by Tracy Groot
“Baylor, if my mates thought I might agree with you, they’d beat me up.”
“I’d hold you down,” Griggs said, passing by and flipping up the back of Baylor’s helmet.
“Griggs, you are a twice-uncircumcised Philistine,” Baylor observed, righting his helmet and his glasses, “yet, you do have your qualities.”
“Twice? How is that possible?” said Jamie.
“I wanted emphasis.”
“Come on, let’s go,” said Balantine. “We’re almost there, I can see the Channel through those buildings. Fall in.” He waited until they were in usual formation, started walking, then stopped and turned. He briefly looked each in the eye. “Whatever happens, we stick together, right?”
“Yeah, you said that once,” Griggs complained. “Never met such a group of women.”
“I’m glad you’re the prettiest,” said Jamie. “Lots of men on that beach. We won’t get bothered.”
“Oh shut it, Elliott. It’s the captain who’s the prettiest but I don’t think they’ll fancy a lunatic.”
Another time, not long ago, Jamie would’ve had a go at him. This time he only said, “Well, then you’re twice safe.”
Even Curtis laughed.
And Milton, first time talking since the bombed-out storefront, said softly, “What in me is dark, illumine. What is low—”
“Raise and support,” the others chorused. A delighted Baylor added, “Well done, Milty! You’re back!”
WILLIAM PERCY PULLED into Elliott’s Boatyard and parked on the other side of the lorry. He turned off the engine and rested his wrists on the steering wheel. He couldn’t see Maggie Bright from here; she was at her berth at the end of the dock, obstructed from view by the boathouse.
He had no logical reason to be here, yet he couldn’t stay away.
The operation, day before last, had gone well. Quite well, in fact. It was boring, one of the surgeons had told them in an effort to ease their minds. Just how we like it.
The infection surrounding the spleen had been cleared out, and part of the spleen was removed—they were assured that Clare would get along fine with a partial spleen. Then the surgeon said, with the first hint of gravity, that now all they had to do was wait for several days to make sure no vestige of infection had entered her bloodstream. She was allowed no visitors during that time.
He got out of the car and pocketed his keys, shutting the car door. He jingled the keys in his pocket, looking around. He heard singing, wasn’t sure where it came from.
What could he say to explain his presence? He’d known her less than a week.
He had the keys out of his pocket and the car door opened, when something about the boatyard made him look again. Where was John Elliott’s fishing trawler? And the ratty house tug they had commandeered from the old recluse to follow after Maggie Bright? What about the Chris Craft vessel with the mahogany hull, laid up in dry dock?
Mrs. Shrewsbury came singing around the corner of the boathouse, wearing a dress and a hat, carrying gloves and a purse. She stopped short when she saw him and waved enthusiastically.
William cursed under his breath and produced a wave.
“Hello, Detective Inspector!” she sang as she approached. “I was just on my way to St. Mark’s to pray for Clare, and the BEF, and Captain John, and Minor Roberts. Would you care to join me?”
Minor Roberts—the recluse who owned the ratty house tug. Handy in a pinch, that man.
“Actually, is Murray about?” he asked, the first thing that came to mind to get out of it. He shut the car door.
“Yes, he’s on the Maggie Bright, in the bow. Drawing,” she added significantly, leaning in with a raised brow. “I couldn’t resist a very clandestine peek, and there he was for the first time in five months: Rocket Kid.” She withdrew, beaming, as if William should know what she was talking about and rejoice.
“Oh. Yes. He’s an illustrator or something. Well, I best get along then. Got a bit of news for him about Father Fitzpatrick.”
“He’s to be released?”
“This afternoon.”
“Wonderful!”
“Butterfield will pick him up from the American embassy and bring him by. They are making arrangements to get him home to the States.”
