London Calling (7 page)

“Right.”

“What year is it?”

“It’s 1940, Johnny. The eighth of September, to be exact.”

“So this is World War Two?”

“It’s war, all right. Us against the Gerries.”

“The Gerries. The Germans?”

“Right.”

“The United States is not at war?”

“The Yanks? Not hardly. They’re too afraid to fight, aren’t they?”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “What?”

“My dad says you’re all playboys over there. You won’t fight for nothing. And it ain’t just him says it, either.”

“That’s not true!”

“I’m afraid it is, Johnny. It’s just us against Gerry.” Jimmy jerked his thumb skyward. “Gerry came at us during the Arsenal match today, up in White Hart Lane. Don’t that beat all? We was all watching the match, and Arsenal was beating Fulham: beating ’em soundly, mate.” He broke off to laugh. “Bill Lane already got throwed out of the stadium. You know why?”

I had no idea what he was talking about, but I asked, “Why?”

Jimmy sniggered. “He threw a dart at a linesman. For making a bad call, you know? Hit ’im right in the arse.”

“That’s your dad’s mate?”

“Right. Bill was a footballer himself. He’s a big bloke. My dad says he’s a good fellow most of the time, but he’s all talk and no action. My dad’s just the opposite. He’s not much talk, but he’ll have a go at anyone, anytime. You’ll meet him soon.”

My eyes were finally adjusting to the dark. I could make out some of the city buildings around us. I was even getting less scared.

Jimmy picked up the story. “So! Suddenly, twenty minutes into the second half, the air-raid sirens went off! Dad and me, and all of us, had to run for cover. They even let Bill Lane back in, for safety reasons, but they never did resume play. They called the rest of the match on account of bombing! But the Gunners got the win, five–nil, so I didn’t mind.”

Soon we turned in to a park, and I saw a large, familiar building looming ahead of us. I knew it from photos in our basement and in Grandfather Mehan’s study. I cried out, “That’s the American Embassy!”

“Right you are, Johnny.” Jimmy pointed to two men standing like sentinels. They wore helmets like Canby’s, but theirs had
LONDON AFS
written on the front. They both wore high rubber boots and uniform jackets with buttons running up the middle. Some sort of telephone box stood behind them, a simple wooden cabinet wired into the ground. Jimmy waved happily, though we were too far away for them to see. “There’s my dad! And Bill.”

When we got close enough, the smaller man spotted Jimmy, and his face fell into a disapproving frown. “Jimmy Harker, what are you doing out here?” He was a short, fit man with bright blue eyes and sandy hair. He seemed very young: younger-looking than Margaret. The man with him was tall and powerfully built. He had a square jaw and angry, troubled eyes. I figured, correctly, that he was Bill Lane.

The smaller man spoke again, with anger in his voice. “You’re supposed to be at home, Jimmy, doing your Bible studies. It’s dangerous being out here.”

“But you’re out here, Dad.”

“I got to be.” Jimmy and I stopped in front of them. “It’s my job to keep you safe. So you get back to Mrs. Lane. You hear?”

Bill Lane expressed his opinion. “I expect if he catches a bomb, James, he’s better off being outside than in some brick-and-mortar house. You don’t stand a chance in one of those. You’re better off in the street.”

“Don’t scare the boy, Bill.”

“I ain’t scaring him. You ain’t afraid of bombs, are you, Jimmy?”

“No, Bill, I ain’t afraid of nothing.”

“Good lad.”

Jimmy pointed to me. “And neither’s my mate here.”

“Your mate?” Bill Lane looked at me. “Oh? Right. Who’s your mate, then?”

“Johnny. Johnny’s his name. He’s a Yank.”

“Is that right? A Yank? Is he paying your way round the nightclubs, then? Spending all his American dollars?”

“Yeah, that’s it, Bill.”

Bill Lane smiled at me. “How do you do, Johnny? You two will be stepping out with the Brylcreem boys, then?”

Jimmy answered for us. “Yeah. I think we’ll go to the Savoy and hear Geraldo.”

“You do that. Yeah. Take Alice with you. That’ll shut her up.”

