His Majesty's Hope(103)
“Maybe there’s something to be found in literature. After all, Dickens believed that both Scrooge and Tiny Tim could be saved. In Nazi Germany, they’d gas Tiny Tim dead, burn his body, and send his ashes up and out a chimney. They’d send Scrooge to a concentration camp in Poland.”
“A little bird told me you still have that bullet in your body. As a friend and a nurse, darling, I have to tell you, it has no business being there.” Chuck pointed her finger.
Maggie’s hand went to her side. She could feel the bullet under the skin. “It stays.”
“For heaven’s sake, why?”
“Chuck, it has everything to do with everything I’m not allowed to say. Horrible things. Things that I’ll feel guilty over for the rest of my life, and then take to my grave. Because of what I’ve seen, what I’ve done, I’m a walking corpse now. I’m dead inside. I can’t feel anything anymore. I’m trying to hold myself together with glue and it’s not working. I’m falling apart. My center, as they say, will not hold.”
“What about your studies? Maths?”
“Math. I used to be able to count on math! Two and two made four, and so on. There was always an answer. Nietzsche says that God is dead—but for me now, science is dead, too. Or at least contaminated and perverted.”
Even math and science have betrayed me, Maggie thought. The arrogance of those people, using science, misusing science … She remembered the problem about the working families and the asylum and buried her head in her hands and began to cry, shoulders shuddering with choked-back sobs. Now she didn’t even have math and science to believe in.
Chuck let Maggie cry. Then she asked, “So what are you going to do?”
“Mope,” Maggie said, wiping at her face. “I’ve discovered I’m quite talented at moping. And napping. And listening to It’s That Man Again on the wireless. A bit of whining thrown in for good measure.”
“What about your job?”
“What about my job?” Maggie shrugged. “I’m no good to anyone like this.”
“Well, they can’t kick you out for being traumatized on one of their own missions.”
Maggie shook her head. “I’ve gone on too much about myself. I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right, darling,” Chuck said. “We’re old friends, after all.”
Maggie looked down at Chuck’s baby bump. “And now you and Nigel have added a new person to the historical line.”
Chuck rubbed her hands over her abdomen protectively. “It’s exciting. A bit terrifying, too.”
“Nonsense,” Maggie said. “You and Nigel will be wonderful parents.”
“Maggie,” Chuck said, “I’d understand if it’s too much.… But, after the baby’s born, we’d like to have a christening, and then a little party afterward. I know you’re not feeling yourself again yet.… But you’re invited, and very much wanted.”
Maggie reached over impulsively to hug her friend. “I’ll do everything I can to be there, dear Chuck.”
Chapter Twenty-four
Six underground stops away from Westminster Cathedral was Postman’s Park. Which was where Maggie went, instead of Nigel and Chuck’s baby’s christening.
It was a tiny green plot in central London, just a short walk from St. Paul’s Cathedral, where the churchyards of St. Leonard, St. Botolph, and Aldersgate, and the graveyard of Christ Church, Newgate Street, converged. Everyone called it Postman’s Park because so many of the nearby postal workers had their lunch there, but officially it was known as George Frederic Watts’s Memorial to Heroic Self Sacrifice. It was a small spot, humble, and easy to miss in the midst of the City’s rushing self-importance.
In a corner of the park, hidden under a canopy, were beautiful handmade painted tiles by William De Morgan, a contemporary of William Morris’s. Each tile was a memorial to someone who sacrificed his or her life to save another.
This was where Frain proposed that he and Maggie meet. Despite being so close to Fleet Street, it was quiet in Postman’s Park. And although the air was cool, it smelled of grass and soil warmed by the sun. Frain, who’d been sitting on one of the benches and reading The Times, stood when Maggie appeared. He looked as he always did, like an aging matinee idol—his hair sleek, his suit pressed perfectly, and his handmade Italian shoes impeccably shined. His eyes were the same, too: gray and hard as slate.
“This had better be good,” Maggie said, sitting and taking out a cigarette.
Frain sat back down and took out his lighter for her. The wheel struck the flint, producing a blue and yellow flame. “Thank you,” she said as she inhaled, both of them watching the tip ignite into red.