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The faint ticking of hands on a clock — hanging just above a tilted, rather neglected painted portrait of Winston Churchill half-heartedly nailed to the wall — in the ever-forgotten typing pool office of MI5 was somehow the only thing managing to keep Hester's anxieties at bay, as the agonizing wait for news of Bill's departure dragged on. The ticking gave her something to focus on that wasn't files upon files about the current operation in progress.
Usually, Hester wouldn't waste any time sitting around at her desk when she could be productive and get some more filing or paperwork done, but no matter what she tried to distract herself that particular evening, the pit in her stomach would not subside. Unusual, she figured. She was often a calm woman, a voice of reason deflating any unreasonable fear with rationalities and careful considering and planning. Not tonight, she supposed.
Besides the fact that Montagu and Cholmondeley would be departing from MI5 any moment then to finally put their plan into execution with their Bill in tow, Hester had been feeling almost sick in a way she hadn't in a long time, and she didn't think she could say it was solely because of the anxiety around the success of the operation and the anticipated deception of the Nazis. No, it definitely wasn't.
Earlier that evening, she'd gone to a place she hadn't dared to in a long time. It almost unsettled her, the way that she had slipped back into an almost forgotten routine with the simple brandish of a ballpoint pen. Feeling as though no time had went by at all and she was still a young woman trying to find her way and belonging in a world that seemed to work against her in every which way, the words of Pam Soon-to-be Martin had melded into her own on the crinkled loose leaf paper out of desperation for the operation as she wrote and wrote, desperately trying to push down the drowning grief she thought she had been able to overcome. What a silly thought. It was as if no time had went by at all. She supposed being in the midst of the war made it as though time really hadn't gone by at all.
Hester hadn't intended on being the one to draft a love letter for Bill Martin's wallet — no, not at all. She hadn't planned on doing much directly for Mincemeat at all — though desperate times called for desperate measures, and if her eerily familiar old routine of writing her own wartime letters could save thousands of others like her Tom, she would do it. She would push down the inkling of nerves and nausea everytime she wrote down the name Bill as she pictured him in her mind — a fresh corpse dressed in the clothing of a courageous pilot — and she would do her best to keep writing as the blank slate image of Bill laying there slowly melted into the face of her long-gone Tom in his place, just laying there. No familiar smile, no movement. Not even a final look of peace. Just nothing. A corpse, a number, a blank slate.
Just thinking about it again, she felt dizzy. Just breathe, she thought, just stop thinking for now. It'll be worth it when the operation is complete. You're saving lives. Hester tried to focus on the sound of the ticking clock again as she stomped down the image of Bill in her mind — a man she didn't even know. That, admittedly, made it easier to project onto him. She supposed that was sort of her job within the operation, projecting onto that blank slate of a man, but it felt so incredibly wrong.
As Hester let her eyes slip shut and her ears focus on the ticking of the clock hands just for a moment, her eyes were suddenly shockingly open again as the door just next to her desk swung open wide and loud, as if making an announcement that someone important has arrived and everyone should direct their attention to them right at that moment. Grabbing Hester's attention, it successfully did.
She squinted for a moment before adjusting her glasses which had stooped low on her nose, scarily close to falling off her face entirely. The last person she'd expected to see in the typing pool at this hour — especially with the much more important events happening as soon as possible — was Ewen Montagu. Yet there he was, standing in the doorway, looking seemingly nonchalant and sure as always. One close look from the eyes of Hester — who had known Montagu since his first days working at MI5 as a young and over-eager Navy lad freshly transferred to Intelligence — let her know that his aura of surety wasn't entirely solidified. She wouldn't expect it to be, not tonight, but she wouldn't say about it yet. She knew the last thing Montagu would want was someone prying deep within his inner workings especially during a reasonable stressful occasion such as this. Still though, she would question why he was down in the typing pool of all places when he should be upstairs with Cholmondeley loading their human thermos in the back of a hopefully unsuspicious van.
