he’ll have a little chat with Herr Hitler. Convince him not to invade.”

  “Otherwise,” Simon said, “we’re going to end up fighting them both.”

  The table was momentarily silent, a chill falling over them.

  Maggie looked at Simon. “Do you actually think that Hitler and the King could really someday sit down to tea and cru
mpets together? Really? Because I don’t. Maybe it’s because I’m an outsider, but surely you know this war is about more than that.”

  “Really, darling?” Simon said with a smirk.

  Maggie caught his sarcastic tone but was undeterred. “It’s, it’s—” She flung her arms wide, encompassing the dance floor, the park, the city, the country itself. “It’s … this. Your island. Your England. What makes you different. And if you can’t see that, well, then maybe you don’t deserve the”—she fought for the word—“privilege of being English.”

  She took a breath. “Yes, things need to change in England. It’s not an empire anymore, and the days of colonialism are over. It’s time for there to be more opportunities for the poor and working class—and women, of course,” she said, giving a hard look to John and David. “But the point’s moot if England’s invaded by Nazis.”

  It had been a long day and Maggie grabbed Paige’s wrist. “We’re going to freshen up,” she snapped, leading a surprised Paige away to the ladies’ room.

  As the girls left, David gave a soft whistle. “Not bad—for a Yankee. If we could get a few more like her, we might actually win this thing.”

  The lounge area of the ladies’ toilet was papered with a silver art deco print that glowed pink in the soft rosy lights that circled the mirrors. Paige took a look at her reflection, smiled, and pulled out a tube of lipstick. “So,” she cooed, painting a crimson bow on her lips. “Feel better now that you’ve got that out of your system?”

  A blowsy woman in a low-cut dress left, and Maggie leaned against the marble counter. The ornate gold-framed mirror showed both girls, the same middle height and slight build, one redheaded and one blond.

  “It’s just … the waiting, the stress, the talk of invasion. That bastard Dicky Snot-ass. And then that man, that Simon …”

  “He’s not that bad, really,” Paige said. “I think he’s just trying to play devil’s advocate. Personally, I think he’s rather handsome.”

  “I noticed,” Maggie said. “Simon was acting very … friendly with you.”

  “Simon’s such a flirt!” Paige blotted her lips with a tissue. “Want to borrow? Go on, just a little bit. It’ll look so nice with your hair.” Even at Wellesley, Paige had always been generous with her things, lending out lipsticks and Worth satin ball gowns indiscriminately. Maggie smoothed some on.

  “Ta-da!” Paige said, spinning around, her shining blond hair floating around her like a halo. “And David’s not an option, of course,” she said, considering, “being Very Very Safe in Taxis, Probably Queer, but—have you ever considered John? You’ll be working together in”—she gave Maggie a significant look—“close proximity now.”

  Maggie had a sudden image of John, trim in his dark suit and tie, his expression wry, a stray curl straggling across his forehead.

  “He’s a dish, isn’t he?” Paige said, reaching down behind her and straightening the seams in her stockings. “Even with that dreadful hair.”

  “No, no, thank you, Emma Woodhouse. I don’t need a matchmaker. And John and I got off on the wrong foot ages ago.” I have enough to worry about, Maggie thought, without—how did Mrs. Tinsley put it?—“mooning” over one of the private secretaries. And an annoying one, at that. “I’ve had enough of bad dates and taxi tigers,” Maggie said. “Besides, you’re the one who seems interested.”

  “I’m interested in everyone, darling. But in a purely hypothetical way. I’m too much of a gadabout to settle down anytime soon.” Paige reached into Maggie’s bun and took out the tortoiseshell clip securing it. Maggie’s red hair tumbled free over her shoulders. “Much, much better. Oh, let’s just forget it for tonight and dance. David’s a terrific dancer, you know,” she said, linking her arm through Maggie’s as they made their way back to the table.

  A tall and elegant brunette had joined the group and was seated at the velvet banquette. “Sarah!” Paige squealed, leaning down and kissing her on both cheeks. “Where have you been? We’ve missed you desperately.”

  “Hello, Sarah,” Maggie said.

  “Hello, kittens.” Sarah slouched back and stretched out her long, slender legs as she took a drag on her clove cigarette. “And I’ve been in the studio, of course. If we’re going to have a season this year—and in my opinion, the show must go on—there’s a lot of work to be done. But I tell you, if I have to do Giselle one more time, just take me out into an alley and shoot me.” She was as beautiful as any fairy-tale princess, but her voice was disconcertingly low and raspy, almost froggy.

  “Sarah,” Paige said as she and Maggie took their seats, “did the boys do a proper introduction? This is Simon Paul, an old school chum of David and John’s. Simon,” Paige continued, “meet Sarah Sanderson. Sarah’s a ballerina with the Sadler’s Wells Ballet.”

