“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.”
“No!”
“Yes. We have a copy of the TV commercial. He’s sitting with some other old guy, in an army uniform, hollerin’ at him that he needs a hearing aid.”
The elevator opened onto a short hallway and another set of glass doors with the words MILLENNIUM ENCYCLOPEDIA stenciled on them. Margaret slid her card again, and we entered a row of cubicles and offices. A guy in a plaid shirt with unruly hair was working on a computer in the first cubicle. He stopped and looked up as we passed him.
Margaret led me into a cubicle that had her nameplate attached to the wall. As she powered up her computer, I asked in a hushed voice, “So, does everybody think Lowery was a hero?”
Margaret answered at a normal volume. “That is not a unanimous opinion.”
“But some people do?”
Margaret smiled. “People in his family do. And his family lawyer does.”
I added, “And Father Thomas? And Father Leonard? And the board of directors at All Souls?”
Margaret stopped smiling. “The people at All Souls Preparatory School can believe what they want to about General Hank Lowery. But I can tell you, the Millennium Encyclopedia is not going to print a fictional version of his wartime deeds. We’re not for sale. We’re going to print the truth, whatever that may turn out to be.”
“Really? Your boss would let you print bad things about Lowery?”
“If I have the proof, yes. Mr. Wissler has his own family money. He doesn’t need the Lowerys’.”
Margaret clicked an icon on her computer screen. I watched as it filled up with blue hypertext links. She indicated that I should sit in her seat. “You can poke around in these while I’m gone.”
The guy in the plaid shirt appeared in the entrance. He glanced at me and said, “Hi, Margaret. Is this your brother?”
Margaret smiled. “Yes, this is Martin, the one you’ve heard me talk so much about.” I had a flash of fear. What did she tell him? That I hide in the basement? She added, “Martin, this is Steve. He’s our IT guy. And a very good one.”
Steve waved hello. I responded awkwardly, something between grunting and waving.
Margaret spoke to both of us. “I have to leave in a few minutes for a meeting. Steve can help you with any technical difficulties.”
Steve pointed toward that first cubicle. “I’ll be right over here, for another hour at least.”
Margaret asked me, “Did you bring your research questions?”
I patted my shirt pocket. “Yeah. Can I get into these sites and search for names and stuff?”
“Sure. Most of them have search capabilities. But why don’t you ask me a couple of them first? Maybe I can point you in the right direction.”
Steve spoke up. “Your sister’s like a walking database.”
Margaret fluttered her eyelids. I took out my list and pointed to the first line. “Okay. Here’s my first item. Was there ever a guy named something like Lord Haw-Haw?”
“Yes,” Margaret assured me.
“Was he, like, a TV clown?”
“They didn’t have TV during World War Two.”
“Oh yeah. Right.”
“Lord Haw-Haw, a fictional name of course, was a British traitor. He made radio broadcasts full of Nazi propaganda. Actually, he was half British and half American. After the war, they hanged the British half.” She looked at the IT g
uy. “Although all of him died.”
Steve laughed. Then he waved at me again and stepped away.
“Incidentally,” Margaret continued, “Churchill was half American, too, on his mother’s side. He was determined to show the U.S. that the British could take it. That they could stand up to Hitler and, with our help, rid the world of him and his Nazis.”
“So . . . this Lord Haw-Haw told the British to give up or the Nazis would bomb them?”
Margaret’s eyes bulged. “Martin, the Nazis did bomb them! For years. Thousands of innocent people were killed; thousands more were made homeless; millions were terrorized. But the British did what Churchill said—they showed the world that they could take it. And they did change the course of history, didn’t they?”
I laughed. “ ‘Didn’t they?’ That’s how they talked.”
“Who?”
“The people in London. They put ‘didn’t they?’ and ‘didn’t I?’ at the end of everything.”
Margaret smiled quizzically. “They did?”
I told her, “They did, didn’t they?” I pointed to the list. “Okay. Here’s another name. How could I find out if someone named Daisy Traynor worked for our grandfather?”
