Maggie Bright (35 page)

“Which hospital, mate?” the cab driver said.

“Can’t remember,” William said hoarsely. “Are we in London? Are we here?”

“We are.”

“Good.”

The
Maggie Bright
was gone. How could he tell her?

“I need a name, mate.”

“Hospital,” William said, irritated. He closed his eyes and stood in a clearing with ever-diminishing perimeters as unconsciousness came crouching in assertive gray billows. But not yet, not yet.

“Look at you. Can’t imagine what it’s like over there. Poor sod.”

The pity angered, just what he needed, and his eyes flew open. “I have to get to her before it . . . I can’t think of the word. Caves.”

“But I need a name, mate.”

One William battled the gray with a sword, while the William in the clearing said, “Whitehall.”

“Whitechapel?”

“Whitechapel! That’s it. London Hospital.”

“We’re in business, mate.” He wheeled the car into traffic.

“Don’t let me fall asleep.” Curse the trembling! He stared at his hand. He couldn’t stop it.

“When’s the last you slept?”

“Don’t know.”

What soon would be Clare’s loss made heavy his heart and beckoned the gray all the more. His tricks to stay awake were failing. He smacked his face, he put his head out the window, sang a song as loudly as he could. He stomped his feet up and down, or thought he did, but found they did not move.

“Were you in one of the little boats we’re hearing about?”

“Her name was
Maggie Bright
. She went down.” Such a deep, hoarse, tired voice. William would pity it, were it not his own.

“Bad luck.”

“Yes.” He looked through the window. “Bad luck.”

Trees passed by, people, sandbags, buildings.

“What was it like over there? What did you do?”

A white glow came to William’s heart, phosphorescence in a dark sea. “Well, there’s a bright spot. We did something wonderful. I just can’t remember what it was.”

The cab driver pulled up to the London Hospital, and helped William out of the car. He held on to William and walked him into the building. When the receptionist gave them directions for Clare’s room and rose to watch them go, the cab driver helped William find the room. He was about to leave when William cried, “Wait!” and, stupefied, patted his trouser pockets.

“No charge, mate.” The cab driver smiled, winked, and walked away whistling.

William opened the door and staggered into the room. Clare was in bed, bright as a button, and on seeing him, sat up.

He held on to the doorknob. His hand twitched convulsively, moving it back and forth.

“You’re all right, then,” he said hoarsely.

“I am.”

“No infection.”

“None.”

He let go the doorknob, made it to the bed, lay down beside her. He pulled her close, as great gray billows crashed upon the clearing, and passed from consciousness.

He reeked of petrol and oil and fish and sweat. He was blackened and blood-smeared, scruff-faced and swollen-eyed, his hair stiff and spiky with sweat and salt. His detective inspector clothing, the office shirt and trousers, would have to be thrown away.

Clare looked about the room, taking note of little things
 
—the leftover cake, the sunlight at the window. His right arm lay heavy across her. She took his hand and inspected his palm. It was blistered and grime-creased. There was the cut from the teacup at the restaurant, dirty and inflamed.

She kissed the cut and snuggled in beside him. She loved the weight of that arm.

A DAY HAD PASSED
and William Percy had not yet woken, and his appearance had not changed. He still slept in Clare’s bed, with Clare beside him. It was a snug fit, but they managed.

Clare was pleased to see that any hint of impropriety that this might cause was completely ignored by all, hospital staff and visitors alike. The Hero of the Thames was now one of the many heroes of Dunkirk, and far more visitors came to peek in on William than they did Clare. William’s mother and father came with little Cecy, who brought another furry peppermint for Clare and flowers for her brother. Frederick Butterfield made an appearance, and the desk sergeant from the Westminster precinct.

Father Fitzpatrick came for a brief farewell visit and did something lovely before he left: he
blessed
them. She’d never been part of a blessing before. He stood at the door and raised his hand to them, and said something about the Lord blessing them, keeping them,
causing his face to shine upon them. It was lovely, and glowing, and then he left.

Mrs. Shrewsbury arrived with a bag of things she’d collected for Clare from the Maggie Has Gone to War pile.

