Mr.Churchill's Secretary(29)

“Thank you. And how are you doing, Sarah? How are things at the Wells?” Maggie asked, pouring a cup of weak tea. Still, it was hot.

“Fabulous—working on the Swan Lake act two pas de deux in case I get tapped for Odile anytime soon.”

“How are you doing with the rationing? You must get so hungry doing all that dancing.”

“Actually, it’s the reverse; I feel as if I’m gaining weight. A lot of the dancers are used to doing a performance and then eating a nice steak or something. Well, of course we can’t do that anymore. So we’re eating a lot of bread and expanding a bit.”

Paige poked at her own waist. “It’s happening to me, too. I can feel it. My poor waistline—yet another casualty of war.” She set a plate with the poached egg and a piece of toast in front of Maggie. The egg yolk was hot and runny, sprinkled liberally with salt and black pepper.

“And, Annabelle, Clarabelle—how have you two been doing?” Maggie asked.

“Keeping busy at the Queen’s Theatre, as usual,” Annabelle said. A play of Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca was running, with Owen Nares and Celia Johnson as the leads. Annabelle was playing the role of the young housemaid, while the shyer Clarabelle was the assistant to the costumer.

“Curtain’s going up earlier—” Annabelle began.

“—so we have time to volunteer for the Red Cross—make tea and hand out Bath buns to the Saint Paul’s Watch,” Clarabelle finished. The St. Paul’s Watch was a group of volunteer firemen, dedicated to saving St. Paul’s Cathedral from any air attacks.

“John volunteers for the Saint Paul’s Watch, you know,” said Annabelle, twisting a lock of hair.

“Imagine that—with all he must have to do for the P.M.,” Clarabelle added.

“We both think he’s terribly handsome—” Annabelle began.

“—if a little serious,” Clarabelle finished.

Maggie was annoyed. They barely knew John. Who were they to talk about him like that? Especially Annabelle. “The man needs a haircut,” she said finally, biting into a piece of eggy toast.

“But, Maggie, you’re the one working for the P.M.,” Sarah said. “Tell us everything! It must be so exciting.”

Maggie was at a loss for where to start. Certainly not with any statistics on coffin production or estimated civilian death tolls. Certainly not with any of the other classified documents she’d typed. “Well …”

Chuck wandered into the kitchen, yawning widely, pulling her flannel dressing gown around her large frame. Nigel, somewhat sheepishly, followed, buttoning his top button. “Good morning, girls!” Chuck boomed. Her attitude when war had been declared was carpe noctem, and Nigel had become a frequent overnight guest as his departure date loomed.

“Hello, ladies,” Nigel added, a bit more subdued. Although they were all used to Nigel’s spending the night when he was on leave, he always had a somewhat awkward manner when he ran into any of them, especially in the mornings. Perhaps he realized how thin the walls were, and how Chuck’s … enthusiasm carried.

“Tea?” Clarabelle offered, her voice a bit chilly. She didn’t approve of Nigel’s overnight visits.

“Thanks,” Nigel said, pouring mugs for Chuck and himself.

“So yes,” Maggie continued. “The P.M.’s office. Scary and tedious and frustrating and—wonderful.”

“So you like it there?” Sarah asked, spreading a tiny drop of strawberry jam thinly over her toast.

“I do.”

“And you get to see everything?” Chuck asked, pouring more tea.

If she only knew. “There’s no time to think when you’re taking dictation. He just goes so fast, you’re lucky just to keep up with him.”

“But surely there must be something you’ve picked up, some indication of how things are going.… You know, troops, for example,” Chuck asked. “The RAF?” She looked nervously over at Nigel, and he grasped her large-knuckled hand. Nigel had finished basic training and had begun flying missions from a military base not too far from London. He used his leave to get back to London to see Chuck whenever possible.

“Look, you know I can’t tell you anything, right?” Maggie said, her voice soft.

“Maggie, I won’t say anything, le do thoil.” Chuck crossed her heart and held up her hand.

“Well, I can tell you this—”

“Yes,” Chuck said, leaning closer.

“It’s top secret.”

“What? What is it, woman? I’m dying to know!”

“It’s … that Nelson—the Churchills’ cat—is to play an integral role in breaking German ciphers.”