Margaret looked at the name. “We can probably access payroll records.” She quickly showed me how to look for information about the U.S. Foreign Service and the U.S. Embassy staff, but neither site contained the name Daisy Traynor or any spelling variation of it. Margaret checked her watch. “Sorry. We’re meeting right now. See what you can find while I’m gone.”
For the next forty-five minutes, I clicked through a mass of information about World War II, and London, and the Auxiliary Fire Service. I searched for names from my list, and I learned the following: There was a James Harker in the Auxiliary Fire Service. He was from Yorkshire. There were two Bill Lanes in the Auxiliary Fire Service. One died in action in January 1941. The other one emigrated to Australia and died there in 1971. There was no record of an Alice Lane.
I used a red pen to categorize the items from my dream. I wrote Wrong next to Daisy Traynor and White Hart Lane; I wrote Right next to Gallipoli and Lord Haw-Haw; I wrote Maybe next to James Harker, Bill Lane, and Alice Lane. It was inconclusive. So far it was basically a tie, a tie between me being crazy or not. I hated to admit it to myself, but there wasn’t enough information. Not yet. And there was only one way to get what I wanted.
I would have to have another dream.
LONDON: SEPTEMBER 15, 1940
Exactly one week later, I had a second dream.
I worked on the radio that Sunday afternoon, testing a new theory—that the numbers 291240 actually described another sequence for the glass tubes in the back. At present, the tubes in the back were numbered 24, 27, 71A, and 80. I tried to determine where other tubes might go, what they might replace, and so on. It passed some time and gave me material for another independent study paper. Then I lay down for my nap.
Again I turned my face toward the radio and listened to the static hissing through the damp basement air. The dream followed the same pattern as before, too, except this one took place in daytime.
I became aware of the musty sweet scents, and of the wallpaper. I could see it clearly now—the paper was light brown, with a vertical pattern of yellow flowers. Then I saw Jimmy. He was once again sitting in the leather chair, listening to the Philco 20. An announcer, not Lord Haw-Haw, was reading the news about a disaster at sea, a disaster involving children. Jimmy turned and spoke to me. “Ships with evacuees get sunk, don’t they?”
I took a seat on the covered sofa, feeling strangely at home. “What are evacuees?”
“They’re kids that get evacuated, aren’t they?”
“Why did they get evacuated?”
“Are you daft? So they wouldn’t get killed by the bombs.”
“Uh-huh. So most of the kids left?”
“Yeah. Most of ’em. So many that they had to close my school.”
I thought about my list of facts. I asked him, “Tell me more about your school.”
Jimmy’s lip twisted up, and his blue eyes narrowed. “My school was horrible. I hated it. And I hated my schoolmaster, Master Portefoy. We called him Master Putrefy because he smelled so bad. He cuffed me once, on the ear.” Jimmy’s eyes widened. “Then my dad went in to see him. He sorted him out right quick! He dared Master Portefoy to cuff him on the ear; told him he’d bust him in the nose if he did. Old Putrefy got the message, and he never touched me after that.”
I made a mental note of the name. Jimmy continued, “Anyway, most of the kids got shipped out of London, but now some are coming back.”
“Why?”
“It ain’t no holiday out there, Johnny. Just listen to the news. That boat that went down was full of London kids. Their parents thought they were sending them to safety, but they were sending them to their deaths.”
The news was soon replaced by music, big band music. I asked him, “Why didn’t you get evacuated?”
“Me? I did! Mum and me both. But then Mum died, and I came back home. Dad said he wasn’t sending me away again. Not after losing Mum and all.”
Suddenly a horrible whirring, whining sound began outside. It went right through my bones like a jolt of electricity. I shrieked, “What’s that?”
Jimmy laughed. “It’s an air-raid siren, Johnny. A false alarm, most likely. We get a lot of those.”
“We’re in an air raid? What do we do?”
“Nothin’. We just wait for the all clear.”
“What’s that? Another siren?”
“Yeah. If we don’t hear it, then we head for a shelter.”
“Okay. We head where?”
Jimmy leaned forward and explained, “Well, most people’ve got an Anderson shelter. It’s dug into the dirt in the backyard.”
