Chapter Text
When Margaret died, John was beside himself. He had lost countless friends and comrades during the war, a few of whom had literally bled out in his arms. But none of that compared to the horror of holding his wife's cold hand while a doctor listened to her unmoving chest and pronounced her dead. And even that couldn't compare to the horror of having to drive back to his sister's house and face their toddler who just wanted to know where her mummy was.
The following year was a blur. He was a proper Englishman and knew he needed to be stoic and keep calm and carry on, which is what he did. He requested a transfer from active duty to a desk job in military intelligence because the hours were regular and it didn't require any travel. He hired a nanny and moved to Kensington to be closer to his sister. He did everything he knew he was supposed to do. But he had a hole in his heart now, a place where all of his love for Margaret had been and now had nowhere to go.
There were only two things that got him through this dark period of time. The first, of course, was his daughter Violet. She was the light of his life; even after the hardest, most soul-crushing days her little gap-toothed smile made everything seem a little brighter.
The second thing that got him through this time was Hester Leggatt, the secretary for his new position. She had been with the department for over a decade and knew it inside and out, backwards and forwards. She was sharp, efficient, and had an exceptional memory for dates and statistics. And though at first blush she seemed cold and distant, she was remarkably kind. When she found out about Violet she added a section to John's datebook just for the girl's schedule, and without being asked she took on the task of keeping track of doctor's appointments, play dates, and all manner of childhood activities.
For the next three years he began to heal, and they fell into a mostly-comfortable rhythm. When Violet started school they were able to let the nanny go, and after school she would go to his sister's to play with her cousins and do her homework. John learned to cook and made it a point to pick her up in time to make dinner most nights. He never missed a bedtime story and did all of the voices (his wolf voice for Little Red Riding Hood was a particular hit).
It was far from ideal, but they made it work. For a few brief and shining moments it seemed as if they might actually be okay after all.
Then the war happened, and John thought things couldn't get any worse.
And then came the bombings.
Like many other parents, John immediately arranged to have Violet moved to the countryside. His sister Helen was taking her children to their family house near Basingstroke, so it just made sense for Violet to go with them. In many ways they were lucky. So many children were being sent to live with complete strangers, and she would be staying with much-loved family members. But John didn't feel particularly lucky when she was clinging to his chest and hysterically begging him to not leave her there. He also didn't feel lucky when he had to return home without her.
He had never lived alone before. He had gone from his mother's house to Eton, then to university, then to the front lines of the war, and when he'd returned he married Margaret and bought their home. For the first time in his life he was well and truly alone. That first night he squeezed a scotch glass so hard it shattered and sunk splinters of glass deep into his palm, and he broke down and cried for the first time since Margaret had died.
The next morning his despair congealed itself into a simmering anger. It was rage at the war, at the Treaty of Versailles, at every person he passed in the streets who didn't seem as despondent as him. He had always had a relatively short temper, but that day the shortness of it shrunk to nothing. By lunchtime he got himself into a particularly ugly screaming match with Ewen Montagu from naval intelligence, with whom he'd always had a cordial relationship. As he stormed into his office he knew damn well that he was in the wrong and that he'd likely soured their professional relationship, though he also knew he would never apologize for it. He threw himself into his chair and fumed for several minutes, feeling the rage still coursing through his veins.
Eventually Hester knocked on the door. She didn't wait for his response; rather uncharacteristically she simply let herself in and shut the door. She turned to him, folded her hands, and waited.
He sighed heavily when it became clear that she wasn't going to speak first. "That was inexcusable," he said.
"It was. And based on my limited knowledge, I believe the last bit was a rather inaccurate characterization of his mother." She seemed unperturbed by his anger. If anything, she seemed faintly annoyed.
"I want to say it won't happen again, but I don't think that's true."
"Likely not." Her voice softened. "I take it the separation didn't go well?"
John looked up at her sharply. "However did you come to that conclusion?" he snarked, with more venom than he intended.
Hester merely raised an eyebrow, and he deflated.
"Sorry, sorry. It just…" He dropped his left hand to the desk and flexed it against the blotter. He'd only recently stopped wearing his ring, and his finger was still pale and indented from where it had sat for years. If he were a man more inclined to metaphor he might have said he felt like that — soft, still shaped distinctly around something that was no longer there. "I've been to war. I've buried my parents and my wife. And walking away from her yesterday was still the hardest thing I've ever done."
Hester made a sound in the back of her throat, and for a moment he thought her eyes were about to fill with tears. But she simply let out a small cough and adjusted her glasses. She watched him for a moment, and he waited for the all-too-familiar expression of pity he received from everyone. People were so quick to pity widowers, even more so than widows for some bizarre reason. Everyone from his colleagues to his sister to his postman looked at him with the same abject pity that made his stomach turn.
