Mr. Churchill's Secretary: A Novel Page 3

  Snodgrass laughed.

  The two women didn’t.

  Maggie had the feeling Mrs. Tinsley was just as angry as she was.

  “Mr. Snodgrass,” Maggie began, before she could stop herself, “how is Mr. Simpson working out?”

  Snodgrass looked confused. “Mr. Simpson?”

  “Yes, Mr. Conrad Simpson. Who was hired as a private secretary. Instead of me. How’s he doing in his new position?” Maggie knew very well from David that Conrad had been let go—he’d been terrible at his job.

  “He, ah, moved on.”

  “Really?” Maggie said. “So, you just couldn’t count on him to stick around and get the job done, then?”

  “Miss Hope, that’s not—”

  “And so—I’m here, and he’s not.”

  “Miss Hope!” Mrs. Tinsley sounded shocked.

  “I merely wondered what happened with Mr. Simpson,” Maggie said. “Thank you for enlightening me.”

  Snodgrass spluttered, “That’s not—” before collecting himself. “Carry on!” he barked as he waved one hand, turned on his heel, and walked away.

  “Back to work, Miss Hope,” Mrs. Tinsley said sternly.

  Later, that evening, two young men in dark suits passed by the office door.

  Mrs. Tinsley saw Maggie glance up and frowned. “You should know, Miss Hope, that the private secretaries, while young, are men of considerable standing. Under the guidance of Mr. Snodgrass, they act as a buffer between Mr. Churchill and the rest of the world, making sure he has everything he needs—conducting research, writing drafts, producing reports. They will go on to their own illustrious careers.”

  “Yes, I—” I know all too well, Maggie thought.

  “The private secretaries have the very best education, and their work calls for the highest degree of intelligence, care, and sensitivity. You must realize, Miss Hope, that this is a serious business. We are at war, and that doesn’t leave much time for beaux and the like. The private secretaries don’t have time for mooning schoolgirls. We expect all staff to act with the dignity accorded to Number Ten. Is that clear?”

  “Of course, Mrs. Tinsley.” Me? Moon over the private secretaries? Oh, just drop a bomb on me now and get it over with.

  “Well, then,” Mrs. Tinsley said, looking up at the black hands of the clock. “You’ve put in a full day’s work. You may go.”

  At that, a black-and-white cat jumped onto Mrs. Tinsley’s desk. “Ohhh!” she exclaimed, trying to shoo him with her hands. “Dreadful creature!”

  Maggie picked him up and gently deposited him on the floor.

  Mrs. Tinsley sniffed. “That is Nelson, one of the Churchills’ cats. Named after Lord Nelson, of course. You’ll find their animals are allowed to roam about quite … freely.”

  A sprightly young man burst into the room, Anthony Eden hat in hand, trench coat over his arm. David Greene—who’d telephoned Maggie about the job—was short and slight, with sandy hair and bright eyes framed by wire-rimmed glasses. There was an impish look to him, as though he could play the role of Puck at a moment’s notice.

  John Sterling followed, a few paces behind, head down. He was taller than David, with serious eyes and a fiercely angular face. He looked as though he’d cut his thick, curly brown hair himself, without a mirror. Lines between his brows hinted at worries beyond his years.

  “Good evening, ladies,” David said, performing a courtly bow. “And how are you, Mrs. Tinsley?”

  “Why, Mr. Greene, Mr. Sterling,” she said, her hands toying with her creamy pearls, “is there anything you need?”

  John’s face was drawn. “Did you hear about the bombing?”

  “What? No,” Mrs. Tinsley said, startled. “What bombing? Germans? The Luftwaffe?”

  John shook his head. “Euston station. IRA, most likely.”

  Momentarily subdued, David stated, “Five dead, more than fifty wounded.”

  “That’s horrible,” Maggie said, blood draining from her face. Those poor people, just going about their business, she thought. One minute getting on or off a train, the next … Isn’t it bad enough anticipating air attacks from the Nazis, without the IRA mixing it up as well? Not to mention that young girl who was stabbed.

  “Control yourself, Miss Hope,” Mrs. Tinsley snapped. “You’ll most likely witness much worse by the time this war is over. By the way, these young men are Mr. David Greene and Mr. John Sterling, two of Mr. Churchill’s private secretaries.”

