“Of course you should have woken me. It’s the first thing you should have done. What did she say when she left; can you try to remember? She must have said something.”
Alice examined Hope’s tear-filled eyes to see if they gave anything away, yet all she could think about was how they mirrored her father’s.
“She just said that she was taking her for a walk, to give you some rest. I was busy with the guests, and . . . I’m so sorry, Alice—” She began to sob.
“Don’t cry, just try and think about what she said. Come on, Hope. Did she say she was taking her home? We need to start looking.”
“You’re in no fit state to go anywhere.” Hope sniffed. “You need to go back to bed until the nurse comes back.”
“How can I go to bed? I need to find Eadie!” Alice sounded manic as she hauled herself to the edge of the armchair. “You know Mum never wanted me to keep the baby. She’s done something with her.”
A look of horror passed over Hope’s face. “No, Alice, Eadie is her grandchild, for goodness sake.” She shook her head in what looked like disbelief.
“I can’t get downstairs to the telephone,” said Alice. “Can you try to call her at home, just in case she’s gone straight back to Dulwich?”
“Yes, of course. That’s exactly what I’ll do,” Hope said, wiping away her tears.
“Thank you, Hope. And tell her . . . tell her that if she brings Eadie back now, I’ll forgive her.”
“Yes.” Hope hurried toward the door, then turned back around. “Everything will be all right, pet. Your mother would never deliberately hurt you.”
Alice pressed her lips together; she wanted to believe her aunt, she wanted to think her mother hadn’t changed, but she knew that wasn’t true.
Ruth didn’t come back. Alice waited in bed the whole day, while Hope kept calling Dulwich. Each time she returned upstairs, her expression had grown more grave.
Nine
London, March 18, 1943
Theo bristled at George’s welcoming speech. Saying good-bye to Virginia and his family had been difficult enough, and now he was having to listen to a sermon on British book publishing that was as overstuffed with patriotism as the upholstered chair he sat on. George was sitting opposite behind a vast desk, not dissimilar in size to the large black cab Theo had traveled in from his hotel, rhapsodizing about how well things were going, which he knew was far from true.
“Fetch yourself a drink, dear boy,” George offered, gesturing toward the well-stocked antique drinks cabinet in the corner of the room, its glass doors finely engraved with the family crest. “There’s a bottle of 1921 at the back, saved for special occasions such as this,” he said, beaming broadly. He was in a surprisingly good mood, and Walter’s description of the state of the company didn’t tally with George’s account—unless it was an act, bravado in the face of his brother’s interference. Or perhaps the decision to send Theo over had been premature.
“Thanks, George, but it’s a bit early for me. I’ll just stick to coffee.” Theo refilled his cup from the silver coffeepot and balanced the saucer on his knee as he took another sip. It was a vile flavored syrup that they passed off as coffee, which they couldn’t get hold of, but Theo needed it since he was still suffering the effects of the time difference and travel sickness, as well as his guilt at leaving his parents and Virginia. She’d said she understood when he made it clear to her that Walter had made it impossible for him to say no, but he’d seen the sadness in her eyes. Now he considered what hurt her more: his leaving, or her father’s apparent disregard for her wishes.
Bold sunlight streamed through floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating the heavy furniture, as George kept up his lecture. Theo found his attention drawn to the stone mantelpiece, which housed a collection of carved animals, including ivory elephants, and glass domes that covered stuffed small birds and butterflies: Victorian dioramas, Theo realized, having seen them in photographs. The building and its contents were quite a contrast to the sparse and modern Park Avenue offices, and Theo sensed he would have to get used to many other differences in the weeks ahead.
George leaned across his desk and flipped the lid on an onyx cigarette box. “Help yourself to a Piccadilly—I shouldn’t think you get these over there,” he said, taking one for himself and leaning over to light Theo’s.
“Thanks.”
“How did you sleep?” George asked, releasing a ribbon of smoke.
“Like a log,” Theo lied. He wasn’t about to confess he’d spent the previous night with his head stuck over a bowl and that he still felt like he’d eaten jumping beans and that someone had set off a firecracker in his head. He just hoped he was doing a good job of disguising it.
“That’s marvelous. So, how are things on your side of the pond?”
“The rations are making it hard for everyone, but support for the industry has never been better. The New York office is booming, particularly with our crime backlist.”
“Surprising, isn’t it? You’d think people would want to feel comforted in precarious times with romance and love stories, not give themselves the heebie-jeebies.”
“I know, that’s what we were trying to figure out. I think it’s just another way to escape, pretend the danger is happening to someone someplace else.” Theo hadn’t verbalized this to anyone before, but he could see from the look in George’s eyes that he agreed.
“And what of these special books Walter’s been telling me about?”
“We’re planning to ship the first Armed Services Editions to the troops in September, and they’re going to be as revolutionary for them as paperbacks were to the rest of us,” Theo said with pride.
“How so?”
“For starters, the books are small enough to fit in soldiers’ pockets and light enough to carry. They’re also printed across the two pages so they can be read by more than one reader at a time.”
