They leave the rink and enter the Christmas Market, with its stalls of artisans, entertainers, and purveyors of food. To the left, a man carves a bear out of a wooden stump. On the right, signs advertise Fresh Fish & Chips and Hot Roast Pork.
“I’m going to need a bratwurst later,” Katie says.
“Have you ever tried a Prego? It’s a Portuguese steak sandwich, if you’re into that sort of thing.”
“Always,” she says.
Katie scans the stalls until her eyes land on a collection of handblown glass Christmas tree ornaments. As Katie fingers a red-and-silver London phone booth, she thinks of her dad, who bought ornaments to commemorate all the places he traveled. Maui. Miami. The 1984 Summer Olympics (Los Angeles). Hot Springs, Arkansas. New Orleans. The Kennedy Space Center. Detroit. Dozens of ornaments, like a map of where’d he been, all of them now hanging on Britt’s tree.
“Are you going to get that?” Simon asks.
“Nah. Just reminded me of being a kid,” Katie says, letting the ornament fall back into the tree. She spins around and spots a massive green roller coaster named the Maus XXL. “Oh, let’s do that!” she says.
“Good Lord. No. Hell, no.”
“You’re scared.”
“Katharine. You are a child.”
“Hmm, then why are you the one acting like a baby?” she says. “Fine. No roller coaster. But I’m not going to let you say no to everything.”
“I won’t say no to everything,” Simon insists. “Just things that will likely make me want to vomit.” He stops in front a wooden shack, which appears to be attached to three contiguous tipis. “How about a drink instead?”
In front of the shack, a sign reads Thor’s in small yellow bulbs, not unlike the Ritz’s lighted sign. Beside it, a chalkboard promises mulled wine, prosecco, hot cocoa, and draft ales.
“Not as fun as a roller coaster, but okay,” Katie says.
They duck inside and into a twinkling winter garden illuminated by fairy lights and roaring log fires. The effect is charming, but Katie can’t shake the feeling that this is problematic.
“Did Vikings have tipis?” she whispers. “I mean, is this...okay?”
Simon sighs. “Just try to enjoy yourself,” he says.
They find an unoccupied fire, and Katie orders a prosecco, Simon an ale. As they nestle beneath a thick camel hair blanket, Katie tries to remember the last time she felt so warm. “I’m sorry we couldn’t get your mom what she wanted,” she says, swirling the prosecco in her glass. “Whatever that might be.”
“Not even she knows.”
“You should feel good about what you did,” Katie says. “If Britt or I took a week out of our lives, if we pestered some bookshop employee endlessly and palled around with hapless foreigners, all for our mom’s benefit, she’d never shut up about it.”
Simon smirks. “She probably won’t shut up about it, regardless,” he says. “On any given day, Emma Mutrie might be grateful, or annoyed, or defensive. Scalding hot or ice-cold. Resenting me or making me the center of her world. It is a lot to navigate.”
“Parents are hard,” Katie says. “I don’t know your mom, obviously, but my heart goes out to her. She probably never had a decent parental role model and she was so young when her mother died. That shit can really mess you up. Kids tend to blame themselves, or believe they could’ve prevented it.”
“Really?” Simon looks at her. “You think so?”
“One hundred percent. For example, maybe my dad wouldn’t have been driving home at that time if I hadn’t called him at work.”
“Did that really happen?” Simon asks, and Katie nods.
“I give Judy a lot of shit for ignoring me after he died,” she says, “but she did get me into therapy immediately. Can you imagine how much more messed up I’d be? And I still had her around, and Britt.”
Katie glances over at Simon, who is staring unblinking into the fire. “Simon?” she says.
“Lea Toporek died by suicide.”
“My God.” On instinct, Katie grabs Simon’s hand, nearly spilling her drink on his crotch in the process.
“My mum rarely talks about it,” Simon says. “But it was properly devastating, and she’s always been fearful about what that meant for the rest of us. That’s why she never wanted children. Terminated several pregnancies before I came along.”
Katie gasps, and puts a hand over her mouth, as if trying to physically prevent herself from saying the wrong thing.
