Maggie Bright

by Tracy Groot

  “He’s baiting you,” Baylor said.

  “Yes, but why?”

  “Because he knows you hate it when he goes after the captain.”

  “Probably even faking that head wound,” Griggs said.

  Jamie gripped the stock of his Bren.

  “Don’t. You’ll upset the captain,” Baylor said. Jamie glanced at him.

  Baylor pushed up his spectacles, and kept his tone low. “He gets agitated when Griggs agitates you. Always seems aware of the climate. Aren’t you, Milton?” he said, a little louder, to the captain. “There’s a good chap.” To Jamie, “Remember when Grayling kept you from killing Griggs yesterday? You should have seen the captain. Whenever Griggs provokes you, I look to see how he reacts. I wonder if it means he’s getting better.” He reached to pat Milton’s shoulder, and said louder, “I really think you are, mate. I should say, sir.”

  “He doesn’t look it,” Jamie said darkly. “He’s whiter by the day. He’s slower. And he’s not eating much.”

  “Not that there’s much to eat. I can sort of feel the captain’s rank. Can’t you? Wounded or not, deranged or not. Maybe it’s because I admire his Milton, but he does seem to have an air of quiet authority. I would have liked to have known him sane.”

  Jamie did not respond. He was tense for whatever Griggs would say next. He always was, and hated it. Not for the first time he wondered if things weren’t better when he and Milton were on their own.

  They kept to the same formation as the day before. Balantine walked ahead with Grayling. The captain followed them, with Jamie and Baylor behind the captain, and Griggs and Curtis bringing up the rear. Jamie felt best right where he was, between Griggs and the captain.

  “Yet once more he shall stand on even ground, against his mortal foe, by me upheld . . . while by thee raised, I ruin all my foes.” He stumbled, nearly fell, and regained his footing.

  “Oy, Grayling—old Captain Show-Off is slowing us down,” Griggs called ahead.

  Balantine, who rarely spoke when walking, said over his shoulder, “We’re not leaving him behind, Griggs. You want to take off on your own, have at it.”

  “And good riddance,” Baylor muttered.

  The day was clear and warm. Lovely, really. The only thing they missed was a decent breakfast and boots that wouldn’t blister. Jamie tried to think of sore feet and an empty stomach, instead of Griggs.

  “That thou art happy, owe to God; that thou continuest such, owe to thyself, that is, to thy obedience: therein stand.”

  “Rather heartening, isn’t it?” said Baylor.

  “He’s utterly bladdered,” said Griggs.

  “Good he made thee, but to persevere he left it in thy power—ordained thy will by nature free; not over-ruled by fate.”

  “The whole Victoria Cross thing is probably a myth. They just wanted a babbling lunatic off their hands. ”

  Jamie turned and headed straight for Griggs.

  “Grayling!” Baylor shouted.

  Jamie shoved Griggs. “Mind who you’re calling a lunatic! He outranks you.”

  Griggs shoved back. “I see no stripes.”

  “You and I are gonna have some words pretty soon.”

  “Why don’t we have them now?” He unshouldered and dropped his kit bag. Griggs was half a head taller than Jamie, and seemed to inflate. “Little pansy.”

  A firm hand clamped on Jamie’s shoulder. It wasn’t Grayling, because Grayling showed up alongside with a bellowed though barely heard “Knock it off, you two!” Jamie heard instead firm and quiet words from the one who restrained him, words aimed not at himself but at Griggs:

  “Thyself not free, but to thyself enthralled.”

  The captain’s authority came unmistakably through.

  “Oh, well done! You want me to explain that one to you, Griggsy?” said Baylor.

  Griggs turned on Baylor. “Shut it!”

  “Griggs, I’m warning you.” Grayling put himself between Jamie and Griggs. “You keep up all this needling, and you’re gone.”

  “What do you mean, gone?” Griggs demanded.

  “You’re out. You’re not with us anymore. Is that clear enough? You will not endanger this group. This stupid bickering means less watching.”

  “Oh, really? Look who’s endangering the group!” Griggs pointed at the captain. “Every night that loony bin is up and barking at the moon!”