Jimmy turned to his father. “Dad, I was telling Johnny about Canby and the directions for building a surface shelter.”

James laughed quickly, followed by Bill.

Jimmy turned to include me. “The first surface shelter that Canby built was so dodgy it fell down before anyone ever got in it. Turns out he didn’t put no cement between the bricks. Know what Canby said?”

I looked from James to Bill to Jimmy. I answered, “No.”

“Canby said, serious as you please, ‘Why, the plans didn’t call for none.’ Then he pulled out the plans and showed them round, and it was true. They had forgot to tell the builders to use cement to hold the bricks together. But anybody with a brain was gonna. Right?”

I answered, “Right.”

Jimmy assured me, “Not Canby.”

James smiled, showing a set of sharp, straight teeth. He turned to Bill and picked up the story. “So then
I
said to him, ‘Tell me, Mr. Canby, if you walked into a public lavatory and there was no directions written out telling you to unzip your trousers, would you just go ahead and piss right in them?’ ” Bill Lane expelled a short, mirthless laugh. James added, “He didn’t like that too much.”

Bill spat on the grass behind him. “Canby’s a bloody spiv. Profiting from the war, from everybody’s misery.” Bill Lane’s face and voice hardened. “If you ask me, there’s no reason to fight this bloody war. Hitler don’t want nothin’ to do with Britain. He never did. Churchill’s stirring all this up for his own cause.”

James winked at Jimmy and me, as if to say
Here he goes again,
but he asked, “And what’s that, Bill?”

“Redemption, mate. Personal redemption for Gallipoli. Churchill sent our men ashore at Gallipoli in 1915, and they was massacred. One of the greatest military blunders in history. So now you and me and everybody else has got to go to war with Germany again so Churchill can have his rematch. That’s it in a nutshell, James.

“And his buddy Franklin D. Roosevelt’s happy to do it. If there’s a war on, he gets to stay president, and everybody has to listen to him.” He shook his head in disgust. “I’m no friend of Hitler’s, mind you. He’s a bloody madman. But think about it, James. Who do you have more in common with? The son of a civil servant, like Hitler—a poor man who made his own way up from the gutter? Or Lord Churchill and Lord Roosevelt, who grew up with silver spoons in their mouths and had tea with the King and Queen? Who, James?”

James gestured subtly toward the Embassy. “Heads up now, Bill. Here comes the Ambassador.”

I turned and looked. I saw a well-dressed man with glasses and a big smile. I knew who he was from the most cherished photo in my grandfather’s study—Ambassador Joseph P. Kennedy. He was walking with a hulking man in uniform. To my astonishment, the man had Hank Lowery’s face.

They stood on the pavement about twenty yards away from us and talked. Then a car drove around from behind the Embassy, with its headlights half covered. Ambassador Kennedy got into the car, but General Henry M. “Hollerin’ Hank” Lowery did not. He watched it pull away and waited.

After a moment, Bill Lane continued, with his voice slightly lower. “Look at them two. Not a care in the world except what nightclub to pick for their carousing. The working man’s fighting to keep the likes of them in power.”

James winked at us again and whispered, “Stop it, Bill. They’ll think you’re a German spy.”

Bill was not amused. “I’m not pro-German. I’m pro–Bill Lane. Your Duke of Windsor, your abdicated king, is pro-German. Bring him back, I say. Let him have his American girlfriend. He’ll make a deal with Hitler right quick, him and Joe Kennedy. Get them three together and this war will be over in an hour, and you and me won’t be any worse off.” He spit again. “Canby, though, will have to turn in his tin helmet and armpatch.”

I stopped listening to Bill Lane when I saw a thin, somber-looking young man and a beautiful young woman emerge from the Embassy. It took me about one second to realize who I was looking at—my grandfather, Martin Mehan, the young attaché to the American Embassy. I moved closer to them, as close as I dared, hoping I wouldn’t be seen.

General Lowery spoke first, in a loud and angry voice. “Come on, Mehan. I’m standing here waiting for a goddamn bomb to fall on my head.”