“If you’re wondering how I know,” Simon says, and turns to meet her gaze, “my mum did not hesitate to share the details. Bit of a drinker, that one.” He shakes his head. “When she was pregnant with me, she ascribed her symptoms to menopause. By the time she figured it out, it was too late.”
“That is...horrific.”
“It wasn’t great,” Simon agrees, and shrugs in the bashful way of an eight-year-old pretending to be tough. “But, in the end, I’ve got to give her a pass. As you said, the woman had a difficult life and was raised in precarious circumstances. She had no standard for what a parent should be. Took me about forty years to come to this place, but here we are.”
“It’s never too late.” Katie smiles sadly. “I think most parents are doing the best they can, with whatever tools they’ve been given. We may want them to be some other way, but it’s like asking a dog to be a cat, in which case, no, thanks.”
Simon chuckles lightly and Katie scoots closer, wrapping both arms around his left arm. She places her chin on his shoulder, and he nuzzles the top of her head. “But I really need to know if you’re related to Prod.”
Simon laughs.
As Katie watches the flames sway and jump, she thinks about the Colonel, and Nancy, and the fact that she stayed married to Prod for twenty-five years. In some ways, it’s confounding but, in others, it makes sense. Like everyone else in the world, Nancy Mitford only wanted to be loved. And maybe love is why she put the manuscript away—love for Prod, or the Colonel. Love for her family, or even herself.
“We really aren’t so different, you and me,” Simon says. “We both came to London for a story, and neither found what we were looking for.”
Katie sighs and pulls herself more tightly against him. “I don’t know,” she says. “This trip isn’t over, and I’m not ready to give up. Despite everything, this just doesn’t feel like the end.”
August 1944
Blomfield Road
“Here is the news.”
Nancy sat perched beside the wireless in the sitting room, accompanied by Jim and her brother, Tom. Peter was half listening as he skimmed the newspaper.
“Paris has been liberated.”
Two months before, the day after the Colonel appeared at Blomfield Road, Allied troops landed at Normandy. Though the Nazis were hobbled, they retaliated by launching their diabolical V-1s from German-occupied parts of France. Because they came from distant shores, instead of the skies, no warning sirens were possible. The rockets simply fell, leaving no craters, and causing twice the impact of bombs. Nobody minds the bombs any more (I never did), Nancy wrote to Muv in early July, but they are doing a fearful amount of damage to houses.
But now, a new development, the biggest one to date: the Germans were at last retreating from Paris and the city was free. At that moment, one million Parisians were gathered from the Arc de Triomphe to Notre-Dame to cheer on the Allied troops.
“It’s one of the most marvelous sights I’ve ever seen,” said the reporter. “All across Paris, people are coming out of their homes and shops. Flags are being hoisted on the buildings, and American tanks and fire engines clog the streets.”
Because the last Nazi in Paris chose to capitulate instead of alert the Luftwaffe as instructed, the city was saved, thereby making a German officer an unlikely hero, sparing Paris the destruction London had seen. De Gaulle and the Colonel a
rrived at Gare Montparnasse shortly after the man’s surrender and proceeded to the Hôtel de Ville, where crowds gathered to witness de Gaulle give his emotional, tear-filled speech.
“Paris! Paris outraged, Paris broken, Paris martyred, but Paris liberated!”
In the coming days, Nancy would watch newsreels, her eyes fixed on the Colonel in his dark suit and white pocket square, beaming as he marched a few steps behind de Gaulle. From the Champs-Élysées, de Gaulle and the Colonel walked a mile to the Place de la Concorde, then took a car to Notre-Dame. De Gaulle was fired upon twice—once while getting into the vehicle, a second time while entering the church—but remained confident and steadfast, wholly undeterred.
“Only a maniac could accomplish what he did,” Tom said as they listened to the recounting of de Gaulle’s march. “A man who identifies with Joan of Arc.”
“You should hear what the Colonel says about him,” Nancy said.
“I’d really rather not,” said Tom, and Nancy gave him a swift kick to the shin.
