Maggie Bright (29 page)

May 31, 1940. Or is it June 1.

From: A Barn in Dover

To: The London Hospital

Whitechapel Road

Whitechapel

Room number unknown. Please deliver to: Clare Childs, she who recently underwent a partial spleen-ectomy.

My Dear Clare,

There is much to tell and little time to tell it for the need is ghastly great; and for the first time I curse the fact that I am 67. My body, I have discovered in this test of tests, is inhabited by a spirit who thinks it is 27. I am weary, and appalled by this treasonous fact. I feel the day in my spine.

I shall explain.

I arrived at the Dover train station not by rail, as the entire railway system has been commandeered. Our men are being received in Ramsgate and Dover, where they are revitalized by extremely necessary stopgap measures, and then shuttled off to all parts of England. They arrive at the harbor shipload by shipload, boat by boat, in every condition you can think, bodies as well as boats. One ship literally sank in the harbor as men disembarked. What heights of exaltation to watch men dive into the water to save others! I wept aloud. We all did.

Some ships come in blackened and burning. Some, without a scratch. Every time one comes, anyone present rejoices aloud, as angels do when a sinner comes home. I am part of something never before seen in England, perhaps never to be seen again, acutely aware of the historicity, and it is marvelous to behold. We are free with expression and feelings. We weep, we rejoice, we encourage, we pray, and we do so freely, and there is a wide-open place for it.

At present I am in a barn, tucked in a corner and guilty for taking time to write this, but my feet must rest if I am to soldier on. A farmer has put up wooden planks for tables, and we endlessly make sandwiches from endless loaves of bread made by housewives and ladies’ societies and schools and churches. We cut cheese and ham, we spread butter. The food comes from everywhere. A timid young lady with a child on her hip came bearing a basket of boiled eggs. For all of the acts of generosity I have seen, this one touched me most. She set it down, and left, and I watched her go, a sweet patriot of England, a deed unthanked and unsung and unseen but by me, who shall remember it always. Of all that my Cecil has seen, looking down, at this I am sure he wept. Indeed I whispered, “Did you see what I know has moved heaven?”

Oh, what a state the boys are in
 
—one so dazed, I put a roll in his hand and he did not know what to do with it
 
—and
oh, what pulling together on their behalf. What love from strangers for strangers, but we find after all that we are family. (Do not mind the spots on this page; they shall be dried and wrinkled by the time you read this. Forgive bits of illegibility.) Our poor boys are famished and dehydrated. Some are wounded, previously or during what must have been a frightful passage home. They have not slept since only God knows when, and some fall asleep drinking tea. They bear the mark of one who has passed through a night of terrors, grateful it is over though not quite believing it.

Did you hear the news of the
Grafton
and the
Wakeful
? They were two of our destroyers, en route to Dover from Dunkirk, and they were lost, lost, only two days ago. (Or was it three? I am bemused.) 700 souls. 700, my dear! It is believed the ships were torpedoed by U-boats, a bit unclear at present. 700 souls, and I hope to God one of them is not Private Jamie Elliott, son of that man.

I find that I want a teakettle at times. It is a weakness, I fear, this desire to seize a kettle and shriek.

A situational snapshot: When a boat comes in, we greet it. We escort men to a stopgap place
 
—a cinema, a church, a factory
 
—and feed them whatever we have on hand: sausage rolls, meat pies, biscuits, cakes, bread, boiled eggs, along with great quantities of tea, coffee, milk, hot cocoa. Then the lads “fall out” as they are, often asleep with food in hand, and we women push them bodily into lines, and remove their battered equipment, hats, and boots, and socks. Their feet are in a pitiable state, and the socks are soaked with blood; we take the socks outside to wash them, and bring them back to lay over their boots to dry.

Some women weep when we wash the socks, and I let them weep for me; some of us are fated to show a strong face, and thus inspire others to constancy and courage. Dear Lord, how hard it is at times, when I scrub the blood from my nail beds.