A few days before he’d left, Theo had attended a council meeting in which the details of the project had been unveiled. He’d also told the council about his planned London trip and offered to help them in any way he could. Most of the members had considered it to be fortuitous rather than a disruption, and they’d all agreed it was funny that it had taken war to give the public a greater appetite to read. The council’s inspirational books would remind everyone who they were fighting for and against—and why.
“And what propaganda are you feeding these poor impressionable boys?” George asked.
“We’re not, most of it’s just great fiction. Heroic tales and stories of everyday Americans . . .”
George was nodding, listening with interest.
“. . . by authors like Hemingway, Twain, Wharton and Fitzgerald, for starters.”
“Goodness, sounds wonderful.” George finally looked impressed. “And how’s my gorgeous niece?”
Theo recalled Virginia’s face as they’d said their good-byes, her lips trembling as she’d struggled to find the words, tears eventually spilling down both cheeks before she’d discreetly wiped them away. Even tearstained she was beautiful, with her luminous skin and mahogany eyes.
“She’s really well, George. She’s been working at the Red Cross station on the Lower East Side, one of the biggest salvage centers in the city, and she’s loving it.”
“Good for her!”
Theo’s shoulders dropped. “She’s disappointed that I’ve had to go away . . . but she understands.”
“Yes, I’m sorry about that. I told Walter that it really wasn’t necessary, but you know my brother, he won’t listen to anyone. Anyway, am I right in thinking it was Mark Twain who said, ‘God created war so that Americans would learn geography’?” George chuckled, and Theo smiled at him ruefully.
George didn’t seem so different from Walter as he mentally sparred with Theo while trying to demonstrate his intellect and education. Theo didn’t blame Geo
rge for feeling threatened; after all, he’d started Partridge thirty years ago, with Walter opening the New York office once the British company had been established and made a name for itself. George must have found it galling to have an American sent over to help.
“Yes, that’s right,” said Theo. “It was Twain.”
Despite George’s good humor, there was an uneasiness about him, in his nervous fidgeting and the slight downturn of his mouth, that made Theo’s task even more difficult. He was about to tell George that what his office was doing wasn’t working: they needed to try something new or face losing more money, or even closure. He’d requested the accounts be sent to his hotel, so he could go over them before he came to the office, and they’d made grim reading. Just like at home, the British publishers faced an unusual dilemma: the conditions of war reducing their supply of paper but the demand for books increasing substantially, for the reading public as well as for the troops and for propaganda to send overseas.
They were in a strange predicament, a conundrum that he had no idea yet how to solve.
George stubbed out his cigarette. “You really didn’t have to come, Theo. The figures aren’t as bad as they look. Things have just slipped a bit, since Rupert left.”
“I’m sorry, I forgot to ask, how is he?”
“He’s all right, as far as we know. It’s hard, though, when you don’t hear from one month to the next.” George looked pensive. “He’s full of bravado, Rupert, but you don’t always know what’s going on inside. Not like the girls; they never hide anything,” he said with a forced laugh. “But he’s constantly in our thoughts. And our other brave chaps.”
“Yes, of course, always.” Theo hoped that George wasn’t taking a subtle swipe at him; it was easy to become paranoid when you weren’t in a uniform.
“The RAF must have been pretty desperate by the time they got to the second round, if they took him with his injury.” George raised his eyebrows. “His knee’s shattered from his rugby days, but if you’re only getting in and out of the cockpit, it doesn’t really matter, does it? Anyway,” he said, livening up again, “this afternoon I want you to sit down with Tommy. He’s taken over most of Rupert’s responsibilities . . . until he comes back.”
Theo knew they needed to replace Rupert but couldn’t afford to—that, if anything, they needed to cut more of the already small staff. Meanwhile, Partridge Press US was housed in a space ten times larger than this, and they would soon need to expand further. Their operation had grown since Walter had married an heiress who’d supported his foray into publishing and then bankrolled the expansion. Pocket Books and its imitators had changed the way Americans read; for a quarter, they could pick up a book from a drugstore, a magazine rack or a gas station. Surely the British book revolution wasn’t far behind with Penguin Books now publishing paperbacks for the Canadian armed forces, in addition to the Forces Book Club in Britain.
George bent to stroke his Labrador, Nelson, who gave an appreciative whimper. When he straightened, he said, “Tell me more about this council you’re involved with. It sounds a lot like our Forces Book Club.”
“Maybe,” Theo replied. “We’ve got thirty titles planned for the first series. One and a half million in total, but as well as books for troops we want to promote books that help people think; ones that will inform and inspire them. The public are hungry for information—they know their news is censored, and they want to know what’s going on.”
George raised his eyebrows. “That sounds very ambitious.”
“Wasn’t it Chesterton who said, ‘The true soldier fights not because he hates what is in front of him, but because he loves what is behind him’?”
George gave a thin smile. “Indeed. And so now you’re here to advise us and share your ideals. Aren’t we the lucky ones?” He sounded sincere enough, but Theo still detected more than a note of cynicism.
