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Mr.Churchill's Secretary(10)

By:Susan Elia MacNeal


“Well, we’ll just have to drink champagne, then, won’t we?” David said. “Might as well, while our money’s still worth something.”

Chuck and Nigel hit the dance floor, moving with more enthusiasm than grace, while the rest of the group settled into their seats.

David elbowed John. “Look—over there. Is that …”

John squinted. “Simon Paul? I think it is. Heard he’s been working for Halifax.”

At a table across the dance floor was a young man, tie askew, a distantly amused expression on his pale, fleshy face. He reminded Maggie of a painting of a young Henry VIII at the National Portrait Gallery, a big fellow, good-looking in a slightly paunchy way. His ginger hair was wavy, and his skin, especially around the nose, was reddish. David waved him over.

A jovial expression transformed his features as he walked across the dance floor to the table. David rose to his feet. “Si, it is you, you old sod! How long has it been? Five years now?”

Simon gave a tilted smile. “ ’Thirty-six, old boy. Graduation—spring of ’thirty-six.”

“Ah, the infamous Simon,” Paige whispered to Maggie as the young men talked.

“ ‘Infamous’?”

“He was up at Oxford with John and David. NSIT.”

“NSIT? What’s that mean?”

“ ‘Not Safe in Taxis.’ A real taxi tiger. As opposed to ‘Very, Very Safe in Taxis, Probably Queer.’ Now, hush …”

“… lifetimes since Magdalen,” Simon was saying. “I’ve heard what you two have been up to, working for old Winnie. Is he really as drunk as people say?”

John’s eyes narrowed. “Hardly.”

David remembered his manners. “Maggie, Paige, may I present Simon Paul. Oxford man—friend, scholar …”

Simon laughed. “You forgot drunkard.”

Paige held out her hand for Simon to shake, but instead he leaned across the table to kiss it.

“Delighted to meet you,” he declared, keeping Paige’s hand in his. Then, to Maggie, “And you—you look just like one of those glorious Rossetti redheads.”

“Why don’t you sit down, Mr. Paul?” Paige cooed. Under her breath, “Maggie, move over.” Maggie slid in farther, and Simon sat down next to Paige.

“Please, call me Simon.”

“So you all know each other from school?” Maggie asked.

“Oxford, Magdalen College,” David said. “Parties, punting, picnics, Pimm’s …”

Simon took out a pouch of tobacco and a paper and proceeded to roll a cigarette. “Those were the days, eh, boys?” He finished rolling his cigarette and put it in his mouth, removing it only to pull a few stray tobacco leaves off his tongue with his broad fingers before lighting up.

“And now he’s working as a private secretary to Lord Halifax,” John concluded.

“Halifax?” Maggie said. “Britain’s Foreign Secretary, right? He was with Chamberlain for appeasement, right?”

“Now, now,” said Simon. “Just because he’s a Tory and hunts the occasional fox …”

“He was tight with Ambassador Kennedy,” Paige ventured. “Saw him around the offices quite a bit. Quite the hatchet-face—not at all attractive.”

“Halifax believes in realpolitik,” Simon said. “Without commitment from Russia and America, this war …” He shrugged.

“Thank God he didn’t become Prime Minister, and Churchill got the job instead,” Chuck rejoined.

“Had a bit of a falling-out there, didn’t we, boys?” Simon said, taking a long drag on his cigarette.

“Nice to see you’ve come around to our viewpoint,” John said.

“Wouldn’t say that, really—wouldn’t say that. What are we fighting for, anyway? Hitler doesn’t want England. If we leave him alone in Europe, we’ll all be having dinner together by Christmas.”

“How about for the duration of the war,” John said, “there’s one national government—one England. Come, now—even Halifax is part of the coalition.”

“I still don’t see why British blood needs to be spilled in this mess,” Simon said, rubbing out his cigarette. “Goddamned waste, if you ask me. If we keep going along Churchill’s path, this entire island could look like Calais. Western Europe has fallen. France is falling, even as we sit here with our pints. There’s only going to be about twenty miles of English Channel between us and the Germans once they take France. Perhaps a poor peace is better than a miserable war.”

“A ‘poor peace’? Are you mad?” John said, his voice tight.