Mr. Churchill's Secretary (6 page)

“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 floating 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
.

T
HE
M
AY 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.

“Are you coming in, miss?”

She looked up to see a gentleman in a well-tailored gray suit. He had thick, white hair, rosy cheeks, and dimples that made him look younger than his years. “Are you coming in?” he repeated.

“Oh, no.”

“It’s not going to let up, I’m afraid,” he said, shaking his head.

She sighed.

“You know,” the man said, “I’m going to be speaking here in a few minutes. Why don’t you come in and have a listen? It’ll get you out of the rain, at least.”

The young woman looked from his face up to the sign above his left shoulder.
The Saturday Club
, it read.
Today’s Discussion: Whose War Is It, Anyway?

“ ‘Whose war’?” she asked. “The Saturday Club—what is it?”

“We’re, well, we like to think of ourselves as … pacifists. After all, no one wants this war. Do you?”

“No, of course not.”

Their eyes met, and she gave him a smile in return.

He opened the door for her. With another look up at the leaden sky, she turned and allowed herself to be escorted inside.

“Neil, how many?” the white-haired man asked.

“Almost thirty, Mr. Pierce,” replied a younger man at a battered wooden table, hastily scribbling the last names. A few angry red spots of acne dotted his chin.

“Let’s get on with it, then,” he said, giving the woman another smile. “Please stay?”

“Yes,” she said, unpinning her hat and smoothing her hair. “I think I will.”

The young woman took a seat at the back of the room and looked around. The yellow paint on the walls was chipped and scuffed. Worn black linoleum covered the floor, and the ceiling was water-stained. The audience was made up of mostly middle-aged, middle-class women and a few older men. The humid air was rank with strong Oriental perfume and liniment. The woman looked up as the man walked through the room and up to the podium.

“Thank you all for coming today,” he said, turning and smiling reassuringly. “My name is Malcolm Pierce, and I’m the president of the Saturday Club. I’m happy to see familiar faces in the audience—and a few new ones as well.” He winked at the young woman, who smiled in return.

He leaned back on his heels. “We at the Saturday Club are united in our belief that this is a waste of war, that Britain has no call to fight against Germany. Hitler is not our enemy. Who is our real enemy? The Jew. The Jew is our enemy—our common enemy, Germany’s and ours. The Jew is our absolute enemy who will shrink at nothing. He knows but a single goal: our complete destruction. And most important to us here in England, let me ask you,
Cui bono?
Meaning, who benefits from this war?”

A few in the audience started nodding. “Hear, hear,” said an older man with a cane in the front row.

Pierce looked around at his rapt audience. “The Jews, of course! Some here may say, ‘But there are decent Jews, after all!’ However,” Pierce raised a cautionary finger, “the very phrase ‘after all’ proves that these exceptions—mythical exceptions, based on rumor and gossip—are meaningless in our battle against the Jews. Even Martin Luther saw this ‘decency’ for what it was: ‘Know, dear Christian, and have no doubts about it, that next to the Devil you have no more bitter, poisonous, and determined enemy than a genuine Jew.… If they do something good for you, it is not because they love you, but because they need room to live with us, so they have to do something. But their heart remains as I have said!’ ”

Pierce looked at the upturned faces gazing at him in rapt attention. “I think of myself as a patriot, one who speaks out against this war in hopes of saving the lives of Englishmen and women. Germany is not our enemy. Hitler is not our enemy. Who is? The Jews! The Jews are our real enemy—and how they must be rubbing their hands together and laughing as they think about how much British blood will be shed.

“And this is the truth—the real truth—that the current British government, especially the warmonger Churchill, is determined to keep from you. But now you know the truth. And you—we—will not be fooled into
going along with Churchill’s propaganda. We will do everything possible to keep Britain out of this war—this unnecessary, unnatural war.” He smiled, dimples flashing. “Thank you for your time.”

When the speech was over and the applause subsided, weak tea and stale biscuits were offered in the back room.

Pierce made his way around the room, shaking hands and offering words of welcome. When he reached the young woman, who’d helped herself to a cup of the steaming tea, he stopped. “And what did you think? Are you glad you came in out of the rain?”

“Interesting,” she replied slowly, taking a sip of tea and looking up at him. “Most interesting.”

“Come back and see us next week?”

She smiled coyly. “I might.”

“And may I ask your name?”

The young woman’s smile grew, and she showed tiny, pearly white teeth. “Claire.”

It was inconceivable to Maggie that they were in the garden on such a beautiful Saturday afternoon not to prune the roses but to build a bomb shelter. As in a shelter from bombs. Bombs raining down from the sky. Exploding. That sort of thing.

And yet here they were.

Maggie, Paige, Chuck, and the twins—Annabelle and Clarabelle—had each chipped in a few pounds for an Anderson, a shell-like hut made out of corrugated steel. Two curved pieces of steel acted as the roof and two were the walls, while two other flat pieces of steel, one with a door, made up the other walls. When finished, the shelter was supposed to be six feet high, four feet wide, and six and a half feet long, and in a pit four feet deep with at least fifteen inches of earth heaped on top of the whole contraption.