Low smiled and welcomed him. It was obvious he knew why McNeely had come.
McNeely hesitated. He didn’t know whether to help Low or encourage the exhausted man to take a rest.
“I’m sure Sarah’s planning tea,” Low said without stopping. He squinted up at the first-floor window, where Sarah’s pale face flashed and disappeared.
“She’s worried about you,” McNeely said.
“I know.”
“Where can we sit?” McNeely asked.
Low gestured to the back step of the ground-floor flat. “They don’t mind,” Low said, indicating the flat’s residents. “They used to sit on my bench.” He pointed to the corner where an old wisteria vine—the last vestige of Low’s former flower garden—grew. “But I used the wood for scrap some time ago.”
“We’ll sit on a new bench after the war,” McNeely said. When Low didn’t respond, McNeely lowered his voice. “James, is there anything I can do?”
“Any word from Bertram?”
“No.”
“He’s just gone? Where would he go?”
McNeely shook his head.
Sarah brought out the tea and left it on a small, chipped tray from which the men could serve themselves. She looked at James anxiously, but he smiled at her. She thanked McNeely for visiting, then went back inside.
“How’s Clare?”
“Strong as ever.” He looked at Low. “Actually, very upset. But she’s keeping busy, doing a lot of drawing. I think she’ll be all right.” They were quiet a few minutes. Finally McNeely said, “What about you?”
“Sarah and I are planning to adopt one of the orphans.”
McNeely grabbed Low’s arm.
“We haven’t done anything yet,” Low said quickly. “There are a few things I need to get in order first.”
McNeely knew he’d embarrassed Low. He took his hand away and tried to sit very quietly.
Low told him about the strange experience of sending a letter of resignation that no one appeared to notice. “At first I thought they must be busy with all the other matters related to the tragedy. But then the story got in the papers and people started to talk about the light on the stairs, and still no word from Morrison or news that I’d resigned. Then Dunne called me before the inquiry, and I thought, This is it.” Low turned to McNeely, baffled.
“But nothing happened.” He shook his head. “I actually began to reconsider. That night I tried going back to the shelter. It had reopened, and the deputy wardens were managing pretty well in the absence of any other instruction, but I thought I’d go back, at least until I had some kind of official word about what I was supposed to do.”
“You’d like me to find out what happened to your resignation?” McNeely asked when it looked as if Low had finished.
“But do you know what happened?” Low continued. “I couldn’t get there. Couldn’t walk down those steps. Couldn’t stop seeing all those people. I tried every day after that, and each time I turned around farther away. My own kind of creep-back, I’m afraid.”
It was obvious the man was grieving, haunted. “You are not to blame for this tragedy,” McNeely said.
“If I’m not to blame, then I’m not responsible for all the other nights when people were safe.”
“Well, I think that’s somewhat true. At some point we trust to Providence.”
“You do that.” Low finished his tea. “What I know is this: I replaced a lightbulb that night, pretty sure of what the people would do, but I did it anyway. I was tired of their small concerns. I knew the light could barely be seen from the street. I knew that either way it wouldn’t make any difference to a German pilot!” He choked, his voice reduced to a horrified whisper. “I wanted to prove it, I think. I wanted to show them.”
“This accident was not your fault,” McNeely said.
Low looked up but seemed to see nothing in McNeely’s face that could convince him. After a moment, he spoke again. “Please make sure the people know I sent that resignation the morning after the accident. The mail seems to have let me down.”
“What does Mr. Dunne say?”
“I assume he doesn’t know.”
McNeely smiled. He would ask Dunne someday if preparing a report for the government felt as futile as offering faith during war.
Low stood and began pulling on his garden gloves.
“James,” McNeely said. “Wait for the report. It may explain more than you think.”
“I’ll wait,” he said after a moment. “But I don’t know what the report can tell me that I don’t already know. I was the chief warden. The shelter was my responsibility.” He looked up at his flat. He smiled and waved at Sarah. “You give something a name, and it takes on a certain size in the mind. ‘Front hall,’ even if it’s no more than two steps and a mat.” He dropped his arm and looked around his modest garden. “ ‘Arbor,’ ” he said, pointing at the old wisteria vine that arched halfway over nothing. “ ‘Shelter.’ ” He stared at McNeely, his eyes wide, desperate. “How can I live with that?”
McNeely was about to answer when he saw Low look the length of him, his face suddenly changing into a sneer. “And if you are homosexual, as they say, how do you live with that?”
“You are not yourself,” McNeely said.
The minister watched Low’s back and shoulders as he walked away. He could see the hurt in their angles even as Low returned to digging furiously in the soil.
Forty-one
Sunday evening Laurie told Armorel he was going to his court to catch up on paperwork neglected since the inquiry. Instead he put on a coat and hat, tied a scarf high around his face, though the evening was mild, and timed his arrival at St. John’s for just after evensong, a service few would attend, he guessed. He was right. He found McNeely alone, watering the garden in the back close.
“Oh, but you’ve missed the service,” McNeely said, turning.