“Do you have one of those?”
“Not exactly. Landlord mucked up on ours, I’m afraid. Nobody uses it. Dad always tells me to run to Mrs. Lane’s house and use hers.”
“So is that what you do?”
“Hardly, mate. That thing’s all muddy, and full of bugs. No, if I ever need a shelter, I pop into the nearest Underground station.”
“What’s that?”
“Don’t you know nothing? It’s like, a train underground that takes people places.”
“A subway?”
“Yeah. There ya go.” Jimmy’s eyes opened wide. “Or”—he raised a skinny arm and pointed toward the street out front—“you could take your chances in the surface shelter.”
“The one that Canby built?”
“Right.”
“Without the cement?”
Jimmy laughed. “You remember that, eh? Well done. No, this time it has cement.”
Jimmy turned toward the radio. I hadn’t realized it, but the music had drifted away and only static was coming out of it. He suddenly got very quiet and whispered, “You know, sometimes when I’m tuning the radio, and listening . . . I think I hear Mum talking to me.”
“Really? What does she say?”
“She says, ‘Do your bit, Jimmy.’ I think it’s really her voice saying that. Daft, isn’t it?”
“Hey, I’m the last person to call somebody daft.”
Jimmy fixed me with a look. “What? Do you think you’re daft, Johnny?”
I held out my arms to encompass the room. “This is all pretty crazy, you must admit.”
Jimmy shook his head. “No. It’s not craziness, I can tell you that much.”
“Then what is it?”
His voice dropped down. “Answer me this: Do you believe in ghosts, Johnny?”
I thought, Not until I met you, but I shrugged and said, “I don’t know. I have no idea.”
“What about haunted houses, then? Do you believe a house could be haunted?”
“I guess it’s possible. I don’t know.”
“My mum and dad believe in haunted houses and ghosts because they’re from York. York’s a haunted city because it’s had so many
wars, and plagues, and executions and all. It’s full of ghosts.”
Jimmy turned back to the radio and fiddled with it until he found a pop song. “Do you like this one, Johnny—‘We’ll Meet Again’?”
“I don’t know it.”
“Don’t know nothing, do you?” Jimmy pulled a small black-and-red tube and a comb out of his pocket. “Time to use my Brylcreem. It’s what the RAF pilots use, you know. That’s what they call them on the BBC, the Brylcreem boys.” Jimmy squeezed out a dab and combed it into his hair. When he was finished, he scooped up his gas mask and attached it to his belt. Then he gestured toward the door.
“Come on. I want to tell Dad what I heard today. Arsenal’s playing Spurs on twelve October. I got to know if he’s on or off.”
“What does that mean?”
“If he’s on duty or off. The Auxiliaries go forty-eight hours on and twenty-four hours off. If he can get off, we can go. Maybe Bill, too.”
“With his darts?”
“Oh yeah. I expect so.”
I thought of my list. I asked him, “Is Arsenal playing at Highbury?”
He looked at me curiously. “No, mate. White Hart Lane.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure, Johnny.”
I thought, Then I’m sure I’m dreaming. I walked over to the sideboard and picked up the medals. “Wait a minute. I want to hear more about these.”
“What? My granddad’s medals?”
“Yeah.”
“His Pip, Squeak, and Wilfred, he called them.” He stepped closer, took the medals from me, and held them up one by one. “If you’re going to join the Dukes, it helps if you’re Yorkshire born, like Dad and me. My dad said he’d have joined if it weren’t for Mum. My dad wanted to fight the Germans, but my mum made him join the Auxiliaries.” Jimmy laid the medals down. “All right, then? Let’s be off.”
I stayed on the sofa. “No. I’m not going out there.”
“Just to have a look, Johnny. Come on, now. We have to.” He smiled and gestured toward the wall behind me. I turned and saw what he was pointing at, the VERY WELL THEN, ALONE! poster.
I told him, “Very well, then. You can go alone.”
“No. You’ve got to come with me, Johnny. It’s your bit. You’ve got to help.”