Maggie Bright (21 page)

Clare’s composure faltered. She looked at William. “Is it news, then?”

“Is it news?” Blanche squeaked. She pounded her husband on the arm. “It’s all over the newsstands! How your houseboat was hijacked by a group of Fifth Columnist spies planning to bomb Parliament and
 
—” She gasped, a long and severe intake of breath. “Oh
 
—my
 
—goodness.” She stared at William, eyes ready to tip out of their sockets. Her cheek moved in a tiny rhythmic spasm just below her left eye. It seemed to affect her mouth, which trembled just a bit. “You’re not William Percy.”

He gave a small and instantly disappearing smile.

Strangled and hoarse, pounding her husband’s arm with every word, she said, “He’s
 
—William
 
—Percy! Hero
 
—of
 
—the Thames/Parliament caper!”

For the first time, her husband showed interest. He looked William up and down. “Oh. Well done, guv.”

“Can I have your autograph?” said an eager listening teenager.

“This is the man who foiled the bombing of Parliament!” Blanche glanced about wildly for those who had ears to hear.

Just then, a young uniformed man came to escort them to the door. Clare gave Blanche an uncertain good-bye wave. She did not wave back. She just watched them leave, mouth open, eyes round.

“Hero of the Thames/Parliament caper.” Clare advanced carefully with the crutches. It was getting a little harder to maneuver the things.

“I told you, I have a friend at the
Daily Mirror
. I helped him write it. It’s my penance.”

“Seems Mrs. Shrew didn’t tell me
all
the news.” Clare glanced at him as they followed slowly behind the young man, who paused occasionally
to make sure they came. She set her teeth. Every landing of the crutches spiked pain in her left side. “What do you mean, penance?”

“There’s nothing more humiliating than being a hero, is there?”

“Yes, but penance for what?”

“Well, with the gunshots, the incident had caused quite an uproar. We had to scramble to make up a story. I’d never let Klein have the satisfaction of public truth, that he got away, and that Scotland Yard had failed. That
I
had failed.” He smiled coldly.

Clare paused, studying him.

“This way, miss,” said the solicitous young man over his shoulder.

“Someday the truth will be known about him,” William said grimly, mostly to himself.

“So you’re not done with him.”

He looked at her in a flash of surprised disgust. But she was getting to know him, and knew the disgust was not in the least bit for her. “When was I ever done with him? I’ll be done when I can write his obituary.”

Perhaps it was quite wrong, the uprush of primitive pride.

Was this a proper thing to feel
 
—pride at the thought of this man killing another? And just as she was about to walk into a cathedral?

She saw the laughing face of Erich von Wechsler, and a little girl in a pink dress, first plucking petals from a daisy, and then safe in the arms of a brother who would never let anything hurt her. She thought of the words of Mr. Butterfield, William Percy’s “magnificent obsession.”

Maybe it wasn’t proper. But primitive pride was the truth of what she felt, and if she’d not had crutches to manage, she’d slip her hand into his.

They sat at the end of a row. The service began, and Clare wanted to hold every second close, she wanted to breathe it in and make it part of her cellular makeup forever, but the hats distracted her; all
she wanted since the moment she came into this magnificent place was to observe pure portent, but instead, encountered a botheration of
hats
.

Hats, everywhere hats, doffed, slipped off, held at sides, tucked under an arm, laid in a lap.

“It’s so catastrophic you can’t even think of it,” Clare whispered to William over the roaring of the hats. “Look at all of this beauty. The lovely people. This cathedral. It could be taken from us.”

Confound the hats.

What were they trying to say?

“Is that the way people get through crises like these?” she said. It was very warm in here. She unbuttoned her jacket. “They do their best not to think of it? They just keep moving forward, like the queen? I’ve never had a
real
crisis.”

He turned a look upon her. He whispered, “You lost your parents when you were eleven.”

“That wasn’t a crisis. It was the end of the world.” She gazed at the soaring ceiling. “I keep thinking of my father. And curiously, Arthur Vance. I would like to have known him. We must go for tea and you must tell me everything you know about him, to the nth degree, short of me hiring a hypnotist for the last scrap. Oh dear.” She glanced about the massive cathedral. “That was a joke. Hypnotist.”

An elderly lady in front of them turned and glared. She put a finger to her lips. Even William gave a little sideways remonstrative glance of his own.

“Oh. Right. Sorry,” Clare whispered, and put a finger to her own lips to show she got the message. She leaned to William and whispered as quietly as she could, “You really can’t think of it. That they are coming. The Nazis. They will profane this place, like Klein profaned Maggie. I don’t mean
this
place, exactly. I mean England. I think that’s the secret of sticking to your duty
 
—you
can’t
think of it. You’ve got to look straight ahead.” She gave a firm Mrs. Shrew nod.
“You’ve got to be unemotional. Plenty of time for emotion later. What is called for now is singularity of purpose. This is . . . what did you say, earlier? The end of everything lovely and good. Someone said it.”

Several people turned to look at her.

“Clare . . . ?” His look was not one of remonstration but of something else.

“Oh. Right. Sorry.”

He took her hand and she smiled, and then realized he was taking her pulse.

Hats covered in gold braid and shiny golden emblems. Fedoras. Bowlers.

Policemen helmets.

And then things grew still.

Why do you take off your hat before church, Daddy?

