Maggie Bright (8 page)

“But
 
—they’re civilians. They’re kids.”

“I know, mate,” said Balantine wearily. His fair hair and blue eyes reminded Jamie of Lieutenant Dunn. “But this is war, isn’t it?”

Jamie collected himself enough to say, “What’s going to happen? Where will we make our stand?
When
will we make our stand?”

“Don’t know if there’ll
be
a stand.”

“Then we’re alone.”

England, the last stand.

His sister and her family in Richmond. His father in the boatyard on the Thames. Now only the Channel stood between innocent people and Hitler. He could scarcely take it in.

“You’ve heard Chamberlain’s out, Churchill’s in?” Balantine asked.

“That I heard. I’m glad for it.”

“We all are. He’s for war, not appeasement.”

“’Bout bloody well time.”

Balantine looked at the captain, who clutched the side of his head with one hand and placed leaves over the small body, one at a time, with the other. “Who’s he?”

“A captain. Wounded. His head’s pretty banged up. I’m to get him to Dunkirk. Those were my last orders, two days ago.”

Balantine shouldered his rifle. “Well, come on, then. There’s five of us. We’re taking a breather for the night in a home with food and a decent wine cellar. Word is that Germans don’t usually move at night. You can join us.”

A weight slid from Jamie’s chest. To be with a group again was an enormous relief. “You have no idea how good it is to speak English again.”

Balantine looked at the captain, puzzled. “Is he French, then?”

Jamie watched the captain lay a large leaf across the hole in the girl’s chest.

“Innocence,” he was whispering, lips trembling, “that as a veil had shadowed them from knowing ill, was gone.”

“No. He’s Milton.”

CLARE STOOD OUTSIDE
Murray’s cabin, ear pressed to the door. No stirring yet, just even breathing. Must have snored himself out at last. Clare could hear the horrible racket on the other side of the boat until the small hours when either he stopped or she had fallen asleep. She’d not seen him since he turned in yesterday afternoon
 
—he was sleeping before she went below, on his stomach in his clothing on the bottom bunk.

“Right,” said the Shrew, seated at the dinette. She had a busy pencil at a notebook in one hand and a hovering triangle of toast and marmalade in the other. “I’ve gone to work on a Muse Retrieval Plan. Mr. Vance may wish to call it something more in keeping with
filling his pool
. By the by, I didn’t have the heart to tell him that a ‘magic well’ is rather trite; I will guide him toward
filling his pool
whenever necessary, and perhaps that will spark a renaming of the Muse, or at least, the place where the Muse resides.” She took a bite of toast.

“Right, then,” she continued, after a sip of tea. “We shall divide the Muse Retrieval into two categories: Context and Content. We shall start with the art galleries, which falls under content.” She made a note. “Places such as the Tate Museum. The National Gallery. We shall then visit places of architectural splendor, such as St. Paul’s and Westminster Abbey and the Houses of Parliament.” She thought hard. “Context
and
Content to be had in those places, I should think.” She took a bite of toast. “We need more marmalade, by the by. I prefer the kind made with Seville oranges, fine cut, if you please.”

Oh, do you, Clare thought sourly. Do you prefer the higher price, too? No, of course not
 
—that must come out of my pocket.

“The box of newspapers, Mrs. Shrew
 
—sbury; do you know where it is?” asked Clare, hoping Mrs. Shrew had it in her cabin.

“It’s in Mr. Vance’s quarters.” She looked at Clare over her reading glasses. “The room
is
rather a collect-all.” It was another you-best-learn-from-this look that Clare had come to know well. Yet what a difference between Mrs. Shrew and her uncle. Any rebukes from Mrs. Shrew were like shouts of admiration, compared. Clare learned there was nothing
in
the rebukes. It was simply normal conversation.

“Oh dear,” said Clare, a hand to her cheek. “I never did have a chance to clean it out. What a frightful mess. How long has he been sleeping? At least around the clock.”

“He’ll have a good long wee, that’s for sure.”

“Goodness!” Clare turned a look on the Shrew.