  Of course they are. Maggie had known them both for more than a year, introduced by Paige and Chuck. David was one of her closest friends. John was … well, John was an enigma. Serious, patronizing, and generally infuriating was how Maggie would characterize him.

  “So, how was your first day, Magster?” David asked, leaning against Maggie’s desk as she straightened up.

  “Fine, Mr. Greene,” she said in measured tones, catching his eye and trying to give him the hint to keep things formal, at least in the office. She rose to get her coat and hat from the hook near the door. “Thank you.”

  “Did you know, Mrs. Tinsley,” David continued, “not only does Miss Hope hail from the good old U.S. of A.—as is apparent from her atrocious accent—but in fact she was a cowgirl on a ranch in Texas.”

  There was a sharp intake of air from Mrs. Tinsley.

  “I assure you, Mrs. Tinsley,” Maggie said, with all the dignity she could muster, “I’m a citizen of the United Kingdom. I was born here in London; my father and mother were both British citizens. However, I was raised near Boston.”

  “I wasn’t aware Boston had ranches,” Mrs. Tinsley said, knitting her brows.

  “Certainly not.” Maggie glared at David, who affected an innocent pose. “Mr. Greene thinks he’s very clever.”

  “It’s all right, Magster,” David said. “The Boss is half American, after all, on his mother’s side. He even claims some Iroquois Indian blood. So you’ll fit right in.”

  Mrs. Tinsley pursed her lips and folded her hands. It didn’t bode well. “Miss Hope, you may be excused. I still have work to do—there’s a war on, you know. Good night, Mr. Greene, Mr. Sterling.”

  And the three left.

  “You mean I’m not very clever? Maggie, you cut me to the quick,” David said as they made their way from No. 10 to the path flanking St. James’s Park in the mild May air. The rain had stopped. Slanting lemony sunlight pierced the clouds, although a few birds—sparrows, crows, ravens—chirped warnings of more rain to come. “So, really—how did your first day go?”

  “I didn’t realize it was going to be so much like Miss Minchin’s Select Seminary for Girls.”

  John looked over; his eyes, Maggie noticed, were rimmed with shadows. “Sorry?”

  “Never mind. You had to be there.”

  “Oh, the Tinzer is all right once you get used to her,” David said, “and it’s Number Ten Downing Street—what did you expect?”

  “It’s fine, really,” Maggie said with bravado she didn’t necessarily feel. “I know I can keep up with the work, it’s just a matter of learning the ropes.”

  “Let’s take you to the Rose and Crown to celebrate your first day,” David said as they strolled down Birdcage Walk bordering St. James’s Park, the Gothic arches and towers of Westminster Abbey visible in the distance. The area, with the Foreign Office, the Treasury, the Houses of Parliament, and the Horse Guards Parade, was one of arched importance, exuding both pomposity and grace.

  Maggie always loved Monet’s paintings of the Houses of Parliament, which she’d seen at the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston—the Gothic arches in the different lights of morning, late afternoon, and sunset. As they made their way along the park, she caught a glimpse of the Houses’ peaks, towers, and pinnacles. She thought they looked more like a fairy-tale castle than Buckingham Palace ever could. And it was easy to imagine Peter Pan and Wendy flying past the clock tower on their way to Neverland.

  In the thick green grass of the park, set precariously near the sidewalk,
a nest of seven newly hatched ducklings lay on the ground, brown and soft and breathing in unison. A protective mother duck waddled nearby, gazing balefully in warning at those passing. From its dark pagoda on high, Big Ben gave seven low mournful chimes through the fading saffron sunset.

  “Merciful Minerva, I could use a drink,” David said. “And Paige has us under strict orders to bring you along so we can celebrate.”

  Maggie smiled and linked her arm through his. “Well, we can’t disappoint Paige, now, can we?”

  They walked the cobblestoned side streets of Westminster, past sandbagged Victorian government buildings, black-painted corner pubs, bone-colored Georgian homes turning violet in the dying twilight. Maggie loved the sense of collapsed time that permeated the twisted streets, where the clip-clop of horses’ hooves could still be heard. The air smelled of the salty Thames, car exhaust, and horse dung. In the growing darkness of the blackout it was easy for time to wash away and to imagine London several millennia ago, when it was just a cluster of huts along the banks of the river Thames, faces of ancient Britons painted blue.

