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Copyright 2021 © Caroline Beecham
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Beecham, Caroline, author.
Title: When we meet again / Caroline Beecham.
Other titles: Finding Eadie
Description: New York : G.P. Putnam’s Sons, [2021] | Includes A conversation with Caroline Beecham about When we meet again and Discussion guide. | Includes bibliographical references
Identifiers: LCCN 2021021671 (print) | LCCN 2021021672 (ebook) | ISBN 9780593331156 (trade paperback) | ISBN 9780593331163 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: World War, 1939–1945—England—London—Fiction. | Unmarried mothers—Fiction. | Missing children—Fiction. | Publishers and publishing—Fiction. | Books and reading—Fiction. | GSAFD: Historical fiction. | LCGFT: Historical fiction. | Novels.
Classification: LCC PR9619.4.B425 F56 2021 (print) | LCC PR9619.4.B425 (ebook) | DDC 823/.92--dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021021671
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021021672
p. cm.
Cover design and illustration: Vi-An Nguyen
Book design by Elke Sigal, adapted for ebook by Maggie Hunt
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
pid_prh_5.7.1_c0_r0
This book is for the Brighton girls—Amanda, Becky, Gill, Lisa and Vicky—for your love and friendship
CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
Popular Books from the Era
Readers Guide
About the Author
If you cannot read [all your books], at any rate handle them and, as it were, fondle them. Peer into them. Let them fall open where they will. Read on from the first sentence that arrests the eye. Then turn to another. Make a voyage of discovery, taking soundings of uncharted seas. Set them back on their selves with your own hands. Arrange them on your own plan, so that if you do not know what is in them, you at least know where they are. If they cannot be your friends, let them at any rate be your acquaintances.
—Winston S. Churchill
People die, but books never die. . . . No man and no force can take from the world the books that embody man’s eternal fight against tyranny. In this war, we know, books are weapons.
—Franklin D. Roosevelt
Prologue
Brighton, March 18, 1943
Alice woke with a start, seagulls screeching from the gabled rooftop. The dawn glow bled through uneven curtains, illuminating the white wicker crib that stood only a few feet away. She was curled on her side at the very edge of the bed, eye level with the crib, which sat beside the splintered paintwork of the windowsill.
Her lips curved into a smile. She needed to nurse Eadie now, just as the midwife had shown her the day after the birth. Alice tried to ease herself up onto one elbow, but her limbs were so weak with tiredness that her arm wouldn’t support her, and she collapsed back onto the pillow. Everything was so tranquil; Eadie must still be sleeping—this most precious time preserved—and all Alice could hear was her own breathing. It was clear that no one else in the guesthouse was awake.
Her lips twitched into a half smile as she wondered if her daughter would always be so calm when she slept; her mother had told her that she’d snored like a grown man.
Alice pushed herself up again, trying to ignore the soreness and discomfort as she carefully swung her legs around and levered up with both hands. With eyes alight, she beamed in anticipation as she tilted forward, ready to see her newborn, her face hovering over the crib—but when she looked down, it was empty.
Her eyes flashed wide in horror, staring unblinking at the wrinkled crib sheet and white crocheted blanket flung over the sides.
The sound of traffic intruded from the road outside as the clock hands carried on their twin journeys, and several moments passed before Alice regained the capacity to think, running her fingers across the place where Eadie’s tiny swaddled body had lain.
It was stone cold.
Was her mind playing tricks on her? Could she be hallucinating, even though they had refused her any pain relief?
No, she could feel it in each aching tendon and the viscera of her body, in the thickness of her womb. Eadie had been born weeks early; Alice’s mother hadn’t arrived by the time the baby came squalling into the world, so her aunt had taken charge, calling the doctor. He had stitched Alice with unsympathetic detachment before telling her to rest and that any questions should be saved for the nurse who would come the following day.
Her aunt had been on hand, helping with hot water and the constant supply of towels, until the other guests complained there was no supper on the table.
Th
at was it: her aunt must have taken Eadie downstairs.
Alice relaxed as she gathered the white crocheted blanket between her fingers and lifted it to her nose, breathing in her daughter’s scent.
Then she saw the handwritten note.