“We must plan for loud conversation when the time comes. Perhaps bang a pot or two. It’s awfully hard not to hear everything that goes on in a boat.” She consulted her list. “Right. First, we shall do all of these things, which may take several days, and then we must embark upon a
soul
journey
 
—which falls under content.” She made a note. “
These
places can of course be considered soul journeys, but I see them useful in a
technically
constructive way
 
—context.
Content
involves things like taking the train to Canterbury Cathedral
 
—a very
soulish place. Lovely shops, too. What other soul things can you think of? Oh! Stonehenge. Though that’s a bit obvious. But then there’s Cornwall
 
—ancient and mysterious and muse-stirring. The Lake District, of course
 
—lovely walking. Keswick. Moot Hall, endearing place, love the name. Wales! Wales.” She wrote furiously. “Gracious, Tintern Abbey
 
—couldn’t be more soulish. And the sea! Oh, the sea.” She gave a wistful sigh. “Though I suppose we had best confine our travel to the west; the papers say the southern and eastern coasts are being covered with barbed wire and notices of mines. Not exactly breadcrumbs for the Muse, I shouldn’t think. One hates to wake up and realize war is upon us. Did you see the sandbags in London? They’re going up as barricades in front of key buildings. Barricades!”

“Speaking of vicars . . . I have something to tell you.”

It simply made no sense to keep it from her. Clare had woken up with the realization that she did not want to.

“Well, pull up, pull up,” said Mrs. Shrew, and Clare slid into the bench across.

The
Maggie Bright
had a darling little living area that doubled for a breakfast room. A comfortable cushion-filled couch was built into the port side of the room, fitted under a long shelf of Clare’s favorite books. A narrow walkway ran between the couch and the tiny dinette to Murray’s and Mrs. Shrew’s forward cabins. A cold locker lay under the walkway, the pull of which fitted into a depression. There, Clare stored items which could not fit into the very small refrigerator
 
—cheeses, bread, eggs, bacon.

Clare’s cabin, the captain’s cabin, was behind the companionway ladder where the living area started. It was small and smart. She had to hoist herself into the bunk every night, and it took a little while to get used to the cramped space between her bunk and the deck, but now she loved it. It was very snug and comfortable.

The captain’s table was in there, too, where the wireless sat amid
a clutter of wonderful sea things: battered navigation charts filled with little pinpricks from a wonderful old steel protractor; a footed, sturdy brass table compass given to her by Captain John for plotting journeys; a sailor’s book of knots.

The boat’s tiny galley lay on the other side of the captain’s cabin, with a sink, a paraffin cooker with a clever gimballed design
 
—allowing it to swing on two pivot points and remain level when the boat was not
 
—and a tiny Electrolux paraffin fridge.

The stern cabin past the galley was the largest on the boat, and would have made an ideal guest room for two, but it was loaded with Clare’s possessions
 
—clothing, shoes, books, all manner of odds and ends. She’d lived aboard only a few months before taking Mrs. Shrew as a renter; she’d not gotten used to the spare lifestyle of a houseboater.

The lovely dinette table had a rich patina of use
 
—scratches and marks in the wood, but polished, cared for. Clare ran her fingertips along the edge. Everything about the
Maggie Bright
had a rich patina of use. All was close, and snug, and comfortable. How she adored a houseboater’s life.

Renters, for a time, could not dampen her happiness. Four months aboard, one of them with Mrs. Shrew, had not lost a single day of newness.

Mrs. Shrew cleared aside some breakfast things, as if what Clare had to say would certainly include usage of a cleared bit of table, and sat at the ready with her pencil and notebook.

“Well
 
—you won’t need to take notes.”

“Right.” Mrs. Shrew laid them aside. She folded her hands. “What’s the news?”

Her severely innocent, stark-blue eyes expected nothing less than a Murray Vance sort of revelation.

Clare told about trying to visit the Burglar Vicar and meeting Murray at the police station, not at some old random place in London as Mrs. Shrew may have believed.

“Goodness! What was he there for?”

“Brace yourself: to see the Burglar Vicar.”

“No!” She went positively saucer-eyed. “Whatever for?”

“It seems Murray Vance has been something of a ward to the Burglar Vicar
 
—whose name, by the way, is Father David Fitzpatrick. Murray calls him Father Fitz, or ‘the Fitz.’”

“The Fitz,” Mrs. Shrew tried out. “Go on.”

“Apparently, all the BV said about his wife and child was true. It seems that Father Fitz
is
here on a highly important and quite possibly diplomatic mission
 
—a mission on the
right
side,
our
side, the side of
good
 
—that frankly . . . Murray will
not
talk about.”

Mrs. Shrew made appropriate noises of consternation.

“Oh, he’s quite close about it. Says it’s none of his business and none of mine; said point blank that if I wanted to know more, I must go and speak to the Fitz himself. Oh dear.” She paused, worried. “It does seem a bit irreverent to call him the Fitz. I will stick with Burglar Vicar.”