  The last rays of sunset illuminated the exterior of the Rose and Crown. Although the pub’s blackout curtains obscured the lamps within and the windows were taped in large crosses, when David opened the door, golden light spilled out, along with the sounds of laughter, music, and the clatter of glasses. Inside, the smell of spilled stout mingled with cigarette smoke. Men in uniform on leave and women in spring dresses like colorful blossoms shouted over the dull roar.

  “Cometh the crisis, cometh the crowd,” John muttered.

  Scanning the throng, Maggie saw Paige at a worn wooden booth in the back, waving frantically.

  “Hello! Hello!” Paige exclaimed over the din as they all sat down at the wooden booth with her. Her voice was childlike and breathless. “David, John,” she said, angling her cheek to be kissed by each man. “Do you like my new hat? And, Maggie—love the outfit. How was your first day?”

  Maggie hugged Paige, who was wearing Joy—jasmine and roses. Her nails were long, perfect ovals impeccably painted with one of the increasingly rare Elizabeth Arden reds Maggie knew Paige kept on her dresser.

  Behind them, Chuck and her beau, Nigel Ludlow, threaded their way through the crowd. Paige waved them both over.

  “Well, they didn’t fire me, that’s a good sign,” Maggie said, sliding over to give Chuck and Nigel some room, then reaching over and taking a sip of Paige’s shandy.

  Chuck was coming from a shift at Great Ormond Street Hospital, wearing her usual serge trousers, battered shoes, and bottle-green cardigan pulled tight across her impressive breasts. Her brown bobbed hair was flattened by the exertions of the workday. She wore no lipstick, but a single string of pearls around her neck was a nod to femininity.

  Nigel was a barrel-chested young man with ruddy cheeks and thick dark hair that flopped over one eye. He’d gone to Magdalen College at Oxford with John and David. He’d worked as a private secretary, as the others had, but for then Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain. When Chamberlain had stepped down, Nigel had revised his pacifist ideology, and was now in the process of joining the RAF. He was spending his last days in London with Chuck.

  As David went to the bar for more drinks, Paige offered, “I still have nightmares about typing for Mr. Kennedy.”

  “Did everyone hear about the Euston station bombing?” Maggie asked the table.

  “Dreadful, just dreadful,” Paige said, shaking her head.

  “Terrible,” Chuck said. “I love Ireland and her green, white, and orange flag with all my heart, but the IRA makes me ashamed to be Irish. That’s the point of the goddamned flag, you know. Green for the Gaels, orange for the Protestants—and white for the peace between them.”

  Nigel leaned in and put his arm around her, giving her a loud smacking kiss on the cheek. Chuck smiled, and when she did, her stern face blossomed into something approaching beauty.

  “Ireland’s still neutral, though,” Maggie said. When England declared war on Germany, Ireland chose neutrality. It was a bitter pill for many English.

  “Most people in Ireland really do support England and the war effort,” Chuck said. “My family does.” Chuck’s parents were originally from Dublin but had immigrated to England when she was four. Her father had a medical practice in Leeds.

  “But what about those who don’t—who support the IRA? Who’s setting off the mailbox bombs in London?” Maggie asked. “Who’s bombing the Tube?”

  “I told you—terrorists, extremists, nutters,” Chuck said. “Like your, what do you call them in the United States? The Ku Klux Klan.”

  “Well, we’ll see what happens if ‘neutral’ Ireland’s used as a base to launch an attack against England,” John said.

  “I’m personally just bloody sick of having people think that just because I’m Irish, I’m some sort of terrorist,” Chuck said. “Even today, I was pulled off a case because some paranoid mummy didn’t want her ‘precious darling’ contaminated by the horrible Irish nurse.” She shook her head. “Stupid bint.”

