"What can we do!" Clarice shrieked in a whisper. "We can't give it to Sarah!"
"Certainly not," said Dowding.
"But someone is sure to call on her! What can she say when they ask what she did with it!"
"She shall tell them it hangs in her father's study. And so it shall." He whisked it away, out of sight of tender eyes.
Dowding was tapping a nail into the wall when the callers entered his study like storm troopers in RAF blue.
One wore an Air Marshal's insignia, apparently only here to lend authority, for one of the other men actually led this sortie. That one shook a fat pile of papers at Dowding, demanding, "Have you any other copies of this?" While the other men ransacked the room.
"This" was Twelve Legions of Angels.
Dowding advised his visitors that their lack of civility was uncalled for. They need not conduct affairs like hooligans.
The ringleader grew purple in the face. "Don't get the rest of us shot because you can't face reality! Exactly what did you expect to gain from this-this appalling treatise? The love of a nation?" High incredulity in that question. "It is over! It isdone. It cannot be undone! You have nothing to gain except a bullet for rehashing it! And may I say, sir, you should be ashamed of this! What makes you think you could have done better than better men than you!We gave all we had!»
Dowding, politely, "What I proposed was that a more careful, less glamorous man might have spent all we had more efficiently."
By then the henchmen had found the carbon. Crammed all the pages of both manuscripts into the hearth and set a match to them.
"Open the flue if you don't mind awfully," said Dowding.
The callers stayed to see the manuscripts well and truly burned.
The Air Marshal, stone white in mortal embarrassment, offered a private aside, weakly, "You are taking this rather well, Dowding."
"I shall rewrite it," Dowding said without excitement.
The Air Marshal found the courage to look the man in the eyes. "Don't. Dowding, you embarrass yourself. You have a charmed life. You got through this war unscathed. You have a lovely family. Don't ruin it for yourself. Get out of London. Go back to Moffat. Stay out of public life. For heaven's sake,write a different book."
"Write nothing!" the other shouted. "You lost France for us! The world does not need a tract from you on how wars are to be waged!" Looked to the guttering fire. "We can go now."
Dowding returned to hanging his picture. "When you see your masters, thank them for this gift."
They found their own way out.
The day arrived on which Dowding was to give his daughter away. He was rooting through the desk in his study after his best cuff links, when he glanced up to lock gazes with Adolph Hitler. The image caught the melting madness in the eyes.
That picture did not belong there. Not right. Not right. This should notbe.
The indecision returned. Adolph and the clock ticking closer to eleven. The hour of decision.
What if he had actually talked to an angel? Could he afford to toss away the chance-the most remote, feeble and pitiful of chances-that it was true?
Perhaps remote, feeble and pitiful chances were all one ever got when it came to changing history.
It was insane. He could not possibly fail his daughter on her day of days.
Days that would never exist for her at all were he to follow the angel. Were the dire promise to prove true.
Had he certainty, he might have steeled himself to the task. But the possibility, theprobability, remained that he was deluded. And grasping at a false chance held consequences as dire as those of which the angel spoke-no less dire for their lack of global importance.
His daughter's confusion, anger, tears, humiliation in front of everyone. The questionwhy? She would never forgive him. The pain in Clarice's eyes. She would carry the betrayal like a wound for the rest of her days. Walk in shame on his arm. Shrink from the whispers behind hands-Did you hear what hedid?Even his enemies could not speak of it without wincing.Poor Sarah. Poor Clarice.
Fumbling fingers rattled the cuff links in the drawer. He could not fasten them. Had to ask Clarice.
She fit them tidily into his cuffs. Straightened his collar, while their son John went outside to bring the car.
"You look grand Mr. Dowding. But pale. You feel cold. Are you well?"
He took her palm from his cheek, kissed it, pressed it back to his cheek. "I have all a man could ever ask heaven for. Ah, here's the car."
John bounded round the car to open the rear door for his parents. Snugged up the armband required of men in uniform in public.
Hugh Dowding's throat constricted. Sweat broke in pinpricks on his scalp. He drew his pocket watch to check yet again the advancing hour. Clarice's hand touched his. "Do stop."
Time dwindled as they rode toward the church.
Needles of fear stung under his tongue. Heartbeat shook his throat.
An overturned lorry brought them to a halt behind a line of cars. Progress continued by creeping starts and stops. Even Clarice became anxious.
"Not to worry," John said, turning hard down a side street. He negotiated a few more turns to come out on a parallel avenue.
One block north of the angel's church.
"What time is it?" Clarice asked. "Hugh? Hugh!"
Dowding was clawing at the back of his son's seat.Aryan grandchildren. "Let me out of the car. I cannot breathe."
Was already opening the door as John braked.
"Hugh! Where are you going! We arelate!"
Shutting the door after himself: "John, take your mother ahead. I- You won't even know I'm gone."
Tyres screeched. Stopped just short of the man who had stepped off the curb.
Heedless, he proceeded at an old man's fragile running gait, straight across the path of the Air Marshal's motor car.
Dick Trafford sat up. "Good lord, is that Dowding?"
"Can't be." The Air Marshal watched the huddled figure go, kitted up in his best, running to a church. "I thought his daughter was marrying today."
"She is. He's gone to the wrong ruddy church!"
He looked terribly fragile. Seemed to have shrunk from the days when they had been adversaries. The Air Marshal regretted the visitation. The words. The burning manuscript. "That was… harsh."
"Did he not deserve it!" Trafford cried. "Pompous coward! Old twit!" Angry at Dowding's presumption. Angry that he should land the task of shutting him up.
"Do you think he will stay quiet? What if he rewrites his book?"
"I don't care." Trafford snarled the gears. "It is not as if anyone of any importance will listen to him."
The Air Marshal nodded, sat back. "Still. I cannot help thinking we treated him shabbily."
In the Prison of His Days
Joel Richards
On Easter Monday, April 24, 1916 (a bank holiday), a band of seven revolutionaries and perhaps seven hundred men ignited an uprising in Dublin against British rule. Doomed by nonsupport from the Irish Volunteers and the country at large, the rebellion failed after a week of bloody house-to-house combat that leveled much of Dublin's center and resulted in 130 British soldiers dead.
The rebels had solicited German aid, and a gunrunning ship, attempting a landing, was scuttled by its crew outside Queenstown harbor to avoid capture. The British used this pretext to quickly try the leaders by military courts-martial for treason and abetting the enemy. They were shot, rather than hanged, before Irish or British public opinion could be mustered in their behalf.
The iron chair leg scraped across the pitted floor.