But you mustn’t think all is sodden and weepy! Dear me, it is not the case. There is great laughter, and good chaos, and all manner of joking, with a blanket of jubilant relief upon all, and sometimes unexpected delight. Just hear what happened this morning: I led a stupefied group of five or six to a spot in the barn, filled their hands with food and their heads with soothing declarations of comfort, and I was about to run off for the next lot, when one of them said, quite surprised:

“It’s not the Shrew, is it?”

I discovered beneath the grime and the stubble, “Danny Morgan!” I thoroughly sized him up and said, “Well, you’ve gone and made something of yourself. There’s a pleasant surprise. Your parents must be shocked.”

Said he with a bonny grin: “It’s the Shrew, all right. Lads! My teacher from West Kirby!”

Oh, it was grand.

How good it is to be here.

There is a banner hanging in the barn. I’ve seen many like it in town, and I am told they line the rails so the boys can see them on their way home. There are many versions, and this one says: WELL DONE, BEF! Well, I happened to overhear one of them as he stood staring at the banner. Said he, quite loudly, and with angry surprise: “Well done? What have we bloody done?”

It provoked me to quick thought.

You see, I saw it all in a moment, the curious reason why some looked so deeply dejected and even fearful as they came upon land, as if waiting for the back hand of a looming nasty old nanny.

I immediately went to this fellow’s side. Said I: “Well, you have bloody well come home, and you will bloody well go back, so that banner is bloody good enough for me and for everyone else. We are bloody glad you are home, and if our gladness erupts in ways that you think are bloody inappropriate, then you must bear with us for a time as
bloody old well-meaning fools.” Now note: you are well accustomed to the fact that in my day-to-day discourse, I refrain from common language. I felt compelled to its use so that this young man, by the juxtaposition of vulgar commonality and my serene aged countenance, would be startled into a better state of mind. It was a tactical move, and worked splendidly. The lad smiled most brilliantly, threw an arm around me, and said, “Thank you, mum.” I said, “Welcome home, boy. I’m glad you’re here.” (Drat the spots. Forgive them.)

A destroyer is in. I am wanted. Must go.

Bemused with fatigue and having the time of my life, yours affectionately,

The Shrew

P.S. I do hope all is well. Please mend quickly.

P.P.S. There you are in all your ordinary living, and you are called upon to do something marvelous.

P.P.P.S. Do I not see answered prayers before my eyes, in every sense that prayers can be answered? To a great degree, we are the answer, in hurried organization, in every sandwich made, every cup of tea thrust into a weary hand
 
—so pray, my dear, pray. Pray for our sustaining, pray for theirs. Pray to kick things out of the way and get this army home, for it works; before my eyes it works. Don’t mind the spots. Must go. Loads love. Shrew.

Clare folded the letter.

Acutely aware of the historicity. Marvelous to behold.

Well.

I’m
not beholding historicity. I’m not in a barn; I’m not welcoming
them home. I’m not called upon to do something marvelous. I’m not even boiling eggs. Here I rot, “like a dead daisy!”

She snatched a pillow and hurled it at the vase of wilting daisies. It sailed off the table and crashed to the floor. She pulled another pillow over her face, and burst into tears. I’m not taking care of the Shrew! I’m not convincing a soldier of his worth! Worst of all, I am
not
sailing Maggie to fetch them! She
rots
at her berth, same as I!

“I can’t even get
up
to clean a mess I’ve made,” she wailed, and sobbed like a child.

She heard the sound of broken glass scraped together.

“It’s all right, I’ve got it,” came a pleasant voice.

She froze.

She pulled aside the pillow and didn’t see anyone. Tried to sit up, couldn’t. She hadn’t had a look under the bandages yet, but good heavens, the incision on her stomach felt a foot wide.

“Hello?”