  Jamie reached around Grayling to shove him. “Mind who you’re calling loony bin!”

  Grayling rounded on Jamie. “And why do you let him provoke you? You should know better.” He looked Griggs up and down. “You too.”

  “That’s right,” said Baylor, and spat.

  Griggs sneered at him. “Since when have you got so bold?” He looked at Jamie. “Since your boyfriend came along?”

  “Close your mouth and fall in line. Both of you.” Grayling went back to his position.

  Griggs snatched up his kit. “If any of us should go, it’s not me,” he muttered. “I was here first. It’s not my fault I got separated from my men. Any one of them is better than this entire lot.”

  “What about me?” Curtis protested.

  “Oh, shut it.”

  The squad of seven took up the march to the sea once more.

  “You don’t back down from Griggs,” Baylor presently observed, after the sting of the encounter had died down. “You haven’t from the first. It’s put some sand back in the rest of us, but I warn you—because of it, he won’t go after you. He’ll go after the captain.”

  “Then that’s his mistake.”

  After a moment, Baylor said, “I think Griggs is a good soldier. But he does have a hateful streak.”

  Jamie said suddenly, “Baylor, listen. If anything should happen to me—”

  “Nothing will,” Baylor cut in. After a moment, he said, “And if it does . . .” He looked at Milton. “I’ll get him home.”

  “HAIL, BELOW!” came a call from above. “Are you decent, Mr. Vance?”

  “Depends who you ask.” Murray came to the companionway, wiping the last of the shaving cream from his neck with a towel. He looked up and got an unflattering angle of a beaming Mrs. Shrewsbury. “You ask Betty Reynolds, no, I ain’t decent. But that was a long time ago.”

  “There’s a lovely little place called Evelyn’s, just up the road. Best sticky toffee pudding in all of England.”

  “I’m game. Let me get some dough. They take American cash? It’s all I got.”

  “I doubt it. Perhaps we can pop into the bank in Teddington to exchange.”

  By the time they got to Evelyn’s place, the sun was setting. It took much longer than expected to exchange Murray’s money, as the bank was mistrustful of the brand-new bills. Apparently America’s paper currency had gone through a redesign and did not match the pictures in the Teddington bank’s currency book. They had to go all the way to London, where one of the banks had an up-to-date book.

  “What do you call this stuff?” Murray asked, his mouth full.

  “Sticky toffee pudding,” said Clare.

  “Ain’t never had anything like it.” He swallowed. “My mother would go nuts. She’s got a sweet tooth to shame every kid who trick-or-treated. Sea foam’s her favorite. They make the best on Long Island, Ruby’s Confectionery.”

  “Sea foam?” asked Mrs. Shrew, perplexed.

  “Brown crunchy stuff, covered with chocolate? Don’t you have that here? Aw, I wish I had some with me, you’d—”

  “Your father’s last words were for you.”

  Murray poked the pudding with his fork, then put it down. “You can sure rain on a parade.”

  “It’s a little hard for me to carry on as usual, knowing what’s going on just over the Channel.”

  And indeed, the words of the men from Scotland Yard proved true: the early editions in the newsstands in London were now filled with ominous updates on the situation with the BEF.

  Some of the papers, it was true, downplayed the news with a lot of hear
ty bravado as they usually did. But in others, like the News Chronicle, one of the papers Mrs. Shrew had bought and read aloud in the cab on the way back to Bexley, the news was far bolder:

  In his brief statement on the war situation yesterday the prime minister made it clear that the tide of German penetration into Belgium and northern France has not yet been stemmed.

  And from the Evening Standard:

  First let us have no ostrichism in our preparations against an invasion of this island. There are still some who scorn the idea. Can Hitler succeed where Napoleon failed? No, they say, the Channel is impregnable. We would do better to prepare for the worst.

  “Your father did something brave, and it cost his life.” Clare felt the heat rise. “But when I say, ‘Your father’s last words were for you,’ you don’t show the slightest interest to know what they were.”