“Arrangements for the States. Think of it: ordinary travel plans. Isn’t it lovely that we are all carrying on just as if the barbarian were not at the gates? I must pick up a cake for the dear Burglar Vicar, and just think of that: an ordinary cake. Of course, I’m sure I have a far better recipe, but that awful galley stove does not deliver consistent heat. Not for a cake. It shall be a Dundee cake, then. Oh, you must come for the cake, Mr. Percy! Mr. Butterfield, too. We’ll have a regular party.” She put a hand to her cheek. “Such a pity that Clare cannot be here. And that man. She’s the heart of the boat, and I do believe Maggie misses her. Well, there’s nothing for it. Stiff upper lip.” She gave a firm nod. “Off I go. Infection doesn’t stand a chance, all the prayers that have gone up in this land. Heaven is stormed, Mr. Percy, and our prayers for Clare ride some very formidable coattails. I wish I could actually see it, the whole cosmic scope, as my Cecil does. Right, then. I will see you soon, Inspector.” She started off.
“Mrs. Shrewsbury—what did you mean, to pray for Captain John and Minor Roberts?”
She stopped short, surprised. “Haven’t you heard? They’ve gone.”
“Gone where?”
“Why, Mr. Tough from the Teddington boatyard came by the other day—the day our Clare was in surgery. They’re collecting boats. Bringing them down to South End. He had a weather eye upon Maggie and other worthies.”
“For what?”
“Well, no one knows exactly, though they can’t think we are complete idiots, can they? All the things we’re hearing from Dover and Ramsgate? Surely . . .” She softened, gazing toward the boatyard, likely at the place where Captain John’s trawler had been. “Surely, for an heroic venture. ‘Awake, awake, English nobility . . .’” Then she smiled at him. “Shakespeare. Henry VI. What must be borne shall be borne, and we shall fight on. Yes, Inspector?”
“Yes, Mrs. Shrewsbury.”
“Good day, then.”
He touched his hat. “Good day.”
She started off.
“Mrs. Shrewsbury!”
She turned, and he never felt more foolish in his life because it was one thing to bandy words with a fevered woman, quite another with a lucid woman off for church and Dundee cake.
“How do you suppose prayer works?”
Mrs. Shrewsbury tilted her head, very interested. “What a wonderful question. I’m not sure how it works. I can say what I believe it does. I believe prayer kicks things out of the way. I believe it does so to make room for a better outcome. I believe prayer illuminates our paths so we can see more clearly, choose our way more wisely.”
“Clare spoke of a shatterer, that it has come against us.” Good Lord, what was he trying to say? He gripped the car keys short of puncturing skin.
“Did she?” She came a few steps back, her expression thoughtful. He didn’t like that thoughtfulness. She shouldn’t take him seriously. “Well, why do you think the king has called for prayer?”
“I say shatterer, and you seem to know what I’m talking about.”
“We all go to war, Mr. Percy. You shall go to war, and so shall I.” Then the stark-blue eyes crinkled into a smile. “And I shall doubtless come again rejoicing, bringing my Dundee cake with me. Good day to you, sir.”
“Good day.”
He watched her leave.
She had a bit of Clare in her. Something spellbinding.
He was here because she was right. Clare was the heart of the boat, and that is where he wanted to keep vigil. And if he wasn’t sure he believed as she, that prayer could actually do something, he was glad Mrs. Shrewsbury was praying.
Murray was in the bow, but he wasn’t drawing. He sat on a coil of rope, a drawing pad and pencils at his feet. He watched the r
iver.
“Three boats missing,” said William. “It’s a small boatyard. You feel it.”
Murray looked over, but didn’t answer.
William sat on a sail locker. “May I have a look?” he asked of the open drawing pad.
Murray shrugged. He pushed the pad over with his toe.
William did not know art, but these drawings were good. Very good, in fact. He flipped through a few pages.
“So this is the famous Rocket Kid.”
Murray didn’t answer.
He read the captions and studied the drawings. He chuckled. “Good to see justice somewhere. If Hitler saw these, you’d be enemy number one on the Nazi hit list.” He looked closer at one particular drawing. “I don’t think they’d fancy . . . whatever it is this fellow is doing to Hitler.”
“Zappin’ his guts out with a ray gun,” Murray murmured.
“And all of this is . . . ?”
Murray looked. “His guts flyin’ out. Kids like guts. Editors don’t. Sam will ax the guts, but before he does, I want the colorist to see it. He’ll love it. We think alike. Then afterward, we’ll have ourselves a requiem for the axed guts.”
“A requiem?”
“A wake to say good-bye to the good stuff.”
“Who’s this little fellow? He has some . . . guts on him.”
“Salamander.”
