Pantheon

Chapter Forty-two

The train was too bright and too full to sleep, but even if it had been dark and empty, like the one he had ridden in the opposite direction a matter of hours earlier, James would not have slept. His body might have been drained and yearning for rest, his mind utterly spent, but his heart would not be quieted. And it was aching for Florence and Harry.

It did not matter that Ed Harrison had continued to lavish him with praise. The journalist kept insisting that had the Chicago Tribune got hold of the Roosevelt-Churchill letters — cutting and editing them to support their own, fevered anti-war stance — then FDR’s hopes for re-election would have been doomed. The paper would have used those letters to cast the President as a liar and a deceiver, a man prepared to vow to the American people that he had made no promises to fight for Britain when in fact he had done just that. Roosevelt’s enemies would surely have seized on the correspondence to demand his impeachment, on the grounds of violating the United States’s multiple Neutrality Acts. One way or another, the single American most committed to the defence of Great Britain — Franklin Delano Roosevelt — would have been destroyed. The chances of the United States coming to Britain’s aid would have been reduced to close to zero: Britain would be abandoned, its defeat guaranteed.

Harrison had rushed back to the office, his first stop the darkroom, where he handed over the film from his camera, announcing it as a ‘triple urgent’ job to be done this instant. Next he conferred with his editors, skating over the precise subterfuge he had used to extract this story from the hands of the Chicago Tribune. They read the documents and held their breath just as he had.

The discussion was short but intense. The news editor believed the magazine could not possibly sit on a story this momentous. Yes, it was good that the cables would not be published and distorted by the Tribune. But surely they could not be complicit in the suppression of information — even if, as it happened, Time fully endorsed the sentiment expressed by Roosevelt in that June 13th letter and even if it was clear that publication would fatally undermine both the President and his pro-intervention stance. Harrison hit back that that might be true in the abstract, but not when these documents had come from the most tainted source possible, an official of the Third Reich. Hans Stoiber’s masters had wanted those letters — doubtless carefully selected to cause maximum damage to Roosevelt — to appear in print in America. If Time published them they would be doing the bidding of Adolf Hitler himself. The editor had listened to the argument and sided with Ed. ‘Besides, who knows what else Roosevelt has said to Churchill? For every letter like this,’ he tapped the June 13th document, ‘he may have written one leaning the other way. We’re not in business to help the Nazis play games with American politics.’

Harrison relayed all this to James, as they shared a taxi to Union Station. ‘But d’you know what your best work was today? The photos came out a treat.’ He passed James the pictures taken at the Washington Monument: grainy but unmistakable, they showed McAndrew receiving the envelope from Hans Stoiber. ‘That’s going to look very good in our magazine this weekend: “The Ivy League Dean and the Nazi”.’

Time had passed the photographs and the rest of their information to the White House. Within the hour, the Federal Bureau of Investigation had put out a warrant for the arrest of Dr Preston McAndrew on charges of trafficking in US state secrets obtained from a foreign power. Ed Harrison had been careful to extract a couple of concessions of his own from his best contact in the administration, including a promise that if ever the White House decided to release the full Roosevelt-Churchill correspondence it would give the exclusive to Edward P Harrison.

The two men said goodbye at the station, Harrison handing James another doughnut in another brown paper bag. James offered him his hand and Ed did what no Englishman had ever done before, hugging him warmly. ‘No one is ever going to know what you did, James. So you’ll just have to take it from me. Britain and every person in the world who believes in freedom owes you a very great debt.’

James waved away the praise, giving a shrug at the American bombast of it all. And yet he could not deny what had just happened: the Dean had been at the centre of a plot that would have consigned Britain to a bloody and terrible fate, that would have left Hitler as the master of Europe and perhaps the world. And that plot had been averted. The thought was so large, so daunting and impossible, it seemed easier to express in the passive. He could not bring himself to say that he, James Zennor, had averted it.

And now the pain in his heart returned, as he made the journey back to New York and from there to Greenwich, Connecticut, just as Dorothy had urged him to do last night. She had told him then that he had to go that very minute, that it could be his only chance.

I don’t know how much longer they’ll be there.

And yet he had not gone to them. He had put his family second. Florence had been right all those months — or was it weeks — ago, when she had condemned him for being ready to sacrifice his own two-year-old child, exposing him to bombing and invasion, out of his own misguided sense of duty. You made your sacrifice, James. You don’t need to do any more. And yet he had done it again.

If they were gone, he would not forgive himself. He would have condemned himself to a life of misery and loneliness. The glory of Harrison’s little encomium to him would be all he had to keep him warm at night. And it would not be enough.

At long last, the train pulled into Greenwich station. It was late, Harry’s ‘orangey time of day’. James walked over to the two cabs waiting for passengers coming off the New York train. Now that he was here, he felt his stomach knot at the finality that was looming. Up until this moment, he could always look forward, to the future possibility that he would see Florence and Harry again. But soon there would be certainty, a definite answer to the question of whether or not they were there. The idea of it terrified him.