Martin Mehan laughed as if Lowery had just said something pleasant, which he clearly hadn’t. “Sorry, General. Daisy was just putting on her face. She wanted to look her best for you.”

Lowery ran his eyes up and down the young woman. She was tall and athletic-looking, with long brown hair and a dazzling smile. Lowery’s voice dropped down. “Well, I’d say she succeeded in doing that. Unless she gets even better-looking than this.”

My grandfather smiled through thin lips. “You’ll have to wait and see.” He turned and gestured. “This is Miss Traynor, from the secretarial pool.” He gestured toward the big man. “This is General Lowery.”

The young woman extended a gloved hand. “Daisy, General. Call me Daisy.”

The General took her hand and held it. “I will, Daisy. Tell me, Mehan, can you arrange for me to go for a swim in that secretarial pool?”

Martin Mehan laughed loudly again. Another car with dimmed lights pulled around from behind the Embassy. Martin Mehan held the door as Daisy slipped gracefully into the backseat.

General Lowery waited a moment. He said, “Good work, Mehan. Now, how is your work going on that . . . other matter?”

Martin Mehan checked to see if anyone was listening. He did not notice me in the darkness. He confided, “Miss Traynor, your date this evening, is in a unique position to help you. She is free to go wherever she likes in the Embassy. Everyone knows her and trusts her. She is also free to go wherever she likes in London. No one would think to follow her.”

Lowery nodded thoughtfully. He leaned into the car to take another look at Daisy Traynor. Her long arm reached out and grabbed him playfully by the lapel. He let himself be pulled inside, and then the car drove quickly away. Martin Mehan watched it go without expression. Then he walked back into the Embassy.

Jimmy popped up at my side, startling me. “We’d best be going, Johnny. My dad’ll get mad if we stay any longer.”

Jimmy took off immediately. I looked around for the two firefighters so I could say goodbye. But I was too afraid of losing Jimmy to wait long, so I just waved in their direction and took off, too. We ran at a fast pace through the dark streets. The trip back seemed to take half as much time as the trip there. I don’t remember much about it except that I was frightened at every new turn. Even the moon seemed to be blacked out, shrouded in dark, evil smoke.

We only made one stop, at that surface shelter near Jimmy’s house. Jimmy had spotted an old lady and a young boy in the doorway. The old lady’s face scared me. I hated to admit it, but she looked a little like Nana. Jimmy asked her, “So, is Gerry coming tonight, then?”

The old woman did not answer. She pulled the boy closer to her and led him into the shelter.

Jimmy leaned toward me and whispered, “I guess it’s not tonight. Listen, Johnny, I have to tell you something very, very important.”

“What?”

“We’re at a point here. A crucial point.”

I said, “Yeah? A point? What’s that?”

“That’s where we are. Isn’t it?”

“No. No, we’re in a dream.”

“You can call it what you like, mate. Just as long as you help me.”

“Help you what?”

Jimmy’s face got that perplexed look again. “I don’t know exactly.”

“How can you not know exactly?”

“Johnny, please, I’m just doing what I was told.”

“Told by who?”

He muttered, “I don’t know that, either.”

I stepped forward so he would have to look right in my eyes. “Okay. Just tell me what you do know.”

When Jimmy looked up, his eyes were glistening. “It’s all a muddle, isn’t it? But I know this—you can do something to help, Johnny. Something to help me and my dad; maybe something to help yourself, too.” Jimmy stared at me intensely for another moment. When I didn’t respond, he spun around and walked rapidly away into the darkness, leaving me alone in another time and place.

But not for long.

I suddenly felt myself falling down, as if the London street had opened up beneath me. I flailed my arms outward, in a panic, trying to stop my fall.

Then I woke up. I was in my own bed, with the radio back where it had been, right next to me. And I was totally drenched with sweat.

DREAM WORLD

It was a dream. It was a dream. But as long as I lay there, the details refused to fade like they always do with a dream. I bolted out of bed and hurried across to the computer room. I opened a Word document and started typing what I could remember—all the names, all the places. After fifteen minutes, I was finished. I printed out the page, folded it twice, and put it in my pocket.