  “You wanna know what it’s like standin’ in a soup line with your mother?” Murray looked up at her. “And she’s tryin’ hard not to show she’s cryin’, wonderin’ how she’s gonna make rent, how she’s gonna put clothes on your back? You wanna know how it feels when she acts like she’s not hungry so you won’t go without? And your old man’s off sailin’ on some boat with your mother’s name on it and not sending anything to help, livin’ free and easy and makin’ misery wherever he goes? You think I care what his last words were?”

  He fell to his pudding with a glower. He took the fork, and then put it down and shoved the plate away. He rubbed his forehead.

  After a moment, he said, “What were they?”

  “He said, ‘Tell Murray I’m sorry it all went to bilge.’” Clare watched him worriedly.

  “What kinda last words are those?” He looked up at Clare, confused. “Say it again.”

  “‘Tell Murray I’m sorry it all went to bilge.’” She winced. “Oh, I wish it were more than that, but I’m sure he said it all with that—I love you, I’m proud you were my son. Mr. Butterfield said your father’s greatest regret was leaving you and your mother.”

  “I’ll bet. Like he left you and a dozen other kids.” He pulled over his plate, took his fork—and a very peculiar look came to his face.

  “What is it, Murray?” asked the Shrew anxiously. “Do you need paper? A pencil? Everyone—hush.”

  “Bilge, eh?” he said. He looked at Clare and said, “Why didn’t he give the packet to the bobbies?”

  Clare shrugged. “He was waiting for the BV to come for it. Mr. Percy said he didn’t trust Scotland Yard. It really seemed to bother Mr. Percy. I suppose he felt that after all the time they’d spent together—”

  “But he trusted me,” Murray said, gaze drifting.

  “What do you mean?”

  The gaze came back to Clare. “I know where the packet is.”

  “But I looked there,” Clare complained, watching Murray.

  “Nope,” Murray grunted. “Not here, you didn’t. You can’t see this place; you can only feel for it.”

  Murray had removed the companionway ladder and pulled up the boards over the engine, opening up the lower deck in Clare’s captain’s room. He lay on his stomach along the edge of the opening, reaching into the space as far as he could to an area on the other side of the engine.

  “Cylinder head,” saying what his hand felt. “Valve cover. Ah. Holding tank.”

  “What is it, exactly?” Clare asked, trying to see through crevices, but it was impossible, he blocked the whole space. Mrs. Shrew held a lantern in one hand and a torch in the other, aiming it fruitlessly at Murray’s back.

  “It’s a fake compartment, made to look like a small holding tank. Bolted right to the engine mount, other side. It’s even insulated. Dad had it put in when he started sailin’ waters where there’s pirates.”

  “Pirates? These days?” said the Shrew, delighted. “Excellent!”

  “He stashed extra money there, in a waterproof pouch.” He grunted, and pulled up his hand. The Shrew shined the torch on it; it was covered with oily gray-and-green goo.

  “Disgusting,” said Clare.

  “That’s bilge,” said Murray. He sifted it between his fingers, then shook it away over the open space. “Water rolls around up there in a bad storm. Gets ugly. Lemme try again, I ain’t done this before. My hand keeps slippin’.”

  He readjusted himself, and reached farther.

  “You can see it if you got a couple of mirrors,” he grunted. “Hang on—okay, cover’s off.” They heard a dull thump. “Yep—there’s something inside. It’s kinda big. Bigger than his money pouch. I don’t know how I’m gonna . . .” He grimaced, strained, and then sat up, sliding something out of the compartment. Mrs. Shrew’s torchlight fell upon a cellophane-wrapped bundle.

  The three looked at one another.

  “Open it,” said Clare.

  “My hands are dirty.” He held it out to her. “You open it.”

  She reverently took the bundle with both hands.

  Murray’s father, and her own, had died to keep it safe.

  “We must get it to William Percy immediately,” she said softly.

  “It’s quite late,” Mrs. Shrew said. “Don’t you think tomorrow is a better idea?” She added a bit reluctantly, “I saw the light on over there, and I know Mr. Percy is talking with that man. I don’t wish to interrupt. I am sure it’s doing the captain good, the man talk. Always did my Cecil good. I’d run him down to the pub on a blue day.”