He handed back the drawing pad. He found a pack of uncrushed cigarettes in his pocket and offered one to Murray. Murray cupped his hand around William’s lighter, and withdrew. He lit one for himself and they smoked in silence, watching the waters of the Thames.
William closed his eyes. He could actually feel her here. This boat was so her, everything about it, the paper Chinese lanterns, the decorated Bed and Breakfast sign, all so light and free-spirited, so aching to spread canvas to the wind, and yet held at anchor for a time. The first woman to single-handedly circumnavigate the world, she’d said at the restaurant; so declarative and projecting—to think he once thought it perversely naive and boasting. It was utterly sincere.
“Why are you here, bobby?”
“Because she’s here.” His eyes flew open. There was no recovering from that one, so he said quickly, “I’m here because the B—because Father Fitzpatrick is released. He’s at the embassy for travel arrangements. My associate is picking him up and will bring him by.” He added, “I saw Mrs. Shrewsbury. She’s getting a cake for him.”
Murray half smiled.
“Butterfield is arranging for dual passage. You can accompany him, if you like.”
For the first time, Murray looked directly at him. “What if I don’t like?”
William eyed him and drew on his cigarette.
“What if I wanna stay and fight Nazis?”
An eyebrow rose. He pressed out his cigarette on the bottom of his shoe, and tossed it overboard. “The other day Mrs. Shrewsbury told me you’re an isolationist. You’re in some group.”
“That was before Waldemar Klein shot Clare.”
A scalding red flash to his gut.
A boat motored by. William mustered a smile and a nod, the skipper nodded back.
“Klein killed my father?”
Another scalding flash. “Yes.”
“You know what their mistake was, bobby? They went after kids. They do that . . .” Murray shook his head. “Ain’t no politics no more.”
“That’s what your father believed.”
“Look there.” He turned and pointed with his cigarette to the base of the foremast. “That’s to honor Mags and my old man. Clare said she wanted a record of her exploits.” The number 5 stood out, carved neatly into the wood. “Our press always showed up Hitler as a joke, you know?” He flicked the cigarette overboard. “Just an empty-headed, jumped-up sad sack with these big old delusions, and we all figured it was just a matter of time before he got his butt kicked back to where it belonged.”
“That didn’t happen.”
“Now it will.” He hesitated, then said, “You think Clare’ll make it?”
“I know Mrs. Shrewsbury’s praying.” He was glad he came, just for that. She was so sure of herself. She believed prayer worked, she wasn’t the sort to go off and do it if she didn’t believe it would help, and something about that was old-fashioned, and stout, and . . . needed.
You shall go to war, and so shall I.
“Hope she’s handy that way, like with the kettle.” Murray chuckled. “You shoulda seen what she did to one of Klein’s men.”
“If you stay, what will you do?”
Murray shrugged. “I dunno. I wanna fight. Maybe join one of them foreign legion things. I can’t wait around for America to go to war.”
“You might wait a long time for that.”
“I don’t know. Roosevelt said something that stuck with me. Remember when Warsaw was bombed? And all them innocent people died? Frankie made a speech. He said even a neutral can’t be asked to close his mind or conscience. And he left it hanging, what a person should do with that. Left it to you to follow your conscience. Wasn’t sure I liked that. It was too broad, you know? Anyway, it gives me hope that America will get involved.” He looked at the drawing pad at his feet. “And if I can’t join up someplace, there’s something I can do. And make people laugh at him to boot.”
“Excuse me—is the owner of this vessel about?”
They looked to see a thirtysomething uniformed seaman standing at the end of the dock. He carried a clipboard.
They rose, and went to the port rail.
“That would be my sister, and no, she ain’t,” Murray said.
The man consulted the clipboard. “Maggie Bright has been registered with the Small Vessels Pool for privately owned craft. Actually, she’s one of the few craft that was, only about forty, when the call went out.” He looked up. “I’m Lieutenant Wares, Royal Navy. We’re looking for any vessel with a shallow draft.”
“How shallow?” said Murray.
“Ideally, three feet. Capable of inshore ferrying work.”
“Her draft is closer to five.”
“At this point, I don’t care.”
“What’s this about?”