I placed my hands against my temples and pressed hard, trying to decide what to do next. Could I handle this myself? No. Who was I kidding? I couldn’t handle anything myself. But who could I talk to? Who could I trust? I came up with a very short list, two or three people. But I’d have to be very careful or they’d think I was crazy.

I got online and searched for an image that I had seen the night before. I found it on an art museum Web site. There was no question about it; the painting that I saw in Jimmy’s Bible studies book was exactly the same as the one in the All Souls Administration Building—Rembrandt’s
Abraham and Isaac.
Had I simply had a nightmare about the painting? Was that the cause of it all?

I studied the painting like I never had before. A psycho old man was about to stab his own son with a long knife. An angel was interfering with the murderous plan, stopping his arm on its downward swing. The old man looked bewildered—like he had Alzheimer’s, like he was hearing voices that no one else could hear, and seeing sights that no one else could see.

I studied the painting for several minutes, until I heard a
ding.
It was Pinak, IM-ing me.

Neither of us had anything else to say about Manetti. Pinak changed the subject.

I decided to tell him the truth. Or part of it.

I unfolded my sheet of paper.

I typed: “I’m not kidding,” but I did not send it. I erased it and sent:

I heard a tread on the stair, so I typed in:

Margaret rapped on the door and entered. “Martin? I’m sorry. Am I interrupting you?”

“No. I was just doing some research.”

Margaret’s blue eyes lit up. “Really? About what?”

I glanced down at my sheet of paper. “Gallipoli.”

She nodded approvingly. “Is this part of that independent study? I thought it was about old radios.”

“It is. It was. I’m already thinking about the next one. And the next. I’m never going back to All Souls.”

Margaret settled into a chair and opened her arms. “So . . . what can I tell you about Gallipoli?”

“You can tell me how I know that word at all.”

Margaret cocked her head, like a confused dog.

“I’ve never heard that word before. I don’t even know where it is.”

“It’s in Turkey.”

“I don’t really know where Turkey is, either.”

Margaret answered patiently. “Turkey is in eastern Europe. In fact, part of it’s in Asia.”

“And Gallipoli?”

“Gallipoli was the site of a very famous battle of World War One. It’s a famous movie, too, about an Australian boy who went to his death there.”

I shook my head. “I never saw it.”

“It was really sad. The British soldiers were slaughtered.”

“Was it Prime Minister Churchill’s fault?”

Margaret straightened in her chair. “Churchill wasn’t the prime minister then. He was First Lord of the Admiralty, the equivalent to our Secretary of the Navy. But yes, he did push for the invasion through Turkey, and yes, the defeat was blamed on him.”

“But he was the Prime Minister in World War Two, right?”

“Shortly after the war began, yes.” Margaret’s eyes shifted to my list, and then back to me. “Why this sudden interest in the world wars?”

“I’m trying to keep out of All Souls, that’s all. The more independent study topics I find, the better.”

“Well, you know I can help you a little with that. I can help you a lot with World War Two history, especially where it intersects our family’s history. Remember when my All Souls class went to London?”

“No. Not really.”

Margaret frowned. “It was a pretty big deal, Martin. Mom and I saved for a year so I could go.”

I did remember. “Oh yeah.”

“We visited all the sacred places of the Mehan family: the American Embassy in Grosvenor Square, the Britain at War Experience, the Cabinet War Rooms.” Margaret’s eyes lit up. “Those rooms were incredible, Martin. Everything has been kept exactly as it was during the war. Not a paper has been moved; not a thing has been changed. Time has stopped still.”

“Yeah? Do you think time can stop still? Or move forward or back?”

“Do you mean scientifically?”

“Yeah.”

“No. But you can still get the . . . the spirit of a time by being in the place. I have felt that spirit. I felt it at the Cabinet War Rooms. It was like I was actually living in that time. I saw the telephones that the secretaries talked on; the mirrors where they checked their hairdos; the radios that they listened to. There was nothing of great historical importance, but it all added up to the real history of that time.”

