by Tracy Groot
—WINSTON CHURCHILL, The Second World War, Volume II: Their Finest Hour
Nothing but a miracle can save the BEF now.
—DIARY ENTRY OF GENERAL ALAN BROOKE, May 23, 1940
We shall have lost practically all our trained soldiers by the next few days—unless a miracle appears to help us.
—DIARY ENTRY OF GENERAL SIR EDMUND IRONSIDE, May 25, 1940
CLARE WASN’T HOME before the sun set. In fact, to her seething chagrin she had to send word to William Percy to meet her at the hospital early Sunday morning, not at the boatyard.
“You look very white,” he said with no other greeting than that, when he came in and found her sitting ready on the edge of the bed. He took off his hat, and shut the door rather firmly to show he was perturbed. “What are they thinking to let you go? You looked better a few days ago.”
“It’s just nerves. I’m keyed up.” She frowned. “This is a day of historic importance—why aren’t you keyed up? It’s a day we officially acknowledge that all is not good. And I don’t care if it’s bad form to say that out loud.”
“Clare, you don’t look well. You can pray right here. I’ll get you some beads. Or whatever they use.”
“That’s Catholic. My family is Protestant. Anyway, I have to go. I know it. I feel it. I want to be with people at a time like this.”
After a moment, he admitted, “I do too.”
“Do you believe in God?”
“I don’t know, really. I believe in people.”
“That’s why I want to be there.” She found she had taken hold of the locket, and let go before William called attention to this fact.
But there was something else. There was some other reason she wanted to go, but it felt elusive and, just when she thought she’d caught hold of it, ephemeral; she saw in her mind an image of Captain John with his hat in his hand, but it vanished before she made sense of it.
“The Shrew and Captain John are going to St. Mark’s together.” She smiled impishly. “An interesting first date, don’t you think? Look—she was a dear, and brought me some proper clothing.” She smoothed her favorite pale-blue skirt.
“So they are letting you leave?” he said doubtfully.
She was glad Mrs. Shrew had also brought some makeup, as well as the smart hat he had wanted to pinch for his sister when he knocked her to the pavement.
“Of course. They just took my temperature and I’ve passed muster. I also told them Scotland Yard would escort me, which of course impressed them. If I do well this morning, they say I should be able to go home this evening.” She added wryly, “You must have made your mark on the nursing staff—when I said who would be escorting me, Detective Inspector William Percy, they went all fluttery. You’re quite well known here. How is that, in a hospital? You’ve taken multiple wounds, then, for king and country?”
“Must be the papers.”
“What papers?”
He looked at his watch. “Clare, we really have no time for chitchat; the service starts at ten. How’s your leg?”
She looked down. “They’ve bound it tightly, as I asked. Sutures are a bit sore, and I can’t put much weight on it, but those crutches will suit fine. The nurse just brought them. Could you hand them to me, please?”
“Are you on morphine?” he asked lightly, walking over to the crutches.
“Certainly not!” she declared. “I will not attend church on morphine. I’m sure I’ll want it by the spoonful for lunch, but I intend to do my beseeching with a clear head. My prayers will be more potent that way.”
He chuckled. “Good girl. Well, I’ve heard there’s a queue all the way to the Houses of Parliament. Perhaps they’ll take pity on a cripple.” He gave her the crutches. “Thanks for getting shot, might land us a decent seat.”
“All the way to Parliament?” she said, rising from the bed, fitting the crutches under her arms—and hiding not only a rush of faintness, but a wince. Oh dear. She didn’t worry too much about the leg, but could already feel a nasty pull on her left side. The doctors suspected not one but two broken ribs. She had a fleeting second thought about the morphine, and banished it for heresy. Some things ought not be done in a church. She’d pass under that arch and every saint in heaven would fall upon her for an addict. She’d just have to bear it, and felt sure the saints would cheer her determination for clearheaded beseechment.
