Jackdaws

"Perhaps," said Fortescue, and his manner became prissy. "However, there were discipline problems with this group. An official complaint was entered against the leader, Major Clairet, after she insulted a Guards officer."

"Insulted?" said the bishop. "How?"

"There was a row in a bar, and I'm afraid she told him to fuck off. saving your presence, Bishop."

"My goodness me. She doesn't sound like the kind of person who should be held up as a hero to the next generation."

"Exactly. A lesser decoration than the Military Cross, then-the MBE, perhaps."

Nobby Clarke spoke again. "I disagree," he said mildly. "After all, if this woman had been a milksop she probably wouldn't have been able to blow up a telephone exchange under the noses of the Gestapo."

Fortescue was irritated. It was unusual for him to encounter opposition. He hated people who were not intimidated by him. He looked around the table. "The consensus of the meeting seems to be against you."

Clarke frowned. "I presume I can put in a minority recommendation," he said with stubborn patience.

"Indeed," said Fortescue. "Though I doubt if there's much point."

Clarke drew on his cigarette thoughtfully. "Why not?"

"The Minister will have some knowledge of one or two of the individuals on our list. In those cases he will follow his own inclinations, regardless of our recommendations. In all other cases he will do as we suggest, having himself no interest. If the committee is not unanimous, he will accept the recommendation of the majority."

"I see," said Clarke. "All the same, I should like the record to show that I dissented from the committee and recommended the Military Cross for Major Clairet."

Fortescue looked at the secretary, the only woman in the room. "Make sure of that, please, Miss Gregory."

"Very good," she said quietly.

Clarke stubbed out his cigarette and lit another. And that was the end of that.

FRAU WALTRAUD FRANCK came home happy. She had managed to buy a neck of mutton. It was the first meat she had seen for a month. She had walked from her suburban home into the bombed city center of Cologne and had stood in line outside the butcher shop all morning. She had also forced herself to smile when the butcher, Herr Beckmann, fondled her behind; for if she had objected, he would have been "sold out" to her ever afterwards. But she could put up with Beckmann's wandering hands. She would get three days of meals out of a neck of mutton.

"I'm back!" she sang out as she entered the house. The children were at school, but Dieter was at home. She put the precious meat in the pantry. She would save it for tonight, when the children would be here to share it. For lunch, she and Dieter would have cabbage soup and black bread.

She went into the living room. "Hello, darling!" she said brightly.

Her husband sat at the window, motionless. A piratical black patch covered one eye. He had on one of his beautiful old suits, but it hung loosely on his skinny frame, and he wore no tie. She tried to dress him nicely every morning, but she had never mastered the tying of a man's tie. His face wore a vacant expression, and a dribble of saliva hung from his open mouth. He did not reply to her greeting.

She was used to this. "Guess what?" she said. "I got a neck of mutton!"

He stared at her with his good eye. "Who are you?" he said.

She bent and kissed him. "We'll have a meaty stew for supper tonight. Aren't we lucky!"

That afternoon, Flick and Paul got married in a little church in Chelsea.

It was a simple ceremony. The war in Europe was over, and Hitler was dead, but the Japanese were fiercely defending Okinawa, and wartime austerity continued to cramp the style of Londoners. Flick and Paul both wore their uniforms: wedding dress material was very hard to find, and Flick as a widow did not want to wear white.

Percy Thwaite gave Flick away. Ruby was matron of honor. She could not be bridesmaid because she was already married-to Jim, the firearms instructor from the Finishing School, who was sitting in the second row of pews.

Paul's father, General Chancellor, was best man. He was still stationed in London, and Flick had got to know him quite well. He had the reputation of an ogre in the U.S. military, but to Flick he was a sweetheart.

Also in the church was Mademoiselle Jeanne Lemas. She had been taken to Ravensbrueck concentration camp, with young Marie; and Marie had died there, but somehow Jeanne Lemas had survived, and Percy Thwaite had pulled a hundred strings to get her to London for the wedding. She sat in the third row, wearing a cloche hat.