Chapter Text
Her father had volunteered the day war was declared and proposed to her mother the same day. He never left Caernarfon; Evan Rhys’ entire war was spent at RAF Llandwrog as a mechanic. Her mother joined the WRAF and flew transport planes for three years.
Her older sister Glenys was born in 1943.
Myfanwy joined the family in 1945 on Victory Day.
***
Just before she was due to sit exams for her degree in Economics and Politics, she was called into her tutor’s office. Along with five other students, she was informed that Professor Gower was a spotter for the Ministry of Defence and they’d all been recommended for interview and examination. Two people left the room, after signing the Official Secrets Act so that they couldn’t give Professor Gower away, and the rest, Myfanwy included, were given a date for the exam and a date for an interview should they pass.
She found out that she had been accepted as a researcher at the MoD (and later discovered her area technically didn’t exist) and that she’d achieved her B.A. on the same day. She began working at MI-6 as a file clerk cum secretary cum researcher immediately after the summer bank holiday.
A group of the girls who started at the same time she did rented a house together on Hamilton Gardens not far from Lord’s Cricket Ground in St. John’s Wood. It was convenient to the Bakerloo line which took them straight into Whitehall every day.
London in 1966 was one of the leaders of youth culture and fashion. Paris and New York had stultified, but London reinvented itself with the British Invasion in music and Carnaby Street, Mary Quant, and Vidal Sassoon in fashion. Eye makeup was more extreme, hair and skirts were shorter, and everyone danced in the discotheques.
In short, life as a single woman in the most happening city in the world was great. Her job, however, was stultifying. The two men who’d been with her in Professor Gower’s little meeting began as analysts, with one of them already having been sent to learn Czech. She and the other woman in the meeting were pushing trolleys with files in them and having to slap the wandering hands of much older men every ten minutes or so. Rebecca didn’t mind the wandering hands as much and it wasn’t unusual for Myfanwy to see one of their mid-level bosses over the breakfast table in the morning.
Her biggest battle was to find ways to make time for herself. She’d finally established with her immediate supervisor that she’d take half hour lunches instead of the hour they were allotted, if she could leave early one day a week. Those afternoons were spent at West End matinees, movies none of her friends wanted to see, museums, and galleries.
She wandered into the Indica gallery in Mason’s Yard one day and found herself entranced by the works of a Japanese artist. It wasn’t that she liked most of it; Myfanwy wasn’t entirely certain she understood it. But all white chess pieces seemed to be about right for the type of obscure war her department seemed to be fighting with the Russians.
“What do you see, looking at it?” The man next to her seemed genuinely curious.
“Futility. It doesn’t matter what game we think we’re playing. We can’t win.”
He nodded. “I get that.” His smile got a bit broader. “I look at it a bit different. No matter which side we’re on, we always think we’re pure.”
It was her turn to nod. “That makes sense.”
“Welsh?”
“Me? I’m Welsh as laverbread. Myfanwy.”
“Paul.” They shook hands and he continued, “I thought you’d be safe to talk to. I see you around the neighborhood on your way to the tube stop with a lot of other girls.”
“Much nicer than I could afford on my own. Though, I must say, I don’t remember your friend setting fire to the house after sleeping in the bathtub. That was a rude surprise.”
“Ah. He never told me exactly where that was. The fire was my idea.”
Myfanwy chuckled quietly.
“Fancy a cup of tea? There’s a caf just down the street.”
“Let me just look at the last piece.” She glanced toward a ladder.
“There’s a magnifying glass at the top,” he said.
She climbed up, thankful for the thick tights she was wearing under her skirt as Paul insisted on bracing the ladder for her. On the ceiling In tiny type was printed the word “yes.” Myfanwy grinned and let Paul buy her tea and a scone.
***
The next two years found Myfanwy trying to move beyond her roving file cart and into one of the regular departments. She applied for research, analysis, and logistics positions, but the jobs all seemed to go to men. She even overheard the head of department say that he didn’t know why she kept applying since they weren’t going to promote anyone who would leave the second she found a man to marry.
Paul ran into her outside the Tube station and took her out for Indian. “Look, I know it’s not your type of work, but I think my tailors could use someone.”
“A woman in a tailor’s shop? I’m not sure that would go over too well.”
“At least let me talk to someone I know there. He might have some advice.”
Since Paul couldn’t know what she did beyond “file clerk,” she figured it wouldn’t hurt to see if there might be a life outside of the intelligence community. “Sure, Paul. Tell him my short day this week is Wednesday, but I can arrange for it to be any day he finds convenient next week.”
“I will. Want to come home with me, luv?”
She grinned; it was an old joke between them. “No, thank you, cariad, but the offer’s appreciated.”
“And can I give Mister Lee your phone number?”
“That would be fine.”
Paul paid the bill and said, “Let me walk you home.”
***
She wore her best suit for tea at the Dorchester. Mister Lee turned out to be a very tall man with a very deep voice whom she thought she recognized from a movie Rebecca and Rebecca’s latest man had dragged her to ages ago. She noticed that he was assessing her just as thoroughly, and they smiled nearly simultaneously.
“Don’t worry about being overheard, my dear. The maitre knows not to put anyone too close to us.” He helped her to her chair and she noted that their table had a perfect view of the entire room, including all the standard and non-standard entrances and exits.