But Hester's expression wasn't one of pity. It seemed more like understanding, a deep empathy. He knew she had lost her fiance during the first war, though he wasn't entirely sure of the specifics. But just about everyone of their generation had a tale of loss to tell. They all had a wound that had scabbed over but never properly healed, one that could catch and tear back open with the smallest pressure. Even if Hester couldn't relate to his situation exactly, she knew what it was like to be pulled from someone you love.
Violet, he realized. She could relate to Violet. She knew what it was like to be the one left behind.
"Would you like me to explain the extenuating circumstances to Mr. Montagu?" she asked. "He doesn't seem like the type to hold a grudge—"
"Christ, no." John shook his head. "I don't want anyone to think I'm too, I don't know, soft for duty. Too fragile. Better he think I'm some unreasonable arsehole, I suppose."
Hester frowned, but she knew better than to push the issue. "Is there anything else I can do? I can cancel your next meeting if you need some time to reset yourself."
"No, no. I think it's best if I stay busy, keep my mind off things. At least until she's back."
"Which I'm sure will be soon," Hester said quietly.
She was noticeably gentle with him after that. The pacing of his days changed — his meetings, for the most part, were spaced in a way that kept him busy but not overwhelmed. Somehow there was always a warm cup of tea at his elbow, and despite rationing his favorite biscuits seemed to always be stocked in the canteen. She never said a word about it, but it was clear that she was caring for him in the best ways she knew how. He was grateful for this, eternally grateful, but every time he opened up his mouth to thank her the words got caught in his throat. He worried that if he thanked her, if he acknowledged her kindness in any way, he might start crying and never stop.
He generally spent the days and nights wavering between rage and despondency, and so the months passed. The day they received word that Hitler's forces were backing off was one of the happiest of his life, and he nearly knocked the phone off his desk in his haste to ring Helen.
But Helen had no intention of returning home any time soon. "Lucy and Jack love it here," she said over a crackling connection. "I think it just makes sense for us to stay here while Roger is overseas. Violet is more than welcome to stay too, she's hardly any trouble at all."
John was silent for several long seconds.
"Just think about it," Helen said quietly.
After they hung up he did think about it. By all accounts this war was going to last for another year, maybe more. He had already missed out on Violet's seventh birthday. How many more birthdays would he miss, how many more milestones would it take for her to feel as if she had been completely orphaned?
He was startled from this train of thought by Hester, who knocked gently on the doorframe. "Sir, your three o'clock was pushed to four o'clock, and your four o'clock was cancelled."
"Right, good," he said distantly.
She frowned and came further into the room. "Is everything alright, sir?"
He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. This wasn't exactly a conversation for the workplace, but he was pretty sure that Hester was the closest he had to a confidant these days. If he thought about it, there really was no one whose judgement he trusted more in the matter.
"I just ah, had a call with my sister," he said.
"How are she and the children faring?" she asked.
"Fine, fine. So fine that they've decided to stay, and she's offered to keep Violet with them."
Hester frowned. "But all of our reports show that the Germans are refocusing their efforts to the mainland."
"I know that. And I've told her it as well."
"You're considering it," she said. A statement, not a question. She always seemed to know just what he was thinking.
"I don't know," he said honestly. "She's safe there, she's with children her own age. I wonder about what I'd be bringing her back to here. It seems almost selfish to do it just because I miss her."
As he spoke, Hester's frown deepened. "May I say something?"
"Please."
Hester hesitated. When she spoke it was with a quiet conviction, a tone both tender and firm he didn't think he'd ever heard from her before. "Violet has already lost her mother, and she's losing the better part of her childhood to a war. Don't take her father away from her too. I know it's difficult, but she adores you. You're all each other have. And quite frankly sir, you've been distraught without her. You're not sleeping, you're forgetting about meetings, and I scarcely think I've seen you eat a thing in months. You miss her, sir. And I know she misses you too."
John felt a tiny flare of anger at her observations, though he knew it was unfounded. He always asked for honesty from her, and he always got it. No use getting angry with her just because she perceived him better than he would ever want to be perceived. "But what am I supposed to do?" he asked. "Helen's the one that's been minding her after school. If I bring her back I don't even know who I could get to watch her."
"You'll muddle through. You have friends and neighbors, you have me. Anyone else here would be more than willing to lend a hand." Spotting his revulsion at the last suggestion, she huffed a laugh. "I'm just saying that you have options. You don't have to break both your hearts just to keep her safe."
He couldn't really argue with that. And when Violet stepped off the train into his waiting arms, any doubts he'd harbored melted away.
