“It just seems very … personal. You know, going through my things.”
“Maggie, you’re an only child. People who grew up with siblings, well, we’re not as precious about our belongings. If you don’t mind my saying.”
She’s probably right, Maggie thought. Chuck grew up as the oldest of seven siblings; she was probably just used to playing mother hen.
“By the way, have you ever gone to see them?”
“See who?”
“Your parents.” She took a moment to phrase the next words. “Their graves.”
Maggie sighed. “I haven’t. I know, I know—I’ve been meaning to. But somehow …”
“Seeing them will make it real?”
“Something like that. I don’t remember them at all—but somehow I keep hoping that there was a mix-up—and that—” Maggie rose and dusted off her skirt. “Silly, isn’t it?”
“Not at all,” Sarah replied. “Should we head back now?” It was getting darker; they’d been warned that any attacks would most likely happen at night.
Sarah linked her arm through Maggie’s as they walked quickly back to the house, eyes surveying the skies in uneasy silence.
“I don’t like being played,” Pierce said, his voice low, blending under the clattering of mismatched china and bent, tarnished cutlery in the Phoenix Café, a tiny, dark, and narrow tearoom just off Oxford Circus. Thick black tape in crosses on the windows obscured the scene outside and dimmed the light. “Not by you, Claire. And not by—”
Murphy gave his most dazzling grin. “Father Murphy,” he said, fingering his collar.
“Mr. Murphy,” Pierce said, the corners of his mouth pursing with annoyance. He took a sip of tea from a cup with a hairline fracture, painted with purple and gold pansies. “What you and the rest of your group have achieved since the IRA officially declared war on England is remarkable.”
“The S-Plan,” Claire said. “S for Sabotage. Devlin’s idea.”
“Right, right,” said Pierce. “All those banks, Tube platforms, train stations, and post offices bombed, people panicking. Jolly good show, that. Good for Devlin.”
Claire smiled. “Glad you think so. Now that you know who I am—who we are—let’s talk about how we can work together. As we see it, the most dangerous development right now was Chamberlain’s stepping down and Churchill taking over. Chamberlain would probably have broken if London was attacked, but Churchill—”
“Drunken sot,” Pierce muttered.
“—isn’t going to give up without a fight.”
Pierce folded his hands neatly. “And how do you suggest we deal with Mr. Churchill?”
“Assassination. For starters.” Murphy grinned. “And a few other tricks as well.”
Pierce raised an eyebrow.
“And with my help and your resources, we have the perfect in,” Claire said to Pierce.
“I know what the Saturday Club brings to the table,” Pierce said. “But what can you offer?”
Claire leaned in close to Pierce and whispered in his ear, her breath warm and sweet, “We happen to have a connection to one of the Prime Minister’s staff.”
June 4, 1940. Maggie had finished her work typing copies of the Prime Minister’s latest speech and was determined to watch him give it at the House of Commons.
She put on her hat and gloves and made her way from No. 10 to the House of Commons. Walking over the worn tile floor, she was conscious of how many men who decided the fate of England had walked these same steps. She made her way up to the Civil Servants’ Gallery, behind the Speaker’s chair, and took a seat next to David and John. As the pale men in dark suits assembled below, the benches crowded and the visitors’ gallery overflowing, the room hummed with nerves and an undercurrent of fear.
There were the M.P.s, of course; there were the journalists, diplomats, the public. Maggie could see the face of Lord Halifax, Leader of the House of Lords and a long-standing Churchill critic, drawn and set. Former U.S. Ambassador to England Joseph Kennedy, another Churchill detractor and supporter of appeasement, had returned from the States and was in the Diplomatic Gallery, his long, thin face inscrutable.
Then the Prime Minister entered the room. He waited for the chamber to settle, scanning the audience, looking from one face to the next, acknowledging each.
Maggie had typed countless versions of the speech and knew it inside and out.
The P.M. began with defeat in Belgium, the disaster of France, and the “German scythe” that had cut down their armies. He talked about the desperate fighting in Boulogne and Calais, the alleged duplicity of King Leopold, the evacuation at Dunkirk.