“How’s Murray?” Clare asked as she came in.

“Still sleeping,” Mrs. Shrew whispered. “He’s on a cot in the Anderson hut, snoring to shame a jackhammer. How’s our sailor?” She drew up a chair. “Gracious. I smelled him the moment I walked into the room. Very different from the soldiers.”

“We’ve tried to freshen him but gave up,” Clare whispered. “I can’t bear to wake him.”

“He’ll have a good long wee when he does. How do
you
feel, my dear?”

“A kitten could beat me up. But I am happy.” She reached for Mrs. Shrew’s hand. “Dear me, I am so happy.”

“Even with the loss of
Maggie Bright
. . .” Mrs. Shrew reached for a tissue from the bedside table and pressed it to her eyes. “I feel so terribly bad. I know how much she meant to you.”

“She went down for a child whose name I’ll never know. On the contrary, Mrs. Shrew, I do not feel sad. Perhaps that will come later when I stand beside Maggie’s empty berth. For now, all I feel is joy.”

She took a tissue from Mrs. Shrew, and they wept, and blotted, and composed.

“I have William, who will never be more handsome to me than he is right now
 
—I clipped a piece of his shirt to remember this beautiful filth forever. I have you. I have Murray, who happens to be my brother. I have Captain John, who has his son back. I have the knowledge that my birth father was a good man, and I have a new friend in an American Burglar Vicar. It’s as if
Maggie Bright
brought our hands together to touch, and now she’s slipped off, but look what she’s left behind. I’m the richest woman in the world. Oh! And I’ve been blessed!”

“You’ve been what?” said the Shrew, startled, mid-blow on the tissue.

“The Burglar Vicar did it before he left. You would have loved it. He is somewhere between Catholic and Protestant, so it was nice middle ground, and he raised his hand right there at the door and said the loveliest words I’ve ever heard. Something about blessing, and keeping, and shining.”

William suddenly sat up. He looked about, confused. He seemed ready to say something, then fell back to the bed, instantly asleep. His slightly altered position revealed a cut on the back of his neck. Clare touched it.

“The wee will have to wait,” Mrs. Shrew said regretfully.

“Oh, goodness . . .”

The Shrew sighed. “My dear . . . I can’t help but think of the jar with your coins. I found it in the Maggie Has Gone to War pile. I confess I wept.” She sniffed. “Your dream to circumnavigate the world sank in the English Channel.”

“But I’ve already done so! I’ve come full circle. I’m back to real people once more, and I’ve been
blessed
.” She lightly brushed crusted salt from William’s eyebrow, and smiled when the eyebrow twitched. “I have a new dream, you see. This man and I shall round Cape Horn together one day. Lashed to the foremast for fun.”

ON JUNE 2, JUST BEFORE MIDNIGHT,
Captain Bill Tennant of His Majesty’s Royal Navy signaled Dover Command: “BEF evacuated.” Then he boarded the Motorized Torpedo Boat-102 and headed home, under enemy fire, for England.

In the nine-day siege of Dunkirk, Churchill and the Admiralty hoped to save 30,000 to 45,000 men through the efforts of the Royal Navy, the Royal Air Force, and any available civilians.

They saved 340,000.

At 10:20 a.m. on June 4, a swastika was hoisted on the eastern mole of the harbor.

Dunkirk had fallen.

War would change him, and so it did.

His boy was older, wiser, and heartbroken. He never said a word to tell it, but John Elliott knew. He’d been there, twentysome years ago.

They sat on the old whitewashed bench in front of the bait shop, watching the boats go by on the Thames.

“Dad. I met a man.”

He got no further than that, and John Elliott put an arm around his son.

“It’s all right, lad. We’ll get through it together. So we will.” He took out a cloth and blew mightily.

Jamie chuckled at that old, familiar sound, and wiped his face.

He looked about the boatyard. He looked where Minor’s old tug used to be, and he looked at the
Lizzie Rose
. She came into Ramsgate with never a scratch. Dad had taken off four loads of men.