Though her brother was acting like a dreadful Counter-Hon, Nancy was glad to have him around. One of the best days of the war was the afternoon Nancy stumbled upon a tall, dishy man smoking a cigarette in the shadow of the Ritz’s arcade. It was Tom Mitford, back from the Mediterranean after two and a half years.
“I’ll never get tired of hearing the reports,” Nancy said, eyes welling. “It’s so triumphant, so miraculous!”
“Don’t get too stirred up,” Tom said. “This war is far from done.”
“Your brother has a point,” Peter said from behind his paper.
“Are you both such monsters you can’t take a second to celebrate?”
“If you’re curious,” Peter said, peering over his paper at Tom, “the reason Nance is in such a splendid mood is because she thinks she’s moving to Paris now. When I returned from Africa, my wife greeted me with open arms. I went to Normandy, and now she can’t stop prattling on about France. It’s nearly as ridiculous as all her talk about an autobiography. As if any of us would let her air the family laundry!”
“You just don’t like anyone else talking about refugees,” Nancy muttered.
“Perhaps you can drill some sense into your sister,” Prod said to Tom. “Nancy minds your advice far more than she does mine.”
“I make it a rule never to mind either one of you,” Nancy said. “And I have all the sense I need, though my choice of company suggests otherwise. The reason I’m happy is because Paris has been liberated.”
“It’s still not over...” Tom said.
“Yes, I know,” Nancy said. “The Huns sent over one hundred doodlebugs last night as a reminder, and Hittie is sure to hang on until the bitter end. But Paris is free, and the end will come, eventually. It’s a giant step forward. Regarding the biography, I suppose we’ll just have to see.”
Although she’d briefly set it aside, Nancy resumed her writing after the Normandy invasion. She’d completed the book a month ago, and had been hiver-havering ever since. Should she publish it now, or once she left the country? As much as Prod loathed the idea of a memoir, he’d be doubly incensed once he read the thing. There was also the matter of what Prod and Lea meant to each other, and whether the name Greenie must be replaced. So much time spent contemplating a dead man she’d never met.
“You’re right about Hitler,” Tom said, and Nancy glanced up. “And his troops fighting on. The Germans are strong, brave people.”
“Good Lord, Mitford.” Peter dropped the paper into his lap. “You must stop sympathizing with the Nazis. Putting aside the myriad atrocities they’ve committed, you’re now backing the losing team.”
Nancy smiled at her husband. Sometimes she did love the man, or admire him, if nothing else.
Tom lit a cigarette. “I’m not backing the Germans,” he said. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve been fighting for our side.”
“Only because they let you go to the Pacific Theater,” Nancy reminded him.
Tom shrugged. “Someone has to do it,” he said. “I don’t like the Japanese and I’d rather kill them than the Germans, who I do like.”
“You still like them?” Nancy said. “After all this?”
“Listen, you two,” Tom said, pointing his cigarette first at Nancy, and then at Prod. “Deny it all you want, but all the best Germans are Nazis. If I were German, I’d be one myself. You just gotta get past the anti-Semitic nonsense.”
“Do you?” Nancy said, glaring. “Tuddemy, don’t let your Nazi show. I’m not in the mood to despise any more of my family members.”
“I’m an imperialist,” Tom said, and took a drag of his cigarette. “Simple as that. What’s life without power, without the ability to strike fear in other countries? Not worth living, that’s what.”
“Darling, you really do have the most charming siblings,” Peter said, and stood. He folded his newspaper and tossed it onto the chair. “I’m off to the Savile.”
“I thought the Savile was ‘no women allowed’?” Tom said with a snicker.
Peter rolled his eyes and turned toward Nancy. “I’ll see you later this evening. Don’t worry about dinner.”
“You’re going now?” Nancy said, and gestured to the wireless. “In the middle of the excitement?”
“Eh.” He shrugged. “I’ve got the gist. Brave Paris. Free Paris. All that. I’ve agreed to meet an old friend from the regiment. Haven’t seen him in a year.”