I’m sorry, Alice, but this really is for the best.
She recognized the handwriting.
One
London, November 1942
Five months earlier
The baby’s face was scratched and dirty, the blanket barely covering its pale unwashed skin. But the haystacks looked as if they could provide some warmth and comfort, as did the Three Wise Men standing nearby—even though one was missing his head. Alice stared at the nativity scene a fraction longer, a smile broadening her lips as she gazed at the infant, fear and excitement blooming inside her.
Shopfronts glistened with Christmas decorations and seasonal greetings, the frosted windows strewn with multicolored tinsel and sprigs of holly, handmade decorations and signs: defiant gestures by Londoners determined to get on with their lives. Alice wished she had time to stay awhile longer, but she had to hurry; it was Monday morning, so they would all be assembled for the weekly meeting, and she would make the speech that she’d been practicing for some time.
More shops and offices were opening as she hurried by, their entrances and doorways crowded with the morning rush. She carried on past a line of steam-filled cafés, only slowing when the storefront of W.H. Smith & Son came into view. A sign above the entrance read, blacked-out evenings—take home some books, and a familiar poster stood propped against the end of the bookstand:
IMPORTANT
Newspapers and Magazines Supplied to order only.
The only way to make sure of regular supplies is to give a standing order for all newspapers, periodicals and magazines required, whether these are to be delivered or bought over the counter.
Please give your order NOW.
Alice buttoned her coat as she read, trying to even out her breath, the brutal sting of cold air reawakening her nervousness over what she was about to do. There was no time for second thoughts now, no chance to turn back the clock, so she placed her hand protectively across her belly and carried on into Russell Square.
Above the dark slate roofs, the firewatchers’ platforms and terra cotta chimneys, a reluctant winter sun struggled through a sullen sky and the city grew more orderly. Alice headed south toward a Gothic building flanked by taller neighbors, trying not to step on the cracks between the paving stones as she ran through her speech one more time.
The old five-story building creaked as it welcomed her inside. Since the entrance hall was empty, she stood and looked longingly around: at the substantial glass lantern overhead, still hanging obstinately despite the bombing raids; at the black-and-white tiled floor with its worn oriental rug, and the two wingback chairs on either side of the buffet table. An oversized mirror hung above it, reflecting the vase of cascading silk flowers. On the opposite wall, an imposing carved Victorian coat stand resembled an upended fishing vessel full of coats, hats and umbrellas, with Nelson’s leash dangling at one end; he was her employer’s black Labrador.
She dropped her belongings at her feet, heart hammering in her chest, grateful no one was there to see her disheveled state. She’d caught her reflection in a shop window: her dark-blond hair frizzy in the damp air, navy eyes ringed red with tiredness. Her mother was right, she did need more sleep. For her and the baby’s sake.
Her colleagues had told her that lots of people had once milled about in the entryway to Partridge Press: agents, delivery boys, a visitor from one government department or another, or a journalist on the scent of a story about one of their writers. Their offices had once been in Paternoster Row, in the heart of the city, until a tragic night in December 1940 when their building and seventeen other publishing offices had been destroyed, larger ones like Hutchinson, Longman and Blackwood included. The firms had moved to locations around the British Museum and further west, the event uniting the industry as publishers lent each other office space in a show of solidarity. That was when she had joined Partridge, and she still tried hard not to imagine the collective loss of books and artworks. Her company had lost thousands of works and illustrations, and most of their steel and copper engraving plates and woodcuts, and they were still struggling to recover.
She took another long sweep of the hallway, trying to quell her fear as she remembered the day nearly two years ago when she’d stood in this exact spot, an administrator with little knowledge of the industry. How welcoming they’d been, and how like a family they’d become.
On the left of the entrance was the closed office door of the managing director, George Armstrong-Miller, his name engraved in bright gilt script. On the opposite side was the office of his son, Rupert, onetime financial controller and now an engineer in the Royal Air Force. His image, in full uniform with a teasing half smile and a mass of dark hair, commanded attention from his portrait beside the door; his expression was the one that always beguiled people, its playful immaturity making him seem harmless and charming. That look had drawn her in, made her trust him, and given her the ill-conceived idea that she was protected here. When she took a step backward his eyes seemed to follow her, just like when they’d first met and he’d always kept her within his sight. He’d never hidden what he thought of her or been too shy to show it.
