Mr.Churchill's Secretary(59)

Far more comforting was John’s arm around her shoulders.

There was a wild crash, as if the sun itself had exploded. Maggie clapped her hands over her ears as her heart threatened to escape her chest. John must have sensed what was happening, for he threw her down on the floor, covering her body with his.

As the blast hit the building above with a deafening roar, the room filled with thick clouds of dust. All of the air seemed to have been sucked out of the room. Maggie choked and heard people around her coughing and retching.

She suddenly realized that John was lying on top of her, his cheek against hers, his breath ragged in her ear, their hearts pounding together.

John struggled to speak. “Are you all right?” he said, his body pressing against hers.

“I’m fine,” she said, voice shaking. Then, realizing the incongruity of their position and their conversation, she broke into a smile. “And you?”

“Fine,” he said, stroking her hair and looking down at her. “Just fine.”

Without warning, the bombing let up, like a storm that had passed. They heard the noise from the planes become more distant and then, finally, disappear. They waited, and waited, and waited—and then came the all-clear siren. Awkwardly, John rolled off Maggie, and they edged away from each other, getting to their feet and shaking off the dust and debris.

They stumbled from the café into the darkness of the street. There was thick, black, bitter-smelling smoke everywhere. Their eyes watered and stung. As they made their way down the street, they could hear the drone of fire-engine sirens wailing and the tinkle of broken glass being swept from the street by the ARP workers. The café seemed all right, although many of the windows had broken and there was broken glass scattered over the front walkway. In the crimson glow of the fire, the shards sparkled like crushed diamonds. Maggie mused how pretty they looked, even as she realized the inanity of the thought. Broken glass. Pretty.

The brick house across from them had been hit; an orange-and-blue fire was tearing through it. Papers, books, pillows, and children’s toys littered the street, blown from the house by the impact of the blast. A pink-satin dancing shoe, somehow still pale and pristine, had landed right in the middle of the road. At least the family was all right. The five of them—mother, father, a gangly teenage girl, and small twin boys—huddled together in their nightclothes, watching their home burn.

John approached them. “What can I do?” he said.

The father shrugged. “Not much to do right now. Fire department should be here soon.”

“If you need a place to stay—”

“Thank you,” the father said. “But Mother and Father live nearby. They’ll be happy to take us in.”

The wife rolled her eyes in mock horror and gave a wan smile. “Don’t know what’s worse—the Blitz or the prospect of living with my in-laws.”

The man gave her a kiss on the cheek. “It’ll be fine, darling.”

John turned back to Maggie. “Look, about earlier—”

“Don’t even think about it. I was awful.”

“Not at all.” Then, “May I at least walk you home?”

Maggie looked around, at the fires and the bombed-out buildings. “Thank you,” she said, taking his offered arm and holding it tightly. “I’d appreciate that.”

As they made their way up Regent Street in the grayish early-morning gloom, the air was pungent with smoke. It had been a heavy night of bombing, to be sure; the street was full of broken glass and debris. A dead sparrow, wings spread, lay in the middle of the road. As they walked up Portland Place, Maggie slowly began to realize that while she’d been at LSE, her own neighborhood had been hard-hit.

She began to walk faster, breaking away from John. Her hands became icy, and she could hear the blood rush in her head. She was nearly running now, heart in her throat. All right, just calm down. It’s fine, it’s fine, there’s no reason to—

Sarah and Chuck were sitting on the front steps of the house, still as statues. The twins were a stair beneath, their arms around each other, faces hidden. At the sound of footsteps, they all lifted their heads. As soon as Maggie saw their tearstained faces, she knew.

Paige was dead.





SEVENTEEN





“SHE WAS DRIVING back to the base when the car must have overturned in the raid,” Chuck said.

They sat together on the steps, numbly watching the sky turn a milky gray at the horizon, John sitting on a stair below. “The gas tank must have ignited—” Sarah’s eyes overflowed again. “Oh, hell.”

With shaking fingers, Chuck rummaged through her handbag and pulled out her battered cigarette case. She pulled one out and tried to light it, but her hands were shaking so badly that she couldn’t. John took the lighter and cigarette gently from her hands. He rolled the wheel slowly down on the flint. A blue-and-orange flame erupted, and he held the cigarette tip in it and inhaled. When it was lit, he returned it, and the lighter, to Chuck.