Mr.Churchill's Secretary(3)
There was silence on the other end, and then the line crackled. In the kitchen, the girls looked at each other in shock.
“And the fact that you’re absolutely right, I know, doesn’t make it any better,” David said.
“All right, then,” Maggie said, slightly calmer now that she’d gotten that off her chest. Then she added, “What about Paige?”
Paige looked up from the paper; “Fifth Column Treachery” was the headline. “What about Paige?” she asked. Maggie waved her hands and shushed her.
“Paige is American—only Commonwealth citizens allowed,” he said.
“Chuck?”
Chuck was still bent over the tea, but her back tensed.
“Chuck’s training to be a nurse, and she’ll be more than needed soon,” David said. “Besides, Ireland’s not the Commonwealth, you know. Things are still a little … iffy between England and Ireland, if you know what I mean.”
“Ah,” Maggie said. “Of course.” Chuck was Irish. And with all of the violent history between England and Ireland, as well as the recent IRA bombings in London, Maggie could see why an Irish citizen at No. 10 wouldn’t be considered, let alone approved.
Maggie took a deep breath. Despite her frustration at the system in place, she knew it was time for her to give up her pride and do what needed to be done. Here’s something I can do for the war effort, she thought, something I can do, and do well. There’s a need, and I can fill it. It was as simple as that. And in wartime, it was all that mattered.
“All right, then,” she said with a dramatic sigh. “Yes, I’ll do it. Fine. You’ve got yourself a secretary.”
“Good girl! I had a feeling you’d come through. We’ll see you at Number Ten tomorrow then, eight sharp. There’s a lot of work to be done.”
“I know. I’ll be there.” And then she added, “Thank you, David. You can count on me.”
* * *
Michael Murphy left his flat in Soho early, forgoing an umbrella even though the skies promised worse weather.
He paused at the curb while he buttoned his old mackintosh against the morning chill, tucking a small worn-leather suitcase tightly between his feet. Around him was a regular Tuesday morning in London—traffic getting heavier, a siren wailing, shops and cafés opening, people walking quickly on the sidewalks or waiting patiently in queues for red double-decker buses. A few drab sparrows picked at crumbs, and the damp air was cut by car exhaust.
Satisfied he’d never seen any of the faces in the crowd before, he set off for Piccadilly Circus. The statue of Eros with his bow had been removed for safekeeping, and the Shaftsbury fountain was boarded up with wide wooden planks. The area, edged by the London Pavilion and the Criterion, was already mobbed with RAF pilots on leave, Wrens in brown uniforms and bright lipstick, and young boys shouting and selling newspapers.
They were overlooked by huge billboards: Guinness Is Good for You. Bovril Schweppes Tonic Water. For Your Throat’s Sake, Smoke Craven A. And just in case one could ever forget the war: It Might Be YOU—Caring for Evacuees Is a National Service.
Murphy walked down the steep flight of steps to the Piccadilly Circus Underground station, bought his ticket, and then descended further into the bowels of the Tube. As he sank lower and lower into the earth, the cool air smelled of exhaust, rotting rubbish, and stale sweat.
The train arrived with a loud rumble, and he pushed his way in with the others—businessmen in rumpled suits and felt hats with newspapers in hand, a few soldiers, a nurse with a white winged hat. He transferred from the Piccadilly line to the Northern, noticing a particularly beautiful young woman with a dove-gray pillbox hat and red lipstick, somehow disconcerting so early in the morning. He gave the woman a grin and tipped his hat. She blushed and dropped her eyes.
He remained standing on the train, then got off with a crowd of passengers as the doors slid open at Euston station. Instinctively, he reached into his coat and felt for the butt of his pistol.
It was there, hard and reassuring.
He walked along with the rest of the crowd, hanging back just slightly, until most had proceeded up the staircase, leaving a momentary lull before the next train arrived.
In one smooth, practiced move, he reached into the case and released a catch activating the bomb inside. Then, in another quick motion, he dropped it in one of the gaping rubbish bins.
Walking briskly now, he headed up the stairs. There was a man with a fleshy, florid face playing “The Sailor’s Hornpipe” on a slightly out-of-tune violin. Murphy threw a few coins into the open case, pausing to wink at the woman in the gray hat, who’d stopped to listen. She blushed again.