This dear, familiar place. He’d not see it again for a long while. He had to meet in twenty-four hours for reassignment. They were sending them off to camps all over England to prepare for invasion. He wondered where Griggs and Curtis would go. Baylor was in the hospital at Dover. They’d send him when he was ready.

“I’ll miss old Minor,” said Jamie.

“I will, too. Dodgy old sod.”

“What happened?”

“Took off three loads before a torpedo sank a paddle steamer, and Minor was too close.” He blew his nose again. “You never know about a man.”

“No. You don’t. Dad, when I come back I want to open a pub. I want to call it Milton’s Men.”

Jamie told Captain John all he saw in his mind, and when he was done, the worried old man was at peace. His boy was going to be fine.

It was a lovely day, and Mrs. Shrewsbury wanted to be alone, and she wanted to be alone at Maggie’s empty berth.

She slipped off her shoes and sat on the edge of the dock. She tried to put her toes in the water but they did not reach. She squinted at the sky.

“What did you see from your glorious vantage when we prayed?” she asked Cecil. “When the shatterer went forth, and prevailed not?”

Did you see the prayers kick things out of the way?

Did you see them make the English Channel smooth?

Did you see them hold men to heartbreaking tasks, which is love disguised as duty?

Only love can bring men home looking as they did. Though of course, men would have none of
that
 
—calling it love.

Did you see the prayers seep down and make them strong, hold them together, help them do things they thought they never could?

Cecil had a front-row seat to all the marvelous things.

She took a newspaper article from her sweater pocket and unfolded it. “Listen to this. It’s Churchill, the new prime minister. Yes, the same Churchill. Winston. It’s from his Parliament address, a few days ago.” She scanned the article for the bits Cecil would find most interesting. “Yes, here. This is what I heard on the BBC. Wasn’t Churchill himself, but the fellow did him credit. Listen: ‘Even though large tracts of Europe and many old and famous States have fallen or may fall into the grip of the Gestapo and all the odious apparatus of Nazi rule, we shall not flag or falter. We shall go on to the end.’”

Her throat tightened. She blinked quickly.

“‘We shall fight in France, we shall fight on the seas and the oceans, we shall fight with growing confidence and growing strength in the air, we shall defend our island
 
—’”

Pause.

“‘We shall defend our island whatever the cost may be. We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets; we shall
 
—’”

Pause. Rapid blinking. She rested the paper in her lap.

She thought of her student, Danny Morgan, already back to the fight. She thought of Jamie Elliott, son of that man, off to some
camp in the north. She thought of Clare’s detective inspector, who went down to enlist with the Royal Navy the day after he woke up. Murray Vance had enlisted, too.

She cleared her throat and resumed.

“‘We shall never surrender. And if, which I do not for a moment believe
 
—’ nor I, Cecil
 
—‘this island or a large part of it were subjugated and starving, then our Empire beyond the seas, armed and guarded by the British Fleet, would carry on the struggle, until, in God’s good time, the New World, with all its power and might, steps forth to the rescue and the liberation of the old.’”

She gave a hard glance toward America. “Did you hear that? Wake up, thou that sleepest.”

Wake and pray. Wake and fight.

The paper rested in her lap until she noticed, folded it, and slipped it into her pocket.

“There’s more, Cecil, but I’ll finish with this: Winston called the Dunkirk operation ‘a miracle of deliverance.’ He also warned us, because of so many lunatic gadflies going about like drunk orangutans, that we must
not
regard this rescue as some sort of victory, as wars are
not
won by evacuations. Some think it’s done. They think they can go back to normal. There is no going back. It isn’t done. It’s only begun. Dear me
 
—I do wonder what you see, from your glorious vantage.”

Then she jabbed her finger to the south, and said severely, “You! You shatterer. You shall
not
prevail!” And she slowly smiled a smile, which she knew to the shatterer was a chilling smile indeed. “Not when people pray.”

She rose and took up her shoes, gave a last long look at the end of a lovely day, and strolled barefoot back to the Anderson shelter.

You are sixty-seven, retired, and with a great deal to do, for the war is not yet won.

It has only begun.