William said, “I’ve heard Queen Wilhelmina from the Netherlands will be there, besides Churchill, the entire cabinet, the Admiralty, and of course, the king and queen. Movie stars, too. Most people are likely going just to see all the celebrities.”
“At least they’re going,” said Clare fervently, a sudden pang on her heart. She couldn’t bear the thought of Captain John losing his son. He was a boy she’d never met, but he mattered to her because Captain John did. He was the one person to put a face on the entire army for her. “The BEF will need all the prayers they can get. Even from not-quite believers, such as you and I.”
He held the door wide for her, and put on his gray felt fedora. “Did your parents go to church?”
And there it came again, the image of Captain John and a hat.
“Clare?”
Captain John vanished.
She realized he was looking at her hand, which clasped the locket.
“Are you all right?” he said sharply. “You’re sure you’re up for this?”
“Yes, of course.” She smiled and let go the locket. “With all my heart.”
After days of unseasonable sunshine, the morning was overcast and with just enough snap in the air for Clare to be grateful for the long spring coat Mrs. Shrew had brought.
The queue was long indeed, winding around the corner and down the road from Westminster Abbey, long past where Clare could see. They waited in line for a very long time before pity was taken on Clare by a strap-helmeted policeman who must have recognized William Percy, since he deferred to him far more than he conferred pity on Clare—to the point of fawning obsequiousness—and the two were picked up by car from their spot at least a quarter of a mile out, and then escorted to a place just yards from the front of the line, where they waited through the receiving of dignitaries to enter themselves.
“I’ll bet everyone wishes they’d been shot,” William said, noting the rather peevish looks they received upon assuming their new place in line.
“I’ve never been more grateful.” Some seemed to wonder if they were dignitaries themselves, until they saw Clare’s crutches and the wonder turned sour. She felt mildly indignant, and then mildly guilty, but this privileged place did indeed afford a dazzling chance for glimpses of leaders and statesmen and royalty, people she might never see again, all gathered in this one austere and beautiful and historic place . . . all for the purpose of prayer. Prayer! These notables, who very soon would figuratively (perhaps literally, and certainly publicly) bend the knee before God! No wonder, Mrs. Shrew’s astonishment. From the moment Clare and William had joined the queue, she’d felt . . .
“I feel an overwhelming sense of portent.” She gazed enraptured at the beautiful, massive building.
“They probably wonder if you’re faking it.”
“The portent or the injury?”
His lips twitched in that rare smile. “The injury, my dear.”
“Oh, I’ll happily show off my sutures. The broken rib may be awkward. I may get arrested for exposure.”
“Broken rib?” Any suggestion of a smile vanished.
“Or two. From the engine.”
“Why didn’t I know of this?”
“Don’t ever fall on an engine. It’s very uncomfortable. Stop looking at me like that. There’s nothing they can do. It’s not like they can cast it.” She clutched his arm. “Look, is that—?”
Winston Churchill strode past, a leather satchel in one hand and a walking stick in the other.
“How do you think he’s suiting?” she asked thoughtfully, watching him go.
“Bit early to tell. Myself, I think he came
in the nick of time. I find it interesting that he assumed power on May 10, the very day that Hitler began his western strike. Look what’s happened in only two weeks: the swiftest overthrow of Holland imaginable, and now, Belgium and France.” He glanced at Westminster Abbey, and muttered, “And you wonder why we’re praying . . .”
“Who’s that?” Clare pointed at a slightly thick woman who cut a very impressive figure, clad in a long, dark, fur-trimmed cape, wearing a dark, respectable hat, greeted by a frocked bishop holding a program who received her quite respectfully, and ushered her in.
“I think it’s—”
“It’s Queen Wilhelmina, from Holland,” a young woman behind them quickly supplied. “She’s here to pray for her country. Isn’t that marvelous?” She gazed about, wide-eyed. “Isn’t this terribly exciting? All these great people?”
“I can’t believe it,” Clare agreed firmly. “Did you see Churchill?”
“Yes! And look—doesn’t that look like Vera Lynn? I think it’s her.”