  Sarah and Simon looked at each other, locked eyes, then looked away. “We’ve met,” Sarah said curtly.

  “The Sadler’s Wells Ballet?” Maggie asked, sensing Sarah’s discomfort and trying to change the subject.

  “The Vic-Wells Ballet until just recently. We perform at the Old Vic and the Sadler’s Wells,” Sarah said, taking another long drag. “Lots of scurrying back and forth with our dance bags.”

  Nigel and Chuck returned from the dance floor to the banquette, flushed and breathing heavily. “Oh, it’s wonderful,” Chuck said. “What are you all doing sitting here, just waiting for bombs to drop? Dance, damn you!”

  “Speaking of dancing,” Simon interjected, looking to Paige. “Maybe you’d do me the honor?” The band switched into a rousing version of Glenn Miller’s “Stairway to the Stars.”

  Paige graced him with her most radiant smile. “Why, I’d love to!”

  “David?” Maggie asked. “Take a spin?”

  David looked surprised but pleased to be asked nonetheless. “Of course, m’lady,” he said, standing and offering a hand. “After you.”

  On the scuffed wooden dance floor, David held Maggie lightly, guiding her gracefully through intricate maneuvers. “So why didn’t you ask John?” he asked finally.

  “He’s a bit of an ass,” Maggie said over the trumpets.

  “What?” David said above the din.

  “Ass!” Maggie practically shouted.

  David seemed amused. “Ha!” he said, spinning her farther into the crowd. His hands were a bit sweaty, but he was a fantastic dancer.

  As the orchestra beat out four, the lead singer segued into “Blue Orchids.” The clarinet player licked his lips and launched into his part as the drummer switched to wire brushes.

  “May I cut in?” Maggie looked up, startled, at John.

  Good Lord, Maggie thought. What’s he doing here? Did he overhear?

  “Good luck, you two.” David smiled as he turned and left.

  As they moved around the floor, the color rose in her cheeks and at her throat. She noticed, under his chin, a tiny sliver of unshaven hair that his razor must have missed. She found herself worrying about the possibility that her nose was getting shiny and that John might notice. Oh, stop it, she thought. You’ve had too much champagne.

  Maggie closed her eyes and relaxed into John’s arms as they moved around the floor. It was a mistake—the room started to spin.

  “Do you mind if we take a break now?” she asked.

  “Of course,” John replied. He had a strange look on his face that Maggie couldn’t quite place.

  They broke apart and headed back to the table. As John and Maggie sat down, Sarah looked up expectantly. Men were in short supply, after all. “My turn?” she said to John.

  John sighed. “What is it with women and dancing?”

  “Oh, Johnny, don’t be such a prat and come on,” Sarah insisted, offering her hand. She rose to her feet, the sharp points of her hip bones jutting out through the silk of her dress. “Mind the toes.”

  The music had changed into a waltz, and John and Sarah glided together. She was amazing, Maggie thought, all long legs and sinuous arms, her dark hair floati
ng behind her.

  “Take a look at Fred and Ginger,” David said at her elbow, as if reading her mind. “Don’t they look fabulous?” Maggie had to admit that they did—whirling, spinning, and twirling. When the song ended, they wandered back to the table.

  “Why can’t we do something like that at the Wells?” Sarah said breathlessly as she sat down. “Instead of bloomin’ Giselle all the time.”

  “But you’d make a beautiful Giselle!” Paige exclaimed.

  “Yes, I would,” Sarah replied. “And I wouldn’t complain so much if I actually were Giselle and not ‘second peasant girl to the left.’ ”

  They laughed, and Sarah slipped her red high heels from her feet and began to massage them. Maggie gasped at seeing her toes—bunions distended their shape, and they were covered with calluses and barely healed blisters.

  “Yeah, gorgeous, aren’t they? That’s what you get for wearing those pretty pink satin slippers.” Maggie considered Sarah with newfound respect.

  She glanced at Paige, who was flirting shamelessly with Simon, her hand ruffling his hair; David and John, engrossed in political debate; and Sarah, who was talking intently with Chuck and Nigel. As the light glimmered on the golden trumpets, she realized the day—and evening—had gone rather well, all things considered.

  Suddenly, unbidden, her thoughts flashed to the late Diana Snyder. The poor girl, Maggie thought. And she’ll never know any of this.

  FOUR

  THE MAY MORNING threatened rain. A cool wind blew from the east, and a few birds chirped in alarm.

  People walked with a hurried step along Herrick Street in Pimlico, and a few plump, gray pigeons flapped down and took shelter under the roof of a café. The sky opened abruptly and cold rain poured down, drenching a group of rowdy soldiers as they made their way down oil-stained streets, passing reddish-brown brick buildings in the growing darkness of the storm. Under the heaviness of the water droplets, flowering trees wept pale pink petals down into the gutters.

  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.