“I feel lucky too, George. I believe there’s a lot we can achieve together, and a lot that we can learn from each other.”
George nodded, his smile warming. “Let’s leave it there for now. We can reconvene after lunch, talk to Tommy and bring the editors in too.” George placed a hand on Theo’s forearm. “I’m sorry you’ll be missing Virginia, but the good news is that the pheasant season has run late this year. We’ll head up to Norfolk soon for the weekend.”
“That’s very kind of you, George, but I think I’ll stay in the city, catch up on things—”
“Nonsense. I won’t have you staying in London on your own. Walter would never forgive me. Besides, Clare would love to meet you. And so would my girls.”
Theo smiled. “Thank you, that’s very kind of you, but—”
“Splendid. We’ll leave around three, miss the traffic heading out of town.”
Theo smiled his acceptance, realizing that he couldn’t refuse.
“The bad news is there are decidedly fewer people on the estate now,” George told him, “but the good news is there are more pheasant for us.”
* * *
“So, is this going to be our last print run?” Emily asked, eyes darting between George and Theo.
It was after lunch, and Theo was revived, the nausea subsiding for the time being. They were seated at the boardroom table with Ursula and Tommy, a pot of tea steaming in front of them and Nelson snoring at George’s feet as the wind lashed the trees outside.
“No,” George replied, “Theo is merely saying that we need to find somewhere more competitive to print our books.”
“That’s right,” Theo agreed. “There’s not too much we can do about our fixed costs, but if we found a cheaper printer . . . maybe one that’s not so local, well, I think it’s worth looking at.”
“I don’t see why; everyone knows the printers have been taken over by our government,” Tommy said, pointedly looking at Theo.
“Look,” George said, “Theo isn’t here to frighten us or threaten your jobs—the simple fact is that we need to adapt like other publishers.”
“It’s not just about the war,” Theo put in, “it’s these new forms of paperbacks too, and the emergence of companies like Penguin, both here and in the States.” He glanced around the table. They all looked tired: Emily had dark shadows under her eyes, Tommy had the kind of stubble Theo hadn’t seen since his last visit to Little Italy, and Ursula looked distracted. Morale was certainly low. “Penguin might have only been around for a few years—”
“Eight,” Ursula said, with a decisive look on her face.
“Thanks,” Theo replied, “but they’re already taking a large share of the market.”
“The team is aware of that,” George said impatiently.
“Sure, I’m getting up to speed.” He didn’t want to worry them, and he certainly didn’t want to patronize them, but he also needed to get the job done so he could return to Virginia and his parents, and that involved laying down the cold hard facts.
“I don’t know how you do it over there, but we’ll only be able to be competitive if we get enough paper ration, and to get that we have to sell more books,” Ursula said in near-perfect English—was that an eastern European accent? “Our quota is based on what we sold last year.”
“Yes, I understand that,” Theo said, nodding. He didn’t add that it had already been explained to him several times.
“Perhaps if we take you through the planned list of titles?” Emily suggested.
“Well, it’s not complete, as we probably have to replace the title that Alice was working on,” Tommy said. “It was going to be the next big thing.”
“I know,” George said, frowning thoughtfully. “You still haven’t managed to find her, then?” He was looking at Ursula.
“She’s still helping her cousin with the baby, as far as we know. I tried contacting her and her mother, but they haven’t replied. So, no news, I’m afraid.”
“Strange—let’s hope she�
��s okay,” Tommy said, exchanging a look with Ursula.
“Who’s this?” Theo asked.
“Our assistant editor, Alice Cotton,” George replied. “She was developing a title with the potential to be the first in a popular series, something that might rival the Ministry of Information books—nonfiction titles about real people in wartime, remarkable true stories, that sort of thing.”
“Until she disappeared,” Emily said.
“Where did she go?” Theo asked, interest piqued. He knew how popular the MOI books were; how they had sold over twenty million copies already in Britain and overseas.
“No one knows—that’s generally what happens when people disappear,” Tommy replied without any hint of sarcasm.
“She took leave to look after a family member, but no one’s heard from her,” Emily said, and shrugged. “You should ask Ursula. Alice is her protégée.”
Theo glanced at Ursula, but she looked the other way, her mind clearly elsewhere, and he wondered if there was something more to it.
“Does Alice have an employment contract with Partridge?” he asked.
“Yes, she does, as a matter of fact, but it’s irrelevant if we can’t find her,” Tommy replied.
Theo narrowed his eyes at George, wondering why he hadn’t told him about this woman and her book idea before. Then Theo glanced back at Ursula. “What if Alice has gone to one of the other publishing houses? If it’s as good an idea as you say it is—”
“There’s no way she’d do that,” said Ursula. “Alice is far too loyal.”
“It’s been a difficult time for everyone. Perhaps someone offered her more money?”
“No, not Alice,” Tommy said emphatically.
“Well, then, can’t someone else work on them?” Theo asked.
When We Meet Again Page 7