He approached the first cab, the driver resting a tanned arm on the wound-down window.

‘Hope Farm, please.’

The man looked bemused. ‘Where?’

‘I’m looking for Hope Farm. I’m told it’s just outside Greenwich.’

‘OK, I know it. Get in.’

As James settled into the back seat, the driver eyed him in his rear-view mirror. ‘You a professor too, then?’

‘Sorry, I don’t think I understand.’

‘You did say Hope Farm, didn’t you? That’s the place that belongs to the Yale guy, right — you know, the Dean?’

James felt his insides dissolve, a physical sensation akin to nausea but somehow deeper, as if in the very base of his guts.

Each second passed like an hour. Had Florence and Harry been McAndrew’s prisoners, held on this farm since the day the Oxford mothers had been despatched from the Divinity School to their new foster homes? That, surely, was why their names had been expunged from the record, so that no one would know that the Dean had taken two of those Oxford refugees for himself.

Then suddenly, with horrible force, he remembered something. How could he have missed it? The garden at the Dean’s residence in New Haven. In the middle of the lawn, there had been a single child’s swing — on its own, surrounded by none of the other paraphernalia of childhood. Yet what had McAndrew said? I don’t have kids myself, but if I did…

That lonely swing, freshly added to the garden, had been put there for Harry.

The truth is, he had suspected this somewhere. The worm of this thought had formed in the darkest places of his mind, but he had not dared drag it into daylight. Now a more sickening thought took its place. What if they were not his prisoners? What if Florence had chosen to live in that house on St Ronan Street, then chosen to come here? Perhaps she had only escaped to the countryside once she had learned that James was in New Haven looking for her. Was that it? Had his wife fallen for Preston McAndrew, for his suave intelligence, his maturity, his body still intact, unbroken by war?

His skin was crawling, as if he were covered with insects; his nervous system seemed to be waging war on itself. He felt the familiar lava welling up inside him, a seething river of molten rage rising higher and higher. It had no clear target, but was ready to burst, drowning both McAndrew and his faithless, adulterous wife — she who after less than a month away had begun sleeping with another man, she who had been ready to give her body to the very man who was bent on destroying all she had once held dear…

He began pounding the side of the car door with his fist, only stopping when the driver braked suddenly and threatened to shove him out and make him walk.

That caught him. His right hand gripped his left wrist. He had to calm himself, he had to quell that fury. Reason, he told himself, reason. He did not know the truth; he needed to find out what had happened. The James Zennor Florence had left had been a slave to his rage; he could not be that man now. He could not be that man any more.

Finally, the car slowed. They were on a narrow lane, where a break in the hedge indicated a path leading to a house. James paid the driver and stared for a second, taking two long, deep breaths. He was bracing himself for a terror that surpassed anything war had thrown at him. What if the fear that had tortured him just now was about to be realized? What if there was something worse? What if they were not there?

He feared his legs might collapse beneath him as he took first one step and then another. In front of him was a beautiful farmhouse, the white clapboard glowing in the dipping evening sunshine. It was flanked on all sides by apple and pear trees, scenting the air with a sticky fragrance. It was, James understood, just the kind of place Florence loved.

Girding himself, he knocked on the door and waited. Silence at first and then the sound of footsteps on wooden floorboards, a woman’s. He knew instinctively it was not Florence: too heavy, too slow. The door opened to reveal a black woman wearing a maid’s uniform.

James said his name, though all that emerged was a croak. At that moment, he wondered if he would ever have the strength to speak again.

And then he heard the sound of wheels turning on the wooden floor, toy wheels, small and rattling. He looked behind the maid and saw it inch into view, emerging from a side corridor, a wooden truck pushed along by an infant hand. And then a face — the round face of a little boy, the hair the colour of English chestnuts, the eyes wide and deep.

‘Harry?’

The boy looked up, his brow furrowed for a second in confusion.

‘Harry, it’s Daddy!’

The two moved towards each other at such speed they nearly collided. James took his son in his arms, lifting him and enfolding him in a single motion, closing his eyes as he felt Harry’s hair tickling his skin, savouring the smell of him, the warmth of his solid little body. And when he felt a dampness on his cheeks, he held the boy apart from him so that he could stop the child’s tears. Only then did he realize that it was he, not his son, who was crying.

He kept his eyes closed, his head bent over Harry’s. How long he stood like this, he did not know. Then, as if in a dream, he heard someone say his name.

Just one word, but it flooded through him. Raising his head, he opened his eyes to see her there, in the centre of the hallway, as tall and proud as he had remembered her. Her skin was browner, her eyes older, but it was her.

Florence.

She looked as if a bomb had gone off, her face stunned and frozen. James moved towards her, with Harry in his arms. ‘Florence,’ he said. ‘I’m here.’