Mr. Churchill's Secretary (2 page)

“Fine, thanks,” she said, approaching the car. “Just a bit spooked there for a moment.” In the murky darkness she could now see that the girl was in her early twenties, with a blue Hermès silk scarf tied smartly around her neck.

The girl assessed the skies. “Need a lift? I’m heading to Pimlico—you’re welcome to ride along if you’d like.”

Without hesitation, Diana ran to the passenger’s side and got in. “Oh, thanks
so
much. There was such
a long queue at the bus stop, and then there’s the blackout—”

The driver smiled as Diana settled herself in the leather seat. “Not to mention high heels.”

“Well, you know, a girl’s got to make
some
sacrifices for beauty during this damn war.”

“And don’t we all know it.” They laughed together as the car wound its way through the shadowed streets.

“My name’s Diana, by the way.”

“And mine’s Claire,” the other girl replied. “Pleased to meet you.”

At last, they reached Diana’s flat, a brick terrace house. She looked up at the building—one of her flatmates had a light on—and had forgotten to close the blackout curtain.
There’ll be a fine for that
, Diana thought absently. “By the way,” she asked Claire, “how did you know I lived here?”

Those were her last words.

There was the sound of heavy boots on the pavement, and the car’s door opened with a sudden jerk.

Diana turned and looked up at a tall man wearing a black woolen mask. The only part of his face she could see were his eyes, cold and unblinking. He was muscular but lean and wore leather gloves on his hands. “Get out,” he said.

Diana did as she was told, in a fog of shock. “Turn around,” he barked. “Hands on the roof of the car.”

Diana looked to Claire and saw that her face was set; she was part of what was happening. Heart in her throat, breathing shallow and labored, her armpits damp with fear, she turned and placed her hands on the roof of the car.

Without preamble, she felt the hot shock of the metal blade as it pierced through her flesh and could hear the tearing as it went through cloth and skin and muscle.

There was pain, more pain than she’d ever thought possible, and she fell to the street, her cheek lying against the hard pavement. She gave a few gasps.

And then a cloud of benevolent black velvet closed around her.

“I
WOULD SAY
to the House, as I’ve said to those who have joined this Government, I have nothing to offer but blood, toil, tears and sweat. We have before us an ordeal of the most grievous kind. We have before us many, many long months of struggle and suffering,”
intoned Winston Leonard Spencer Churchill to the House of Commons and the British nation in his first speech as the new Prime Minister.

There must have been complete silence in the House, although there was a burst of static over the airwaves as Maggie leaned forward to listen to the BBC on the wireless. She and Paige sat at the kitchen table and clasped hands, listening to the address. Charlotte, better known as Chuck, entered the kitchen quietly and leaned against the door frame.

“You ask, what is our policy? I can say: It is to wage war, by sea, land and air, with all our might and with all the strength that God can give us; to wage war against a monstrous tyranny, never surpassed in the dark, lamentable catalogue of human crime. That is our policy. You ask, what is our aim?

“I can answer in one word: It is victory, victory at all costs, victory in spite of all terror, victory, however long and hard the road may be; for without victory,
there is no survival. Let that be realised; no survival for the British Empire, no survival for all that the British Empire has stood for, no survival for the urge and impulse of the ages, that mankind will move forward towards its goal.”

Chuck nodded her acknowledgment of both girls. Together they all listened to the speech’s conclusion in tense silence.

“But I take up my task with buoyancy and hope. I feel sure that our cause will not be suffered to fail among men. At this time I feel entitled to claim the aid of all, and I say, ‘Come then, let us go forward together with our united strength.’ ”

The three girls were perfectly still and silent for a moment, as the words’ gravity washed over them.

“Well, at least it’s the truth,” Maggie said, pushing back a stray lock of red hair. “He didn’t try to pretend everything’s all right and fob us off with easy comfort and lies.”

“I just don’t know,” Chuck said to both girls as a tinny version of “God Save the King” played, and she walked over to click off the wireless.

“Look what happened in Poland. Look what’s happening in Belgium and Holland and France,” Paige said. “Maybe Ambassador Kennedy was right. He said Hitler doesn’t want England. And if we’d just—”

Chuck gave a snort. “Oh, right. And then they’ll stop? You really believe that?”

“This is a different kind of war,” Maggie said. “A people’s war. It’s not just soldiers on the front line, it’s civilians.
We
are the new front line.” As she said the words, her chest constricted a bit. It was true. England might still be in the “Bore War,” where nothing dangerous was really happening, but things were about to change. Nazis had invaded most of Europe and were undoubtedly moving toward England. Would troops try to
invade by sea or parachute down from the sky? Either way, the scenario was grim.

“Yeah,” said Chuck. “We’re as likely to be bombed here in our own home as the soldiers over in France.”

“Stop it!” Paige said, covering her ears. “Just stop!”

Chuck frowned and pulled her bottle-green cardigan sweater around her, rather like a general settling his uniform before going once more unto the breach. “Tea,” she stated in her deep, booming voice, deliberately changing the subject. “We all need tea. There’ll be no blood, toil, tears, or sweat until I have some goddamned tea.”

That was Chuck, practical and pragmatic. More handsome than beautiful, with rich chestnut-brown hair, strong features, and thick black eyelashes, Chuck McCaffrey had worked for U.S. Ambassador Joseph Kennedy, along with Paige Kelly, before the war had started.

Maggie Hope had come to London for another reason altogether—to sell her late grandmother’s great leaking, creaking pile of a Victorian house. But when Britain declared war, and Joseph Kennedy began being quoted in the papers spouting pro-Nazi sentiments, both Paige and Chuck both quit their jobs with the Ambassador—and lost their Embassy housing. Maggie, admiring their resolve, invited them to move in, and they gratefully acquiesced.

Paige and Maggie had met years before either had come to London, at Wellesley College, an all-women’s school in Massachusetts. Paige was a rich debutante from Virginia with perfect waves of glistening golden hair and a heart-shaped face, and Maggie a red-haired and pale faculty brat far more interested in fractions than fashions, but they’d become fast friends nonetheless. Finding each other in London had been pure serendipity; becoming housemates made a pleasure of a financial necessity. The flatmates’ rent, along with Maggie’s
work privately tutoring students in math, allowed her to stay in London.

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.”