“Good to see you again, Miss Childs. I hear you’re doing much better.” Father Fitzpatrick rose from the end of the bed and waved a fistful of wilted daisies. “They make a nice little broom.” He looked about and spotted a trash bin.

While he finished cleaning up the mess, she hastily cleaned herself up, snatching tissues, wiping her face, blowing her nose.

“It’s good to see you as well, Father Fitzpatrick,” she said civilly. It was anything but. Did he see her throw the pillow and burst into tears? “I’m sorry I can’t sit up yet.”

“I can’t imagine you could,” said the American vicar, returning the trash bin and pulling up a chair. “Had my appendix out years ago, couldn’t move for days. Then again, clergy and doctors make the worst patients.” He nodded to the table at the foot of the bed. “I’ve brought you some cake. What’s left of it, anyway. It’s very good. I also brought something you might like to take a look at, before I bring it back to the States. Mr. Butterfield thought you would.”

He produced a gray-green folder and handed it to her.

She started to open it but got a funny feeling. She gave him a swift glance. “This isn’t . . . ?”

“It is. Cleaned up a bit. Still smells moldy.”

Her heart picked up pace, and tears began before she even saw the papers for which Arthur Vance died.

Every item was a photograph of an original. She saw copies of ledgers with columns of names and dates and diagnoses and treatments. She tried to act as though she read every word, but the tears blurred them. She saw again Waldemar Klein, and Grafeneck Castle, and Erich von Wechsler. She saw pictures of children and adults with deformities
 
—physical deformities or, by the looks on their faces, mental.

The last picture was a thin, naked child about nine or ten years old. The backdrop was very dark to show his malady clearer. His hips were out of alignment, his right leg hung curved and shortened and shrunken, but that wasn’t the most pitiable; on his white and thin and lucid face was terror and confusion as he either stared at some spot he had been commanded to look, or at a spot that caused terror and confusion.

“I wanted you to see the reason Arthur Vance died.”

It was the worst picture she’d seen in her life. Worse than the crying baby in Shanghai.

“Sometimes we need to see why we fight,” said the Burglar Vicar gently. “We need to see what God sees. Then we can understand a little better his wrath, and his justice, and his love.”

He slipped the photograph from her hand, put it in the folder, slipped the folder from her. She pulled the pillow over her face and wept.

She’d not forget that image, not for the rest of her life.

She cried herself deaf for the child, and for Arthur Vance; for Murray, whose Rocket Kid did not save this child, and for William, because she finally understood how it felt to be eviscerated.

She wept that she could not go and die for this boy. That sprightly Maggie, anchored at dock, missed her chance to continue Arthur Vance’s heroic exploits.

“I’m utterly useless!” she screamed into the pillow, and finally came to her defeated senses. A good cry, and she did
not
feel better.

She blotted her face with the pillow, and pushed it away. She wiped damp hair from her face. Her ears were plugged, her face felt puffy.

“You are hardly useless,” said the Burglar Vicar.

“Oh really? I can’t even sit up.” Lovely
 
—her voice had gone nasal and pinched.

“You can pray.”

“Pray!” she said in disgust. “I can’t think of anything that feels less like pulling a doomed soldier aboard
Maggie Bright
.” She glared at the ceiling, a blank white landscape with which she’d grown far too acquainted. Blank as her life.

After a few seething moments, she realized the priest sat quietly. She slid him a look.

“Your king called your nation to a day of prayer. At the police station, the desk sergeant came to my cell, and I had the privilege of leading a collection of prison guards and inmates in prayer, anyone who wanted to, and most did. I sat feeling pretty useless for weeks. The inmates feel useless, and so do the guards. Yet we prayed.”

“How do you know it does any good?” Clare said.

“It’s better than moping, which does no good at all.”

Surprised, she said nothing for a moment. She wasn’t moping. Was she?

“Well . . .
that
was a bit abrupt.” And refreshing. He was as forthright as the Shrew.