  John reached down and pulled the Evening Standard from his briefcase. “PREPARE FOR THE WORST!” screamed the headline. “Well, regardless of Ireland’s neutrality, it’s starting in earnest now,” he said, taking off his jacket to reveal red suspenders. He sat down and rolled up his shirtsleeves. “Norway was neutral, and it didn’t stop the Nazis from invading. And now Belgium’s officially surrendered.”

  Maggie set her lips in a grim line. “France is next.”

  “Thanks for the reminder,” David said, returning with glasses of beer.

  Chuck turned to Maggie, trying to change the subject. “So, your first day—how was it? Tell us everything!”

  “It was fine, really,” Maggie said, smiling once again, trying not to look as tired and frazzled as she felt. “I’m sure it’ll get better. Oh, and I stood up to the odious Mr. Snodgrass. That was a plus.”

  “Dicky Snot-ass,” David said. “That’s how he’s known around the office. Don’t take it personally, Magster.”

  John took a sip from his sweating pint glass. “I still don’t understand why you and Paige stayed. You’re Americans, after all. You could have left months ago. Probably should have.”

  How to explain? Maggie thought. Yes, she’d originally come to London to sell her late grandmother’s house. Yes, at first she’d felt angry because she’d had to give up a doctoral program in mathematics at M.I.T. to do so—no small achievement for a woman, even a Wellesley woman.

  When she’d first come to England, she’d been full of resentment—of the narrow-minded people, of bad food and weak coffee, of the dilapidated houses and antiquated plumbing. But when the house didn’t sell, Maggie was forced to settle into Grandmother Hope’s battered old Victorian. And she found the house was repairable, the tea was lovely, and the English people were of a much kinder character than she’d first given them credit for.

  Those people, whom she now thought of as her people, were being killed at Calais and Dunkirk. England herself might any day be attacked—by sea, by air, by marching armies of ruthless brown-clad soldiers. The cheerful, ruddy-faced youth; the children playing jacks under Mummy’s watchful eye; the old grizzled men in the parks, walking their even older and more grizzled dogs—all mowed down by Hitler’s goose-stepping troops.

  Maggie had come to see the Nazis not as a people, as selfish and misguided and ultimately defensible as any other, but as robots blindly following the orders of a madman. One article she’d read in The Times was the catalyst for her hatred: about Nazi soldiers who’d invaded a town and lined up all the older Jewish women. They’d made the women, most of them grandmothers, climb up into trees and then chirp like birds. They must have been terrified, Maggie thought. And there was something about the new technology of waging war that made her realize this was an entirely unprecedented conflict.

  In spite of her own ego and inherent selfishness and petty concerns, she’d grown to love England.
London was not just the place where her parents had lived before their tragic car crash but where she would have grown up if that hadn’t happened.

  She found she’d given her heart to England and wanted her to be safe. She couldn’t leave now. Running back to America would have meant turning her back on her heritage, on her home—ultimately, on herself. It didn’t matter whether John understood that, or whether Aunt Edith did, either, for that matter. Maggie had made her decision to stay, and she was going to stand by it.

  “True,” she said finally, “but if we left, then where would you lot be?”

  “If only we could get the United States—and not just you two—to join in the fray,” David said wistfully. “The Old Man’s trying everything, you know. Practically getting down on his knees and begging Roosevelt for some old warships.”

  “I can see Roosevelt’s point, though,” Paige said. “Another war? After the last one? And the Depression?”

  “Americans,” John said, snorting. “Late to every war.”

  “The Americans will join!” Maggie said, annoyed, for John took every opportunity to snipe at what he saw as a lack of American involvement. “And not just to supply boats and bullets but troops, too.”

  John was nonplussed. “I fear your President has the moral compass of a windsock.”

  Maggie glared. “And Britain didn’t sit by and watch while Hitler annexed Austria and invaded Sudetenland? What about Czechoslovakia? And Poland?”

  John was taken aback. “Not if it had been up to Churchill—”

  “And up until the last few months, Churchill’s been painted by the papers as old, insignificant, a warmonger—spilling English blood thoughtlessly, and trying desperately to preserve a way of life that’s been over since the death of Queen Victoria,” Maggie concluded.

  “All right, all right, you two!” Paige exclaimed. “Do we need to separate you?”

  “And I’m not so certain it’s such a good idea to let foreigners have such sensitive positions in wartime,” John added.