She looked back at her companion to find Mister Lee smiling. “Yes, my dear, the tailor’s shop is just a cover.”
“Does Paul know?”
“I believe so. He’s certainly been willing to help with some minor courier duties.”
Myfanwy thought for a moment, but before she could ask anything more, Mister Lee asked, “Is the standard tea all right or are you a vegetarian?”
“Yes, the standard tea is fine.” There was a pause. “Tell me about your shop.”
Mister Lee leaned back in his chair and smiled. “Kingsman is one of the rare shops which has been in continuous existence since the mid-nineteenth century. There are one or two Savile Row shops which can claim precedence, but all of them have had periods where they closed whether due to lack of funds or lack of appropriate skilled workers.”
“And what role would you see for me at your shop? It’s not like they’d let me take measurements, and, frankly, I’m tired of being one step above the tea lady in an office hierarchy.”
“It would have driven me mad. You took a first class degree from the LSE. Why George has you pushing around a file cart is beyond me?”
Myfanwy stiffened at the use of the name George. It was common enough, but it was also the first name of the head of her government agency.
Their tea arrived, and Lee said, “Let me be mother, please. I hope you like the blend. They keep it for me.”
“Certainly, sir.”
Once he’d ascertained that she approved of the tea and they’d begun on the salmon sandwiches, he raised an eyebrow.
She said, “Yes, well, what is Kingsman besides a tailor’s shop?”
Mister Lee said, “A better question, though I’ll answer your earlier one as well. Kingsman is an independent intelligence service. We are beholden to no government, though we are aware that the Ministry of Defence and their American cousins give us the leeway they do because we’re useful to them.”
“You provide plausible deniability, I imagine.”
“Some, but frankly, they use us when they need to clean house. Sometimes, we help with ensuring there’s no need for a prisoner exchange as well.”
Myfanwy was silent for a moment. “Because you’ve rescued the prisoner or because you’ve killed him?”
“We’ve done both, my dear. Surely you don’t believe MI6 has never ordered one of our own killed.”
“No. I wish I could believe it, but… there was an incident in Berlin.” She could mention it because it had made all the major newspapers.
“There are many. But I know the incident to which you’re referring. I firmly believe we would have handled it better, at least gotten the civilian girl out if not the operative.”
Her smile didn’t reach her eyes.
“If you’re already tired of the game, we can use you as a buyer for the shop, give you a chance to travel the world and regroup while you decide what you really wish to do, but I think you’ll enjoy what we’re offering you more than that type of role.”
“And what are you offering me?”
Mister Lee grinned. “Travel will still be part of it, but your role will be in support of our agents. I know you probably want to do analysis, and I’ll start you there if you like. When it bores you, come tell me so, and I’ll put you into logistics. I’ve seen your scores, aptitude as well as university, they show you have a positive talent for logistics at all levels.”
“You’re right that I want to try analysis. I think I’ll be good at it.”
“I have no doubt of it, Miss Rhys.” He leaned closer and said in her ear, “It will bore you to tears.”
She giggled, which was completely unlike her and he laughed at having made her do so.
“Once you’ve been with us a few months, we may ask you for recommendations about other bored girls pushing file trolleys. I will say, not Rebecca.”
Myfanwy glanced at him sharply.
“I’m certain she’s lovely, but, fundamentally, she’s not a serious person. Serious as the French use the word, you understand.”
She thought for a moment. “You’re right. To her, I’ll have to be a “buyer for the shop,” was it?”
“And you will be. As I said, you’ll travel. You will learn the basics of the tailoring business, how to select fabrics and all. But you’ll have the added duty of analysing situations or planning the logistics of escape routes.”
“Yes.”
“Yes?”
“Yes, I’m interested, Mister Lee.”
“Good.” He handed her a card and motioned to the maitre who brought a telephone to the table and plugged in the line. “Yes, Joseph, could you see if Arthur is available?” He listened for a moment. “Arthur, the redoubtable Miss Rhys is interested. When might you be available to meet her?”
After another pause, he said, “That will be fine, Arthur. I’ll leave you to… oh, of course. I’ll be back at the office by four.”
He hung up and said, “You have a meeting on Monday afternoon at the shop. One pip emma. It’s a good time to come. I know Arthur will offer us lunch.”
She smiled at his conspiratorial tone. “I should be able to arrange that.”
He pulled a card out of his pocket and handed it to her. “George will ask to see you Monday morning. Give him my card. You’ll have the rest of the day off.”
“I’ve never met him, you know. George is an utter mystery to me.”
“He’s too dull to be a mystery. He’s an excellent analyst. Did well in the field, too, but he isn’t exactly scintillating.”
For the rest of the meal, they discussed theater and art. Just before the end of the meal, the telephone on the table rang. It was George’s secretary fixing an appointment with Myfanwy for nine on the following Monday. Myfanwy looked at Mister Lee and he said, “The train’s begun to leave the station, my dear. And this time, you’re on it.”
***
Arthur proved to be a dynamic man in his early fifties. He interviewed her with Mister Lee, whom he called Merlin, present: a silent observer to the process. Over the Potage St. Germain, she answered questions about her background. Over the sole meuniere, Arthur outlined the structure and mission of Kingsman, and over the wild strawberries and cream, he formally offered her the job. She accepted before coffee.