I waited a moment, for dramatic effect, then said, “Can I ask you a stupid question?”

“Sure.”

“Who decides what ‘the real history of a time’ is?”

“Martin, that is a brilliant question. And the simple answer is—the winners decide. If Germany had won World War Two, the history books would be very different. What you have read is the American-British version, because they won.”

“Uh-huh. And who, exactly, decides what goes into that version?”

“At the Millennium Encyclopedia, it’s decided by Mr. Wissler. He and his wife own the encyclopedia, and he’s the publisher.” Margaret stood up and pointed at the door. “I have to go see him soon, for a meeting. Come with me, and I’ll show you how it all works.”

I fingered my sheet of paper. “I don’t know. I have all this research to do.”

“There is no better place in the world to do research, Martin. We subscribe to the best databases, premium government sites, and you’d be free to use them while I’m in my meeting. I’ll get Steve to help you.”

“Who’s Steve?”

“Our IT guy.”

I quickly scanned my list of names and places. Were they real? Or parts of a dream? Or something else? I said, “I’ll need to get ready.”

“Sure. We have a little time. Take a shower. Put on clean clothes. Do you want me to toast you a bagel?”

I refolded the paper and got up. “How about a Pop-Tart for the road? Give me ten minutes.”

I stepped out the kitchen door and walked, averting my eyes from the morning glare, to Margaret’s old Camry. I was now out of my environment, a subterranean mole exposed to the sun, but I knew I had to do this.

Margaret took a right turn on Hightstown Road and headed toward Route 1. I waited until we crossed the railroad bridge before asking her, “Do you really think our grandfather was friends with Joseph P. Kennedy and General Lowery?”

Margaret feigned shock. “Martin! You’re talking about your namesake! How could you doubt that? We have the photos to prove it.”

“Yeah. But people pose with celebrities all the time; that doesn’t mean they know them. There’s a photo of you with some president, right?”

“Right. Bill Clinton.”

“Did you know him?”

“No. He spoke at Princeton, and I got to pose with him.”

“Yeah. See what I mean? What if Martin Mehan just posed with those guys?”

“Well, there is more evidence, corroborating evidence. Martin Mehan is part of the official records of the U.S. Embassy staff during Ambassador Kennedy’s time there. General Lowery was an official visitor, sent by President Roosevelt. There is a lot of paperwork to place them all there at the same time. However, I see your point. That doesn’t describe what kind of relationships they had.”

“What does Grandfather Mehan say in his memoirs?”

“He describes himself as indispensable to all of them—from Ambassador Kennedy to General Lowery to FDR himself. Remember those passages he would read aloud at Thanksgiving?”

“I remember him reading something. It could have been the Bible, for all I knew. But isn’t it possible that, in fact, those guys treated him like crap?”

Margaret sputtered and laughed. “Like what?”

“Crap. I mean, who was Martin Mehan? He wasn’t a rich ambassador, or a famous general, or a president of the United States. He was just a government clerk, right? Some little guy who did what he was told?”

Margaret turned right, into an industrial park, and followed the road around a row of blue glass buildings. “Okay. Yeah, you’re right. Back in 1940, he was pretty low on the ladder in government service. That’s very insightful of you, Martin.”

“And why was General Lowery such a hero, anyway?”

“Hmm. Well, as Colonel Lowery, back in World War One, he earned several medals for bravery.” She pulled in to a space and turned off the engine. “He lost a lot of men, but he gained a lot of ground. So he got promoted to General. He was famous for urging his troops forward with a loud voice.”

“Hollerin’ Hank.”

“Right. The U.S. Commander, General Pershing, called him that. Then the newspapers picked up on it. They liked the colorful nickname, so he became a national celebrity.”

Margaret and I climbed out of the car and walked to the building entrance. She inserted an ID card into a slot and the dark blue glass door clicked open. I followed her across a small lobby into an elevator, where she pressed number three and continued: “Lowery turned his celebrity into a personal fortune. He sat on the boards of big corporations; he bought and sold companies; he endorsed products. Near the end of his life, he even had his name on a line of hearing aids.”