Far off, in a dream, someone pontifical led the gathered supplicants in prayer for the safety of the British Expeditionary Force, for the empire, for guidance, for wisdom . . .

Because it’s a sign of respect for God, my little Clare Bear.

The vicar’s voice faded, and she looked around in a spell of silence, at monuments, at plaques, at stained glass . . . at pomp, at circumstance, at people, and at men with hats in their laps.

She rarely saw Captain John without his hat on.

For my son, I’ll go. Hat in hand.

“Your pulse is racing.”

She clutched William’s arm. “There
is
a God. William.” She stared at him. “We have an ally.”

He grabbed his hat, secured it on his head. “I’m taking you back.”

“But this is historic.”

“You are historically white, my dear.”

He picked her up, and headed for the entrance. A few ushers hurried to open the door.

“But I’ve had an epiphany.” Pain to which she paid not much attention made itself known, pressing against her ribs, or her ribs pressed against it. “Gracious, what an appropriate place for an epiphany, where they’ve buried Dickens.”

“Call a cab,” William ordered an attendant outside. “Immediately.”

“It’s because of the hats, the epiphany.”

A cab pulled up. The cab driver leapt out and opened the door. William settled her carefully in, the cab driver assisting. Some thoughtful soul came running up with Clare’s crutches. “How very kind!” Clare exclaimed. William snatched them, tossed them in the cab, and got in. He told the cab driver the name of the hospital.

“Did you say thank you? You didn’t say thank you.” She watched the man watch them as they pulled away. She looked at the soaring abbey. “William, this is important: We have an ally.” Then she said, rather stupidly, “I’m sorry I’m white.”

“You’re not white anymore.”

He felt her forehead, and his face went cold. “You’re burning up. You have a fever.”

“Yes. Since yesterday. It was just a
little
fever, but I was afraid they wouldn’t let me go, so every time they came to take my temperature I sucked on ice. There. It
should
be confessed. I’ve been to church.” Then she insisted, “But the
hats
aren’t because of a fever. My epiphany isn’t. You believe me, don’t you?”

William told the cab driver he changed his mind, just find the closest hospital.

“You take off your hat for many reasons. To say hello, to say good-bye. To show respect for authority. Do you know what this means? If these men and women, just as sane as you or I, are taking their hats off before they go into church then there really may be someone they are taking their hats off . . .
to
.”

She looked out the window.

“My parents went to church. Not to keep up a good show, but because they believed. My mother sang, and my father took off his hat.”

She felt lighter than she’d felt in ten thousand years.

“It’s a pity to have an epiphany and a fever at the same time. No one will believe you. Think of Joan of Arc. I feel such empathizing kinship. She
was
sick, wasn’t she? Maybe she wasn’t. I can’t remember. My point is, we have an ally. We thought we stood alone, but we don’t. I want you to believe it, but I’m not finished believing it myself. I must
finish
believing it before I make you. Otherwise I’m a hypocrite.” Then, at a spasm of pain on the left side, “Oh, drat. I
am
fond of morphine. It’s all I want right now. You won’t let me become an addict, will you?”

William leaned forward and said to the cab driver, “Can we step it up, please? I did say
hospital
, didn’t I?” He dropped back. “Of all the cab drivers in London, I get the most incompetent
 
—”

She laid a hand on his arm. “Don’t be unkind.”

He covered her hand with his.

“Oh, William. We are not alone.”

She rested against him, and all faded to lovely hues of rose, and orange, and little-girl pink.

Clare’s raised knees moved from side to side under the sheets. Her arms were one moment behind her head, the next at her side. The glimpse lasted only a moment. The nurse closed the door.

Mrs. Iris Shrewsbury, that competent woman William Percy was beginning to like, sat next to him in the hallway. Murray Vance sat in a slouch a few chairs down, bouncing a handball off the wall when the nurses weren’t watching. They waited for the doctors, who were in with Clare now.

“All I can think of is Gibbs Dentrifice,” said a dazed Mrs. Shrewsbury. “It was the last thing I read in the newspaper before we
got your message. ‘Your teeth are ivory castles. Protect them with Gibbs Dentrifice.’ It’s become a horrible singsong. She’s a very
 
—” and the capable woman caught herself, lifted her chin, and finished coldly, “She’s a first-rate girl.”

“When does the padre get out?” said Murray. He bounced the handball.

“Butterfield is sorting the paperwork,” William said. “He’ll take him to the boatyard once papers are signed. Put that away, this isn’t a schoolyard. You’re only here because of me, you know.”

“Yeah. The hero of the Thames.” Murray caught the ball, was about to toss it again, then pocketed it. He folded his arms. His knee bounced up and down.

“Would you like to draw?” asked Mrs. Shrewsbury. She pulled a bulky satchel to her lap and opened it. “We are in the process of getting our muse back, Mr. Percy. Even in crisis, I came prepared. I’ve got a drawing pad, number 4 Kimberly pencils, a pencil knife, chewing gum . . . Would anyone like some digestives?” She stared into the satchel. “Why did I bring the teakettle?”

“I can’t draw.” Murray leaned forward on his knees. The knee resumed bouncing. “
A
, it’s like my ma’s in there, you know? I don’t know her much, but she’s family. Half family, but family, you know?
B
, Rocket Kid’s gone AWOL.”

“You’d better lay out some crumbs for him,” said Mrs. Shrewsbury. “I do notice that you’ve only drawn Salamander since you’ve been here.”