  “I won’t let him spend another night wondering where it is.” She smoothed her hand over it. “All his hope is in this packet. Hope for America to wake up.”

  Then Clare stilled and looked up, listening.

  “What was that?” Mrs. Shrew said sharply.

  It came again, a sliding thump, not from above but from the side—sounded as though something was bumping up against Maggie’s starboard bow.

  “What on earth?” said the Shrew, steadying herself.

  Clare shoved the packet into Murray’s hands. “Hurry—put it back.”

  “Where’s my teakettle,” Mrs. Shrew murmured, turning into the galley.

  Murray dropped to his stomach and went to work.

  The next noise came from the stern, port side. Heart racing, Clare stared at the curved wall of her cabin. She could feel the vibration of whoever was there. What were they doing? She whirled—that thumping slide at the starboard bow again. Noises from opposite places at the same time.

  There were at least two out there.

  “Quickly, Murray.”

  The companion hatch ladder was lying on its side. She started for it. She had to secure the hatch, but couldn’t reach it without—

  She grabbed the captain’s table to steady herself. “Did you feel that?” she whispered. “They’ve cut the anchor.”

  Murray’s arm was deep in the compartment, his face red with effort. “There—it’s back.” He reached for a compartment board.

  She turned to him. “Murray, whatever happens, they must not get that packet. Your father gave his life for it.”

  The Maggie Bright gave a terrific lurch, and Clare fell sideways into the engine’s open compartment.

  So Clare Childs was the daughter of Arthur Vance, one of the few men William Percy had truly admired. How interesting.

  “Of course, it seemed vain to me at the time,” Captain Elliott was saying. “I likely said as much. But now I’m glad. It really captured him.”

  William wished Clare had known Arthur. And he wished Arthur had known her.

  “He shook the hand of King George, once, when he inspected the regiments. Wish my wife could’ve seen that. She was there, in spirit. Always with Jamie in spirit.”

  Arrogant and insufferable became eccentric and tolerable, the more you got to know him. You began to suspect that something else lay beneath all the smug trappings of a fashionable expat. Something did.

  “Yes,” William said, because something was expected of him. “Handsome lad.”

  Captain Elliott replaced the picture frame on the sh
elf. “There’s the cot for you, Mr. Percy, over there. Mrs. Shrewsbury’s very clever; she’s got the place all kitted out. Right up to specs. Look there.” He pointed to a line of gas masks, hanging on pegs. “And there’s the list of who should be in here. Look at that neat handwriting. She’s a retired schoolteacher. Of course, Minor Roberts came and crossed his name off. He doesn’t like his name on anything. Lives in that old river tug, year-round. Dodgy old sod.”

  The way Clare came straight for him at the police station. The way she cried when looking at the picture of Erich.

  Let him find us holding high the picture of Erich von Wechsler as proof that his own people would not have his ways. So emphatic. So uncomfortably demonstrative.

  It had been so long since William felt any hope.

  Without the army, Hitler would crush them. But to be crushed with hope was far different than to be crushed with despair. Fred told him today that it would take a miracle to save the army, and William wasn’t sure he believed in miracles; but for the first time in a long time he felt hope, and if it wasn’t hope exactly, because he wasn’t even sure what that felt like, then it was a lessening of despair; and that alone felt like a miracle.

  Things felt lighter around her.

  She said things and displayed things that William never could. Freely. Effortlessly. It was another thing about Arthur Vance that he had come to admire. Now that was something to think about: were character traits genetic?

  “Who the devil’s out at this time of night?” said Captain Elliott, and went to the door.

  “What do you mean?”

  “That’s a boat engine,” he said over his shoulder. “A big one.”

  After a heartbeat, William ran after him, cursing himself for a fool.

  We have no allies.

  We are alone.

  The BEF is gone. Vanished, you see, by the man who cast the spell.

  Then a grandmother ran with a pistol, and the pistol became a teakettle, and there was a smashed teacup and a white-bandaged hand and Clare put a kiss on the palm.

  Someone was shaking her.

  Clare tried to open her eyes. “Murray . . .”