“Really? Where?” She looked to where the young woman pointed, and agreed that it might be her.
Clare was glad to have someone with whom to share these bits—William seemed positively bored. If not bored, then deliberately unimpressed, and it peeved Clare.
As if he overheard her thoughts, he muttered, “Honestly. They’re just people, Clare.”
“They’re great people. Churchill is a leader, and the leaders have a great deal of pressure on themselves.”
“They have a job to do, and they’d bloody well do it.”
“Well said, guv,” mumbled the man standing next to the woman.
“They were elected to do it,” William said, as if that settled any issue of greatness.
“Or born to do it,” said Clare. “In which case, they don’t have any choice in the matter.”
“True. Either way, they have their duties and we have ours.”
“Look—the king and queen!”
Murmurs swept down the queue. Fervent monarchists applauded.
“Oh, I’m so glad Edward abdicated!” said the young woman, a hand pressed to her heart. “Isn’t King George handsome? Doesn’t the queen suit?”
Their majesties came striding by, looking quite heroically like anyone else in line. People they passed took off their hats to them. Hats . . .
“Oh, well done! The king’s wearing his officer’s uniform,” the woman said, as if they couldn’t see.
Clare put a hand to her cheek. “Look at the queen, how lovely—Mrs. Shrew would love that dress, so beautifully feminine. Nothing androgynous about it. Oh, look at those sleeves, look at that hat. It’s quite inspiring.”
“Inspiring?” William demanded.
“Yes, isn’t it just?” said the woman behind them.
“Very much so.” Clare turned to her. “She’s lovely, and put-together, and—”
“Well, just look how she walks,” the woman said.
“Exactly! As if—”
“As if, sod Hitler, I’ll carry on if bombs are dropping and I’ve got a Luger up my nose!”
“Precisely!” Clare beamed at her.
The young woman smiled, and squeezed Clare’s arm. “I wish we could sit together. I’m Blanche.”
“Clare.”
“Never in all my days . . .”
“Mine, either.”
“It’s all so terribly exciting.”
“Horrible, and awful, and monstrous, and perilous enough to provoke something as incredibly momentous as this—this calling together of an entire nation to prayer, all to bow the knee—but yes, exciting. Very much so.”
“Exactly.” Blanche nodded firmly.
“We’re together.”
“That’s exactly it.”
William made a very small and long-suffering noise. Blanche’s husband made something of the same.
“What happened to your leg?” Blanche asked.
“I was shot.” It was the first time she said it, and it was most satisfying.
“You never were!”
“By a German spy.” She must learn how to say it without that twitch of a smile.
She must work at being offhanded.
Blanche gasped. She clutched Clare’s arm. “You’re not the one on the Thames? In the boat?”
Clare’s composure faltered. She looked at William. “Is it news, then?”
“Is it news?” Blanche squeaked. She pounded her husband on the arm. “It’s all over the newsstands! How your houseboat was hijacked by a group of Fifth Columnist spies planning to bomb Parliament and—” She gasped, a long and severe intake of breath. “Oh—my—goodness.” She stared at William, eyes ready to tip out of their sockets. Her cheek moved in a tiny rhythmic spasm just below her left eye. It seemed to affect her mouth, which trembled just a bit. “You’re not William Percy.”
He gave a small and instantly disappearing smile.
Strangled and hoarse, pounding her husband’s arm with every word, she said, “He’s—William—Percy! Hero—of—the Thames/Parliament caper!”
For the first time, her husband showed interest. He looked William up and down. “Oh. Well done, guv.”
“Can I have your autograph?” said an eager listening teenager.
“This is the man who foiled the bombing of Parliament!” Blanche glanced about wildly for those who had ears to hear.
Just then, a young uniformed man came to escort them to the door. Clare gave Blanche an uncertain good-bye wave. She did not wave back. She just watched them leave, mouth open, eyes round.