"Mr. Montagu?" Hester gently questioned, a careful neutrality placed in her tone. "What are you—"
"I read your letter."
Out of anything Montagu could have said, that was certainly the last thing Hester would have expected him to say.
"Sorry?"
"You know," Montagu began to gesture with his hands, "the letter. The one for Bill."
"I figured," Hester began, confusion lacing her voice and an uncomfortable stirring in her chest, "but I'm… unclear on why you've decided to pay me a visit just to discuss it."
Montagu corked up his eyebrow before announcing, "I didn't realize you'd be the one to write it. Thought Charlie would do it himself like I asked. Wasn't expecting that from you, old girl, but I must say, I'm impressed. It's real. It's genuine."
Hester didn't know what to say. "… Thank you?"
Montagu nodded, thinking for a moment, digesting Hester's words before continuing. "Of course. I just— I wanted to thank you before Bill sets off. That letter was the last thing we needed, you know." Something else was lacing his tone that Hester couldn't exactly place. Something else he was getting at.
"Duty calls, we all have our orders," Hester echoed, words she'd uttered dozens upon dozens of times in the passing months alone.
Montagu slowly stepped fully into the office, leaving his temporary home he'd made for himself perched in the doorway.
"Montagu, don't you have other places to be?"
"I do, I do, I'm aware. I—" He cut himself off, trying to place his thoughts. Piecing things together in his head. Hester knew it was hard for him to be honest or outwardly grateful at times. She'd grant him that patience. "He meant a lot to you, didn't he."
It wasn't phrased as a question. It was a statement. Jesus. Hester swallowed thickly. "What?"
"You— You weren't writing about Bill, not at all. That's why it worked so well. I feel like that's clear," Montagu looked at the ground for a moment, then back up at Hester, his eyes catching the dim light of her desk lamp.
"I—" Hester sighed, thinking for a moment what to say. She didn't want to spill too much, it wouldn't be anything Montagu would necessarily want to hear. "It never gets easier, Montagu, take it from me. It's hard to revisit. Hard to talk about, you must understand."
"I do," he said immediately without hesitation, "I do." Something wavered in his tone. Something exposing why he felt the need to come down there of all places at such an urgent time for him.
"You do?" She questioned carefully, gently.
"I do," he said again, softer this time. Quickly switching back to his signature "Monty" tone just as quick as he had turned soft for a moment, he said, "The one line you wrote? Darling, why did we go and meet in the middle of a war? That sells it. It's something anyone can resonate with, but it's also such a personal line that it almost hurts to read. It's good, Hester, it's really good."
Without thinking, Hester asked, "Do you resonate with that line, Montagu?"
"Do I?" He paused. His poker face was eerily good, but Hester had played enough card games to know when someone was hiding something within their deck.
"I… I suppose I do, old girl. Don't we all? We're in the middle of a war, don't you forget," Montagu stated, uncomfortably nonchalant.
"I know we are. It doesn't make things easy for anyone, that's for sure. Not even you. Do you… have anyone you're particularly worried about?" Hester asked, trying to tread carefully in her questioning.
"I don't know. Hard to say," he gestured aimlessly with a shrug.
"Hard to say?"
"Well, yeah," he began, "I have family. Can't say I'm particularly close to them, a man's got his own life, you know, but I can't help but worry sometimes."
"Do you not talk to them?"
Montagu briefly cleared his throat. "No. No, not really. Don't think they want much to do with me. Other than my dearest younger brother and my sister occasionally."
Oddly, this resonated with Hester. She hadn't spoken to her own family in years, not since she had finally accepted herself as the woman she is. That didn't mean it was the same reasoning for Montagu, not at all, but it was almost comforting to know someone else here struggled with some of the same loss of family or connection she had, albeit in a different way.
"I understand. It's very much the same way with me."
"Ah," Montagu breathed.
Hester fully turned in her chair to properly face Montagu standing in front of her desk now, looking at him earnestly. "Any other reason you wanted to talk? It seems like— like you got a lot out of that letter. I won't judge, you know."