“Saving the British Army.” He tucked the clipboard under his arm. “With no guarantee she’ll make it back. Germans are already shelling the direct route between Dover and Dunkirk. We now have to take a long detour to get there—makes an eighty-seven-mile trip out of what should be thirty-nine. We’re now rounding at the Kwinte Buoy.”
Heroic venture, Mrs. Shrewsbury had said. William looked to where Captain John’s trawler had been.
“What do you mean, saving the British Army?” Murray asked.
“They’re trapped on Dunkirk beach. Entire army. Including a lot of French soldiers, I’ve heard.”
“What’s Maggie got to do with that?”
“The destroyers cannot get in close enough to load from the beaches, even at high tide. It’s too shallow, a mile out. Motors get clogged with sand, propellers fouled by debris. We’re working only from a flimsy mole in the Dunkirk harbor, nothing more than a breakwater, really, not built to take the weight of queuing men. So, there’s a call out for all the small craft that can be mustered. We were here the other day, but no one else was.” He nodded at the boat. “Mr. Elliott wouldn’t let us take it without permission. Of course, we’re a bit past that at this point. Things are quite desperate. Looking at conscription.”
“Not this one, you ain’t.”
“You mean to say they’re taking yachts like these?” said William. It was hard to believe. “This can only hold maybe—forty, fifty men, tops?”
“A vessel this size, they’re packing in twice that, I’ve heard; and they’ll take anything that floats. Fishing trawlers. River tugs. Lifeboats. They’re all going over. Even holiday ferries, like the Brighton Queen and Gracie Fields. London fireboats, cockleboats—you name it. Hundreds have gone over already, but they need more. Lots more.” Some emotion passed over the man’s face, a momentary interr
uption of naval competence. “We’ve already lost some, either by direct bombing or by mines in the water.” He looked at Maggie Bright. “She has a wooden hull; at least she won’t attract any magnetic mines.”
“Like I said—she ain’t goin’ anywhere, pal. Not without my sister’s say. And she ain’t sayin’. She’s in the hospital.”
He looked at the clipboard. “I have here a Clare Childs who registered the Maggie Bright two weeks ago. I’m assuming she’s the owner?”
“You’re saying that’s some kind of permission?” Murray nodded at the clipboard.
Bluff called, he said with a trace of stiff reluctance, “Not exactly . . .”
Murray paced in a very small area, hands in his waistband, staring hard at the naval officer. “A, Clare ain’t here to say it’s okay. B, this boat is her home. It’s all she’s got.”
There came again a mild break with naval composure. “Look, I’ve been dealing with this all day,” he said testily. “You’d think people would actually jump at the chance to save human beings. They have no idea how bad things are.” He pointed the clipboard south. “Don’t you understand? If the army goes, so goes the country! Doesn’t anyone understand that?”
“You’re having trouble collecting boats, then?” said William.
The officer looked blankly at the clipboard, and sighed, dropping it by his side. He wearily rubbed his forehead. “Don’t get me wrong. Most are quite willing, and people like that brighten my day. They even want to go themselves. But some fuss about compensation, some fuss about their boats being crewed by the navy—”
“Oh, she for sure wouldn’t be crewed by anyone but me,” Murray said, jerking his thumb at his chest. “I know her. I know that motor. I know how she runs, I know how she thinks.” He looked south. “But I only know the Med. I don’t know the Channel. Not them waters.”
“I do.”
Murray looked at William. “Yeah? So?”
“I can go with you.”
“She ain’t goin’ anywhere without—”
“I have no time to run to a hospital for permission,” said the officer. “There isn’t time for protocol, there’s only time for action. Those men are dying. I’ve seen some of the destroyers come into Ramsgate—those soldiers have been through hell. Look, just—both of you talk it out. Arrive at some conclusion, will you?” He looked at Murray. “If you’re her brother, you decide, but be warned: I’m a hairsbreadth from conscription, and I can do it.” Less severely, he said, “I’ll be back later, but if I’m not, if you should choose immediately to do the right thing, then strip her down of anything that can make room for a man, and get her down to the Tower pier. Boats are rendezvousing there, and then it’s on to Sheerness, where they’ll be taken over by tug to save fuel for the ferrying work. They’re mostly crewed by the navy, but . . . look—” he paused to scratch his head—“we are low on men. They’re reporting in spurts from all over the country, but . . . if you know the engine, you’d be a—”