“You must visit him immediately,” declared the Shrew.

“Oh, I have plans to go straightaway this morning and get there before anyone else. I will
not
leave until I find out why he was aboard my boat.”

“I should think not! Diplomatic mission!” She looked over the clothing Clare was wearing. “No wonder you’ve abandoned your shipboard trousers for that smart skirt and blouse. You look like a girl.” She peered suspiciously. “Is that lipstick? Well, I must say, it
is
pleasing to see femininity replace those horrible androgynous styles of the twenties and early thirties.”

“Not quite sure when visiting hours are, but I intend to get there before street shops open
 
—that should be early enough. Now. That is that: to sum up, Murray Vance’s mentor tried to burgle this boat for what appears to be a very good reason. Murray came to England to bring him home
 
—of course, while retrieving his muse in the
process,” she added quickly. Then she fastened onto Mrs. Shrew’s eyes. “But . . . there is more.”

“Go on,” said Mrs. Shrew breathlessly. She spoke into her fist. “Oh, why do I feel this is the best part?”

“It certainly is strange. Brace yourself. The former owner of this boat, the one who died in January
 
—was Arthur Vance. I am quite convinced he was Murray’s
father
.”

A gasp, a lunge forward, and a hushed and saucer-eyed, “No!”

“It’s true. The collection of funnies, the last name . . . and yesterday in the taxi I had detected an unusual interest in the boat, a rather belligerent interest. Before that, I noticed a very strange reaction when I told him her name.” She reached for her locket. “It is quite curious that Mr. Hillary should not know about Arthur Vance’s son.”

And at last, the unthinkable pressed through
 
—the only thought capable of breaking her heart:
Maggie Bright
rightfully belonged to Murray.

Why did he give you the
Maggie Bright
? Why you?

His questions now made sickening, appalling sense.

“Listen to me, my dear,” the Shrew rang strong. “Maggie is yours. Arthur Vance had his reasons, and they were his own. Not his son’s, not anyone else’s. Do
not
let it trouble your heart.”

Tears sprang to Clare’s eyes.

“I’m terribly afraid I’ll lose her,” she confessed in a whisper.

“Don’t be. That boy has soul. Anyone who knows his work knows it. He’s the sort to do the right thing. I don’t think it would enter his mind to contest the will.”

“Yesterday he asked me outright why it went to me.”

“An honest question. But keep in mind he was dreadfully tired yesterday. His face was so white, such dark circles
 
—all that charm was nothing but an exhausted put-on. Did you notice how he perked up when he drew that tiny Salamander? That’s where his joy is, my dear. I wish you knew him through his work like I do. Maggie is quite
safe in your hands.” She handed a tissue to Clare, and said briskly, “There, there, my dear. Stiff upper lip.”

Clare sniffed, and blotted, and said, “I’ve never read the funnies, you know.”

Mrs. Shrew sat back, as if this last revelation was the one to undo her. She finally said gravely, “Well, I
am
surprised. Your love of reading. Your sensibilities. The funnies are merely another form of cultural literature, and Murray Vance is a genius. He is to
Rocket Kid
what Dickens was to
Oliver Twist
.”

“My uncle strictly forbade the funnies. When I was older, it was simply habit.”

Mrs. Shrew’s lips thinned. “Cruel, wretched upbringing. You must take that box from Murray’s room and
lose
yourself. Oh, I just about envy you. To read them for the first time. Of course, you must be warned:
many
comic strips
are
rubbish. But there is great good to be had. You must sort out excellence.”

Clare put her chin on her fist.

How did he feel, being aboard once more?

Suddenly, she wanted to be gone before Murray woke.

“I must be off. And if anyone gets there first, I
will
make someone pay for my bus fare.” She slid from the bench and began to quickly clear the breakfast things. “You’ll feed him when he wakes?”

“Certainly!”

“I’ll stop for more provisions on the way home. Young men eat a
great
deal of food. I discovered this yesterday. I may need to triple breakfast provisions. Dear me, the new ration coupons . . . And he’s American. We’ll have to get that sorted.”

“Where is that man?” Mrs. Shrew said, with a glance at the companion hatch. Captain John was usually along for tea at this time.

“I’ll peek in. See if he needs anything.”

“
Do
be careful
 
—all sorts of characters show up at a police station. I don’t care if it is Westminster. And be
sure
to ask the relevant
questions first; your visit may be timed
 
—best to cover the most important things immediately.”