When Laurie didn’t answer, McNeely nodded and turned back to the bed. He gestured at the spring bulbs beginning to show. “Later in the season I put vegetables in, of course, but—” He didn’t know how to finish. It seemed hopeless to have to justify growing flowers. “I’m glad to see you,” McNeely said.
Laurie waited while McNeely finished watering a small evergreen bed. He noticed but did not ask why he was watering it with wine.
When the cup was empty, McNeely knelt down and cleared some space around a few green shoots beginning to sprout on the site of Mary Casey Cole’s ashes. Then he stood and looked up at the anxious magistrate. Dunne was taller, imperious, but they were close in age.
“Should we go in?” Dunne asked.
“Of course.”
Inside they sat in McNeely’s chamber, infused with the smell of extinguished candles and the old fireplace. McNeely poured them each a whiskey, and the familiar warmth calmed Laurie. They talked about the borough and faith, music and the war. When McNeely lit the fire and refilled his glass, Laurie smiled. He was enjoying himself too much, he thought. He blamed the drink and took another sip.
“Do you think the different backgrounds of people here had anything to do with it?”
McNeely nodded as if expecting the question. He moved forward on his chair but didn’t speak. Laurie respected the deliberation.
“No,” McNeely answered.
“I heard quite a few things in testimony.”
McNeely cringed and closed his eyes. When he opened them he spoke evenly. “Many people in Bethnal Green are from other places. All of them are interested in second chances. I think that’s the main thing they have in common, but it’s a lot.”
“I’m considering leaving something out of the report.”
McNeely stood and began pacing the small room. The space allowed a path away from the small fireplace, along the bed, around the front of the desk, and back again.
“It’s not a war secret,” Laurie said. “Sit down.”
McNeely smiled. “Well, that’s reassuring.” He poured himself another drink, and o
ne for Laurie. He sat. “All right. Tell me.”
The relief of speaking was much greater than Laurie had anticipated. The words rushed out. “I think the government is hiding something about the new antiaircraft weaponry. It’s possible there was an unannounced test that night, something about which the area should have been warned. It’s also possible a woman pushed one of the refugees on the stairs. This first woman to fall no one can find. I have nothing to prove the first theory, and the second comes from a hunch and the testimony of a child. If I include the rockets, I think the report will be suppressed. If I include the push, it will assign blame to no good end. The government will just use her, maybe the whole area, as a scapegoat for an accident that had nothing to do with race.”
McNeely looked shocked but recovered quickly. “I thought they were opposed to scapegoats.”
“Only if they hold elected office.”
McNeely smiled, but Laurie looked sad. “I started out hoping to avoid blame.”
“And now?”
“I don’t know.”
McNeely was shaking his head. “What was her motivation? The one who pushed.”
“Does it matter? Do you think she intended the outcome?”
“No. Right. The people will understand that.”
Laurie shook his head.
“If you don’t include it, aren’t you denying them a chance to forgive?”
“Do I have that power?”
“More than most, I think.”
“I confess, then: I don’t think she would be forgiven.”
“And the government’s mistake, if that’s what the test was?”
“It might be disastrous at this point in the war if the people lost more faith in them.”
“But how can you exclude these possibilities from your report?”
Laurie sipped his drink. “That’s why I’m here.”
McNeely nodded and put his head in his hands for a time. When he looked up, he had red marks on his cheeks. “It’s my job to believe the woman would be forgiven. To believe otherwise would be cynical for a man in my position. And I’ve seen what this disaster has done to people. Some are having a hard time, but others are inspired.”
“That’s good to know. And it’s also possible the sound many heard wasn’t a new weapon but just a few boys setting off bottle rockets. With disastrously poor timing. Did you hear anything unusual that night?”
“No.” McNeely poked the fire.
“For God’s sake! You see? Maybe I’m just trying to leave a margin of doubt until I see or hear something irrefutable. Tilly is only eight years old.”
McNeely looked up. “Tilly?”
“Do you know her?”
“I do.”
“Her mother lost another daughter—”
“Yes, I know.”
They sat in silence for a while, until McNeely suddenly rubbed his forehead. “You know James Low sent a resignation?”
“Oh, yes.”
“What about that?”
“It doesn’t mean anything.”
McNeely was quiet a few moments. He refilled his glass, stirred the fire. “What are you going to do?”
“I told you, that’s why I’m here.”
“So am I to give you an answer or just absolve your conscience?”
“Just? It seems like a big job to me.”
McNeely smiled. “Well, it’s my practice to always hope people aren’t as bad as the worst thing they do.” He offered Laurie another drink, but the magistrate declined. McNeely corked the bottle and put it back on the shelf.
“And perhaps we should only sometimes be held accountable for the unintended consequences of our actions,” Laurie said.
“Good,” McNeely said. “Sounds sensible.”
Laurie considered a moment, then put down his glass. “I have to go.”
McNeely nodded and moved quickly to open the door. “Still, I don’t think you should omit anything. Maybe the best you can do is include everything you know. Then no one can blame you.”