“Hero of the Thames/Parliament caper.” Clare advanced carefully with the crutches. It was getting a little harder to maneuver the things.
“I told you, I have a friend at the Daily Mirror. I helped him write it. It’s my penance.”
“Seems Mrs. Shrew didn’t tell me all the news.” Clare glanced at him as they followed slowly behind the young man, who paused occasionally to make sure they came. She set her teeth. Every landing of the crutches spiked pain in her left side. “What do you mean, penance?”
“There’s nothing more humiliating than being a hero, is there?”
“Yes, but penance for what?”
“Well, with the gunshots, the incident had caused quite an uproar. We had to scramble to make up a story. I’d never let Klein have the satisfaction of public truth, that he got away, and that Scotland Yard had failed. That I had failed.” He smiled coldly.
Clare paused, studying him.
“This way, miss,” said the solicitous young man over his shoulder.
“Someday the truth will be known about him,” William said grimly, mostly to himself.
“So you’re not done with him.”
He looked at her in a flash of surprised disgust. But she was getting to know him, and knew the disgust was not in the least bit for her. “When was I ever done with him? I’ll be done when I can write his obituary.”
Perhaps it was quite wrong, the uprush of primitive pride.
Was this a proper thing to feel—pride at the thought of this man killing another? And just as she was about to walk into a cathedral?
She saw the laughing face of Erich von Wechsler, and a little girl in a pink dress, first plucking petals from a daisy, and then safe in the arms of a brother who would never let anything hurt her. She thought of the words of Mr. Butterfield, William Percy’s “magnificent obsession.”
Maybe it wasn’t proper. But primitive pride was the truth of what she felt, and if she’d not had crutches to manage, she’d slip her hand into his.
They sat at the end of a row. The service began, and Clare wanted to hold every second close, she wanted to breathe it in and make it part of her cellular makeup forever, but the hats distracted her; all she wanted since the moment she came into this magnificent place was to observe pure portent, but instead, encountered a botheration of hats.
Hats, everywhere hats, doffed, slipped off, held at sides, tucked under an arm, laid in a lap.
“It’s
so catastrophic you can’t even think of it,” Clare whispered to William over the roaring of the hats. “Look at all of this beauty. The lovely people. This cathedral. It could be taken from us.”
Confound the hats.
What were they trying to say?
“Is that the way people get through crises like these?” she said. It was very warm in here. She unbuttoned her jacket. “They do their best not to think of it? They just keep moving forward, like the queen? I’ve never had a real crisis.”
He turned a look upon her. He whispered, “You lost your parents when you were eleven.”
“That wasn’t a crisis. It was the end of the world.” She gazed at the soaring ceiling. “I keep thinking of my father. And curiously, Arthur Vance. I would like to have known him. We must go for tea and you must tell me everything you know about him, to the nth degree, short of me hiring a hypnotist for the last scrap. Oh dear.” She glanced about the massive cathedral. “That was a joke. Hypnotist.”
An elderly lady in front of them turned and glared. She put a finger to her lips. Even William gave a little sideways remonstrative glance of his own.
“Oh. Right. Sorry,” Clare whispered, and put a finger to her own lips to show she got the message. She leaned to William and whispered as quietly as she could, “You really can’t think of it. That they are coming. The Nazis. They will profane this place, like Klein profaned Maggie. I don’t mean this place, exactly. I mean England. I think that’s the secret of sticking to your duty—you can’t think of it. You’ve got to look straight ahead.” She gave a firm Mrs. Shrew nod. “You’ve got to be unemotional. Plenty of time for emotion later. What is called for now is singularity of purpose. This is . . . what did you say, earlier? The end of everything lovely and good. Someone said it.”
Several people turned to look at her.
“Clare . . . ?” His look was not one of remonstration but of something else.
“Oh. Right. Sorry.”
He took her hand and she smiled, and then realized he was taking her pulse.
Hats covered in gold braid and shiny golden emblems. Fedoras. Bowlers.
Policemen helmets.
And then things grew still.