Mr.Churchill's Secretary(17)

And waited some more.

Nelson, Mr. Churchill’s cat, came into the room and jumped on a cushioned window seat, sitting down and tucking his paws and tail under him.

Maggie looked out the window at the dying light. It was a glorious June evening—bright and warm in the waning sunshine, growing chilly in the shadows. She could hear the low chimes of Big Ben and then the lighter bells of the Horse Guards Parade strike the hour.

The fine weather was a blessing, because beneath the thin veneer of civility and pleasantries, England was a nation bracing for the worst. Underneath their polite façades, people were anxious, uneasy, depressed, fatalistic. Children were being evacuated to the countryside. Plans were proposed to relocate the royal family to Canada. The contents of the Tate and the national museum had been put into storage. Dogs were being put down. People were warned about fifth columnists, spies living among them. A blackout was in effect night after night.

The men, more than a million, who were too old, too young, or too infirm to serve in the military, joined the Home Guard. There were no guns for them, so they armed themselves with hunting rifles, swords, billy clubs, golf clubs, and pickaxes. Those without carried broom handles or pepper—to throw in the face of the enemy. It would be easy to laugh, Maggie thought, if it weren’t so desperate. And so very brave.

Maggie watched the country’s preparations for invasion with a mixture of terror, disbelief, and admiration. She remembered how, just a few years ago, occasionally the newspaper would have an article or two about Hitler and his growing power, or how then Minister of Parliament Winston Churchill made speeches about the growing Nazi threat in the House of Commons—only to be ignored.

Just a year ago, when Neville Chamberlain was Prime Minister, promising peace and offering appeasement, Winston Churchill had been one of the few voices warning against the growing threat of Nazi Germany. In speeches and articles, he’d said that Britain couldn’t turn a blind eye to Hitler’s invasion of Poland the way she had with Sudetenland and Czechoslovakia. England must honor her treaty to back the Poles or else face disgrace. And England must rearm to defend herself or else risk enslavement by the Nazis.

The audience booed and even threw papers at him, calling him crazy and worse.

Then Chamberlain declared war—and Winston Churchill became the new Prime Minister.

Without preamble, the man himself strode into the room.

The P.M. was in a rage. Fury seemed to radiate off his compact body. His brow was furrowed, and he paced the length of the room in apparent frustration. In turn, Maggie tried to make herself as invisible as possible.

It seemed to work, as he took no notice of her.

Mr. Churchill turned to the windows, where Maggie was better able to contemplate him in profile. He was shorter than she’d thought, with a stout and imposing physique. His face was rosy and plump, and his head was almost bald. He was wearing a navy-blue suit with a burgundy bow tie. From his waistcoat hung an engraved pocket watch. Gold-framed reading glasses perched at the end of his nose.

Without a glance in her direction, he began to speak, absorbed in the matter at hand: the problem of former King Edward VII now known as the Duke of Windsor. Since abdicating the throne to marry the American divorcée Mrs. Wallis Simpson, the Duke had set off for Madrid, then to Lisbon. Now he wanted to return to England.

“Sir, may I venture upon a word of serious counsel,” the P.M. dictated. “Many sharp and unfriendly ears will be pricked up to catch any suggestion that your Royal Highness takes a view about the war, or about the Germans.” As the words rolled from him, he paced the length of the carpet, hands clasped behind him. The cigar clamped in his mouth didn’t help Maggie in understanding him. His delivery was far less distinct than it was for his speeches at the House of Commons or his BBC broadcasts.

“Even while you have been staying at Lisbon, conversations have been reported by telegraph through various channels which might have been used to your Royal Highness’s disadvantage.” And so on. But Maggie was able to catch what he was saying and keep up. She became almost hypnotized, engrossed in her task as he went on and on—she imagined herself not as a typist but as an extension of him, a link between himself and the page. They went on in this manner, with various letters, for almost an hour before he finally looked at her.

“You’re not Mrs. Tinsley!” he exclaimed, looking aghast.

“No, sir,” Maggie replied, heart racing.

“Where is she?” he barked.

Oh, goodness. “She’s sick, sir.”

“Sick?”

“Y-yes. Sick, sir.”

He contemplated this for a moment and paced a bit, grimacing.