“But I’m not worried about that,” Laurie said. He shook his head at the minister and smiled. He knew the import of the secret he’d charged McNeely with, yet rarely had Laurie felt such confidence. “Thank you,” he said. “You’re a good man.”
McNeely blushed and bowed.
When the magistrate had gone, McNeely washed out the glasses and straightened his room. The fireplace embers were still glowing when he got into bed and prayed.
“Please let me do no harm.”
He had no clear idea about anything. His calling, such as it was, had seemed so much simpler before the war. Then, he’d had something to offer. A more complete vision of goodness. Now it seemed he merely legitimized the plans of others. The word “extract” came to mind. Ada had extracted his goodwill and allegiance. Would he have forgiven her if she’d told him? People think they want the whole truth, but they’re far happier with only as much as they can forgive. Maybe that’s why he didn’t tell Laurie about Ada’s plans? Did it really matter that hers was the first push that night? Every person who didn’t stop trying to get into the shelter after it was clear the path was obstructed was guilty of something. Some part of the outcome was on all those hands, the fatal pressure divisible by the number of people present. An incalculable burden, the blame they all carried. That’s what Bertram knew, wherever he was. What sort of document could explain that?
“May the reports of the world help us through,” he prayed. That is probably what we need most, he thought. More reports. And he fell asleep thinking he was glad for the world that it had Laurie Dunne.
Three days after his meeting with the minister, Laurie wrote his cover page.
Sir, I have the honor to report that in accordance with your written instruction forwarded to me on March 10, I opened an inquiry on March 11 into the circumstances of the accident at a London Tube-station shelter. Eighty witnesses were examined, of whom four were recalled. The following report is the result of that inquiry.
Laurie allowed himself a glass of port and the triumph of Beethoven’s Violin Concerto, then addressed the package to the Right Honorable Herbert S. Morrison, MP, and sent it by messenger. The date was Tuesday, March 23, 1943.
Report
Forty-two
Paul was the second of Mrs. Loudon’s guests down for breakfast. A tinny recording of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons was playing on the radio, and a German couple in matching wool jumpers, one red, the other blue, was already seated. They had two thermoses on the table, also red and blue, and a neat and spacious backpack at their feet. They had their hands wrapped around steaming cups of coffee, and while Paul watched, Mrs. Loudon brought out two bowls of oatmeal.
“Good morning!” they called.
Paul decided to serve himself from the buffet. Cheese and dark bread, some desiccated apple slices and tea. He had brought notes for the documentary with him and was trying to plan that day’s interview with Dunne when he noticed Mrs. Loudon standing over the Germans’ table, holding a paper bag with a ribbon of twine.
“Are you sure?” she said, frowning at the contents.
The Germans shook their heads.
“Mrs. Loudon,” Paul said. “That’s from me.” He bumped the table as he stood, nearly spilling his tea. “For you.”
“Why?” she said.
“I thought I’d replace what I drank the other day. All that orange juice.”
“I’m sure the High Street B and B doesn’t need your charity.”
If Paul had detected even a hint of what he’d expected—embarrassment or gratitude, a fleeting reappraisal—he would have let it go. But she seemed only indignant, annoyed, and he decided he’d had enough.
“You’re right,” he said. He took back the tea and Cadbury bar. “These aren’t for you.”
Laurie was pleased the kitchen was cleaner than before, and he smiled a bit when he saw that Paul had decided to wear a jacket again, though without a tie. Laurie was in jacket and tie, so the two were as close
as they might ever come. A strong scent of lemon cleaner filled the room.
“I have a friend, Mrs. Beckford, who comes to clean sometimes,” Laurie explained.
“That’s good.” Paul nodded. “You know, I saw a dead fox on the way here today. Near the road. I think of them as being so clever. They rarely get hit.”
“It’s true.” Laurie looked around the kitchen. Lemon cleaner and dead foxes were not what he’d planned to discuss. “So, how much do you have written?”
“On the documentary? I won’t fill in a lot of it until we do the interviews.”
Laurie waited.
“It’s about half-done.”
“And you’ve been working how long?”
“Two years.”
“Do you find writing hard?”
“What about you, Sir Laurence? You’re famous for writing the Bethnal Green report in five days.”
“Miserable time.”
The television was on, and even with the sound turned low, the bouncing images and occasional applause of the Wimbledon final distracted Laurie. It had come down to the two players who most interested him: the American, Smith, and Ilie Nastase.
Paul sat straighter. “I’d like to go over something you said before. You mentioned that a refugee was the first to fall.”
Laurie turned. “Did I?”
Paul was surprised. “You did.” He waited, but Laurie remained quiet. “Well, so this is interesting for a couple of reasons. First, I wonder—”
Laurie stood and walked to an old phonograph in the corner of the room. He put on a record, and after some hissing and popping, a violin began. He turned up the volume so that it could be heard over the television. “Has Tilly told you about it?”
“I talked to her yesterday and she asked me to give you her regards. She said you shouldn’t discuss the accident.”
Laurie nodded. “And she’s never discussed it with you?”
“No.”
“I knew that from the beginning. Do you know this piece?”
Paul shook his head.
The Report Page 17