He did muddle through with the after school care. Her piano teacher agreed to pick her up from school and do lessons with her four days a week, and on Fridays the neighbor's teenage daughter picked her up and watched her until he got home. This system worked for the better part of three months, and they were able to fall into a comfortable rhythm. But then one Friday he got back-to-back phonecalls, one saying that he was urgently needed in a meeting about some intel from the Berlin agents, and another saying that the neighbor girl was ill and couldn't fetch Violet from school. This was exactly what he had been afraid of.
Hester knocked on the doorframe. "Sir, they're waiting for you in conference room four."
He buried his head in his hands. "Susan can't pick up Violet. I can't miss this meeting, but I can't very well leave her alone at the school either." He sat there slumped for several long seconds feeling like a failure, both as an officer and as a father.
"Might I propose a suggestion?"
He looked up at Hester. She was nervously fiddling with the cuffs of her shirt and looking uncharacteristically shy. "Yes?"
"I could pick her up from school and bring her here. It's a little unorthodox, but few people here are in a position to complain about it, and she's old enough to entertain herself in your office with minimal supervision."
John blinked. "Hester, I couldn't ask you to do that—"
"Which is why I'm volunteering, sir."
He opened his mouth to protest, then looked at the clock. He didn't have time to argue, and while it wasn't the most elegant solution, it was a solution. He nodded, a little at a loss for words. "I can't begin to tell you how grateful I'd be for that. I'll give you Monday off in exchange."
Hester rolled her eyes. "Don't be ridiculous, you can't possibly spare me on a Monday. I'm happy to do it."
Something deep inside his chest squeezed tightly and he had to look away. "Thank you. I don't know what we'd do without you."
"I'm sure you'd manage," she said gently, then left.
The meeting was one of the most interminable of John's life. He spent the entire time watching the clock, and when it was time to provide his proposed next steps he tripped up and lost his train of thought twice, which never happened to him. It was embarrassing, and after the meeting was adjourned he couldn't get out of the conference room fast enough.
But when he arrived at his office Violet was sitting in his chair, carefully writing in her school notebook. She was still wearing her school uniform, which was getting a little small for her following her most recent growth spurt, and her pale blond hair was still tied in the pigtails he'd done for her that morning. (He still hadn't quite mastered the art of braiding, though he knew he needed to start working on it soon.) She was fine, perfectly unperturbed by the unusual change of scenery. She looked up when the door opened and grinned brightly.
"Dad!" she cried, jumping from the chair and running towards him.
"Hello sweetheart." He dropped his papers on top of the filing cabinet and held his arms out. She flung herself at him and he caught her easily, swinging her up off the ground and eliciting a squeal of delight from her. "I hope you weren't too bored waiting for me."
She shook her head as he set her down, then made a face as he ruffled her hair. "No, Miss Leggatt gave me tea and biscuits and helped me with my maths homework. She's very good with fractions."
"I'm sure she is," John said, wracking his brain to think of a way to give Hester an enormous raise. Perhaps he could cut Reggie's explosives budget? No, the man knew far too many ways to kill someone and make it look like an accident. Maybe he could fire Montagu? Now there was a thought. It turned out the other man did hold a grudge and had been unsuccessfully trying to start a mutiny against John for months.
"There you are, sir," Hester said, coming up behind him. "Apologies, I had to send a quick telegram for General Dempsey. But Miss Bevan assured me that she would be done with her last few sums by the time I got back."
Violet's grin widened at being called "Miss Bevan" and she scampered back to the desk. "I did finish, look!"
She handed the notebook to Hester, who scanned it and gave a satisfied nod. "Very good. If you keep doing well with your maths there might be a place for you in Bletchley in the near future."
Though the idea of his daughter being anywhere near the war made his stomach turn, John smiled. Violet had no clue what Bletchley was but she knew a compliment when she heard one so she beamed, revealing the space from where she'd lost a tooth the week before. His heart swelled, and he reached out to ruffle her hair again.
"Alright petal, I've just got a few more calls to make and then we can go home." He didn't miss the slight curve of a smile from Hester at the endearment, but at this point she was welcome to have a bit of fun at his expense. "And really Hester, at least come in late on Monday or something."
"I'll do nothing of the sort."
"Well at least go home now," he said, eyeing the clock. "I've just got to connect with the Spanish office before they go dark for the evening, if there's any follow-up it can wait until next week."
"Alright. Goodnight, sir. And goodnight, Violet."
Violet waved to her, then settled herself back into John's chair with her notebook and a crayon. He didn't have the heart to make her move, so he sat in one of the visitor's chairs and pulled the phone into his lap.
"I like Miss Leggatt," Violet said as she carefully began coloring in the wings of a butterfly. "She's nice."
"Yes," John said, a little distracted as he dialed the number for Huelva. "I'm quite fond of her too."