"No, no reason. Just wanted to thank you for that very important last document that we needed lest Johnny has my hide." Montagu smirked with carefully placed confidence.
"It's okay to be scared, I hope you know that, Montagu. We're in the midst of a war. People come and go, and we don't know when we're going to see them again, if at all. Look out for them."
"Alright," he breathed out, unsure what to say — a rare occurence for him at almost all times.
"I don't say this to be rude, just an honest observation, but you're not usually the type to go out of your way just to extend your gratitude, especially when you've got more pressing matters to tend to."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Montagu crossed his arms with faux confusion written on his face.
"It means exactly what I said. There's something weighing on your mind. I'm not going to force you to say anything, of course not, but you're here for a reason, aren't you?" Hester stated, narrowing her eyes slightly.
Montagu glanced around the room for a moment, breaking eye contact with Hester before relenting and saying, "I guess I'm a bit nervous. You know how it is. All of our work leads to what happens tonight. I have full confidence that it'll work, of course. I'm not going to spiral like my dearest Charles, but I just hope it works out. Actually, it will. I don't know why I'm saying this."
Hester paused, before gently speaking, "That's a normal thing to feel in this situation. I'm quite nervous myself, Montagu. We've all put in a lot of work, and it's not easy letting go of that control after so long. I know that's important to you."
"It is," Montagu said with a slight bit of hesitation in his tone.
"Monty!" A familiar voice called from behind the door suddenly, making both Hester and Montagu slightly jump in their position. "Are you in there? We need to leave as soon as possible, I think Horsfall is waiting outside."
"I'll be out in a moment Charlie, just going over the important details with Hester. You can wait outside," Montagu called, his confident and reliable tone seeping back into his voice to call out to Cholmondeley from behind the door.
"Alright, Monty," Cholmondeley exclaimed a little too loudly, slightly muffled between the door, before Hester heard footsteps walking down the hallway, leaving her and Montagu alone once more.
"Guess that's my cue to leave, old girl. Take care," Montagu exclaimed, a little too eager to leave the room suddenly.
"Wait," Hester said, almost desperately, "have you talked to Charles about any of this? How you're feeling, I mean."
Montagu slowly turned around, a certain glimmer in his eye. "Why would I? He's scared enough as it is, somebody needs to be the one holding the fort down. Don't wanna scare him anymore than he already is, Hester."
"I think it would be comforting for him to know he's not alone, at the same time. I do understand your reasoning, but it can be isolating when you feel like you're the only dealing with something."
"I would know," Montagu grumbled under his breath.
"Excuse me?"
"Nothing."
"Alright. I'll let you go. Don't want to keep your dearest Charles and Bill waiting, do you?"
Montagu seemed to redden slightly at Hester's sudden jab at his many somewhat intimate nicknames for Cholmondeley, before quickly recovering with a smile on his face. "Alright. You take care, Hester. And— thank you."
"Don't hesitate to drop by more often. Filing is only so fulfilling without company for a little while."
"Figures. I definitely wouldn't want to be in your position. No offense."
"Somebody's got to do it at the end of the day, anything to help."
Montagu chuckled, a genuine one for the first time since he'd set foot in the typing pool.
"Good luck. Take care of Bill, don't lose him. Don't lose Charles either," Hester smiled back.
"Wouldn't dream of it. The only thing I'll lose Bill to is the sea, and I intend to keep Charlie around, even after we're done with Mincemeat. He's good company, go figures."
Hester chuckled, glad that Montagu was being even slightly earnest and honest with her for the first time in a while.
"Anyway, take care of yourself, old girl," Montagu echoed, before dramatically saluting with a smirk on his face as he turned around to leave the room.
With a uncomfortably loud slam of the door, Hester was left alone with the ticking of the clock once more. But she wasn't truly alone in her own turmoil, she knew that now. She prayed it went well for Montagu and Cholmondeley that night, and despite her anxiety still gnawing in the pit of her stomach, she had a feeling it would be okay. With one step at a time, she was sure they would succeed.