Alice averted her eyes and tried not to think of him as she hurriedly backed away, trying to focus on what lay ahead as she recovered her things and climbed the staircase.
The third-floor editorial department was accessed from a helter-skelter arrangement of stairs, with uneven landings pivoting off in all directions. It always felt to Alice as if she were stepping off a fairground ride to be propelled through small doorways, their brass handles far too low down. She held on to the handrail and planted her feet firmly as she climbed, striving to ignore the growing tightness in the pit of her stomach as she passed the production department on the first floor, with its unmistakable chemical reek, then accounts on the second floor.
On the third floor she stood outside the boardroom for a moment to steady her breathing, worried her rapid heartbeat and flushed cheeks might give her away—just as Nelson had, scratching at the bottom of the door.
Alice unbuttoned her coat, letting it fall loosely around her hips, and turned the handle. The door opened into a large wood-paneled room where a meeting was under way, and they all turned to look at her. George was at the head of the grand mahogany table in a haze of cigarette smoke; Tommy Simpson, their bald-headed production controller, was seated at his side; and Emily Dalrymple, the nonfiction editor, was at the other. Ursula Rousson, the fiction editor, had her back to the door, a brightly patterned scarf tied around her neck and her chestnut hair tousled into a hairstyle every bit as unorthodox as her personality. She swung round to look down her nose at Alice, then tutted good-humoredly. “Good morning, Alice,” she said, smiling warmly.
“Come in,” George said, motioning at the seat next to Ursula. “You haven’t missed anything, although I was just saying that we do have some important discussions to get through.”
Nelson greeted her with his wet nose, and she bent down to scratch his neck. “I’m sorry I’m late. The bus was so crowded I had to wait for the next one.” She quickly looped her bag and gas mask over the back of the chair before she sat down, gathering her coat self-consciously across her lap.
“Can’t be helped,” George replied in his gravelly voice, “and you’re here now.” He smiled broadly as he leaned back in his chair, lifting his elbows as he smoothed back his wisps of hair with both hands.
He was the younger of the two sons in the publishing family, and he had a gregarious and generous nature. He’d given Alice an opportunity, ignoring the gaps in her education as if he already knew what other powerful men didn’t—that thousands of young women like her around the cou
ntry were completely unqualified for the roles war had chosen for them but immensely capable, nevertheless.
He leaned forward abruptly, resting his arms on the desk in front of him, which reminded her where Rupert got his habit of fidgeting from. “Actually, we started early because there have been some developments. Tommy, why don’t you fill Alice in?”
The boardroom had formerly been a morning room, its ornate light fixtures and oversized windows allowing in plenty of light as well as providing glorious views over Russell Square. Spread across the vast table were several editions of Bomber Command and The Battle of Britain, their eye-catching covers featuring images that had become all too common in recent months: the faces of actual pilots—the real heroes of the empire—not fictional characters. In the six months following its release by the Ministry of Information, The Battle of Britain had sold nearly five million copies to become a surprise bestseller, and none of them—not Penguin nor Hutchinson nor any of the other major book publishers—had been able to replicate the success.
“Rumor has it they’re planning a new one on minesweepers,” Tommy said, leaning across the table to push the latest edition toward her.
“You can imagine the drama and intrigue in that one,” Emily said, raising an eyebrow.
“The truth is, we can’t really compete with the Ministry anymore,” Tommy said, sounding glum. “We need some big new ideas of our own.”
George stood and moved over to the window, leaning his shoulder against the architrave, hands thrust into his trouser pockets as he gazed out onto the grass square.
The others glanced at one another, waiting for him to speak, and Tommy offered cigarettes from a smart leather case. Only Ursula accepted, and as Alice watched him light it for her, she desperately hoped the smoke wouldn’t nauseate her now as it had started to. She’d been lucky with her pregnancy so far, only developing a deep distaste for fish and eggs, and since they were both difficult to get hold of, it hadn’t been too much of an inconvenience—but most of her co-workers smoked.
When We Meet Again Page 1