“Does this poor fella know he’s meeting you?” Tom asked. “If not, somebody should warn him.” Again, Tom tittered at his own gag and then mashed his cigarette into the table. It was the same old Tom—dashing but sloppy and absent of manners.
“As it happens, I’m quite beloved among the Welsh Guards,” Prod said. “You’re welcome to join me, Tom, and see for yourself. Although, ole Greenie absolutely hates Fascists, so be forewarned.”
Nancy froze, a teacup held to her lips.
“As General Leclerc’s forces pushed their way into the city to complete the liberation of the capital,” the BBC presenter droned on, “far-reaching agreements were signed between Great Britain, the United States, and the French Provisional Government.”
Nancy set down her cup. “Greenie?” she said.
“De Gaulle was joined by Colonel Gaston Palewski, formerly the general’s directeur, newly appointed as chef de cabinet.”
“Look who got a promotion!” Tom sang. “Your Colonel. What say you, Prod?”
“I thought Greenie was dead,” Nancy said, heart beating out of her chest.
Prod’s face scrunched in befuddlement. “When have we ever spoken of Greenie?” he said, and slipped one arm and then the other into his coat. “He’s not dead at all. Are you confusing him with someone else?”
“That’s what you told me,” Nancy said. “After he got that girl pregnant. Lea Toporek? You know who I’m talking about, Peter. The pretty refugee?”
“Gosh, Nancy, I’ve worked with thousands of refugees in my life,” he said. “Tens of thousands, perhaps. You can’t possibly expect me to remember them all.”
“You brought her to Rutland Gate,” Nancy said. “She was engaged to Greenie. That’s what you told me.”
Prod tilted his head, then smiled when the realization struck. “Oh, right,” he said. “Greenie’s cockney. I forgot. Why are you still thinking about them?”
“They are both in my book!”
Prod cackled. “Guess you’ll have to start thinking of it as fiction,” he said as Nancy’s mouth hung open. So much for good tidings; she now wanted to slap the man.
“I don’t know what’s happening,” Tom said. “But it seems we’re about to venture into some interesting territory. With Peter Rodd involved, no less. A historic day on multiple accounts.”
Nancy couldn’t summon the mettle to put her little brother back in his place. She felt
too disoriented, as though she’d been struck.
“Don’t be upset, darling.” Prod planted a kiss on Nancy’s head. “It’s all a big misunderstanding. Sorry to have shuffled the truth, but Greenie was in a fix. Faking his death seemed the best solution.”
“You killed off someone for convenience’s sake?” Tom said. “Why? What was in it for you?”
“What else was the bloke going to do?” Prod said. “Marry the girl? We all know it’s unlikely he’s the father.”
“Nance, I finally see it,” Tom said. “You’ve been telling me for years but, you’re right, your husband is a completely different person when it comes to the displaced.”
“You are a very despicable character,” Peter said to Tom as a bolt of energy ran through Nancy’s body.
She jumped to her feet. “Out!” Nancy said. “Everybody out! I have things to do, and I need some time to think. Not to mention, you’re ruining a perfectly good victory march. Both of you, out this minute!”
“I was going,” Peter said as Nancy ushered them down the hall.
“Why are you mad at me?” Tom said. “Anyhow, it’s just as well. There should be hordes of pretty girls around, happy to celebrate liberated Paris with a major from the King’s Royal Rifle Corps.”
“Hurry along,” Nancy said, shoving them both outside. “Have a nice evening.”
She slammed the door and rushed upstairs to her desk. Without sitting down, Nancy pulled a piece of writing paper from the drawer and dashed out a note.
12 Blomfield Road, W9
20 August 1944
Dear Lea,
Lord knows if I’ll summon the nerve to send this letter, or if it’s better to discuss this face-to-face. I need to know, was there ever a “Greenie,” or was this Greenie really Prod?
Nancy
Not bothering with a once-over, Nancy crammed the letter into an envelope and sealed it shut. Hands wobbling like a drying-out drunk, she tucked it into her handbag alongside several other pieces of outgoing post.
Sunday Morning
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