Tommy shook his head. “We’ve got a freelance writer on it, but she can’t seem to drum up the right stories. It would be good to get Alice back on it—if we can find her.”
“Can I take a look?” Theo said. He was surprised they’d given up so easily; where was the British fighting spirit he’d heard so much about?
Tommy turned to Emily. “Where are the mock-ups?”
“In my office—the production office,” Ursula said, ignoring Emily’s glare. “I wanted to review them again, see what the freelancer had missed, but I can find them after this meeting if you like.”
“Thanks, that would be great.”
Theo was curious about this woman who was held in such high esteem but who had mysteriously disappeared, and it seemed Ursula was the key to finding out more.
* * *
At five o’clock Ursula was in the production office when Theo tapped on the doorway. This was obviously her domain; she’d personalized it with crimson velvet curtains that divided the room in half, and a bench seat that looked as if it belonged in a cinema. Old typesetting trays were propped on top of bookcases with large fragments of text and letters still visible between the lead lines, along with other printing paraphernalia.
“I’m trying to find the mock-ups, I just got caught up in something else,” she said, looking flustered. “I’ll bring them down to you.”
“That’s okay, whenever you’re ready. I was just headin’ out for something to eat. It’s still lunchtime in New York, and to be honest with you, the journey knocked me about more than I thought it would.”
“Yes, I’ve heard it can be quite exhausting; like a seasickness too.”
His head wasn’t spinning anymore, but he was having trouble fending off the current wave of sleepiness.
“That sounds about right. My fiancée said I should eat when I’m tired, so I was gonna have an early dinner. Do you want to join me?”
“Thank you, but I’ve got a lot to get through.” She glanced at the stacks of documents and manuscripts on her desk, completely concealing the wooden surface alongside pots of pens, stock images and paper samples. She gave him a thin smile before turning her attention back to what she’d been working on.
“What are you doing?” he asked casually.
“Just another rejection letter,” she said without looking up.
“Tough, although I can imagine that you let them down gently.”
“Is there ever a way of being let down gently?” she said without a hint of innuendo as she glanced up at him.
He smiled. “I don’t know, why don’t you try me?”
She hesitated, then she put on a clipped upper-class British accent and read the letter aloud. “ ‘Dear Miss Carmichael, I am sorry that we are not able to publish your collected poems. As delightful as these volumes of verse about woodland creatures are, they don’t hold much relevance for our readers under the current conditions of war. In addition, wartime exigencies leave us very little opportunity to publish new authors.’ ”
“That’s very gentle, and I can see why you don’t have any time to come out,” he said, still leaning against the doorframe.
Ursula shrugged. “Another time, perhaps.”
“Of course. Care to point me in the right direction?”
The office had large sash windows, the astragal bars dividing up a sky of low gray clouds that momentarily threw the room into darkness.
“All right, I’ll show you,” she said, relenting. “It’s probably time I called it a day anyway.”
He helped her on with her coat, a brown trench that could have come straight off the front line its edges were so grimy and frayed, the hem spattered with mud. It seemed British women were quite a contrast to those of New York, and Ursula was no exception, her thick tweed trousers unlike anything he’d seen in Virginia’s wardrobe.
“Thanks,” he said, “I appreciate it. I’ve heard your London cafés can be kinda hit-or-miss.” He followed her down the staircase and through the lobby.
“I’m sure you’ll find something to your satisfaction,” she said, her voice warming. “You’ll get a decent soup or sandwich at any of the places around here, but if you’re looking for a hot meal I’d head to one of the pubs. Friend at Hand is probably the best. Or you could try one of the Ministry of Food’s British Restaurants—they’re rather good.”
It had stopped raining, but it was still windy, and the morning’s chill had lingered. Theo puffed on an imaginary cigarette, blowing condensation through pursed lips, which made her smile seemingly against her will. “Which way is it?” he asked, buttoning up his expensive navy coat and adjusting his fedora.
“This way,” she said, and started to walk.
As they fell into step beside each other, he decided it was time to draw a line under this missing woman, forget about her or replace her, so they could all move on to more important issues. “I know you’re busy, so I’m just going to ask you outright. What’s she like, this Alice? I mean . . . what kind of person is she?”
“What kind of person is she?” Ursula repeated, sounding surprised. “Well, she’s kind and caring, and she’s not the sort of person who would run off with trade secrets, if that’s what you’re thinking.” Ursula cast him a sharp glance and scowled, and he tried not to smile. “She’s as passionate about books and about Partridge as the rest of us are, and there’s no way she’d do anything to jeopardize the company.”
They reached the busy main road and crossed over to where two cafés stood next to each other in a parade of shops. As they stopped outside, he turned to face her. “So, why hasn’t Alice been in touch with anyone?”
“I really don’t know. She was a little preoccupied the last time I saw her.” Ursula frowned. “She was worried about her cousin, who was expecting a baby and had just lost her husband.”
“You said earlier that she went to look after them—”
“Yes, but that was only supposed to be temporary. We thought she was coming back, but it’s been five months now.”
“And you really have no idea where she could be?”
“No, I’m afraid not. She’s certainly not back in Dulwich with her mother, but I do know for sure that she would be here, unless something more important was keeping her away.”
“Why can’t she be replaced? There must be hundreds of girls suitable for her job.”
“Actually, there’s not. There’s a shortage of workers, in case you hadn’t noticed, and our freelancer had to leave us because war work takes precedence over books.” Ursula rolled her eyes. “Anyway, Alice hasn’t had as much training as the rest of us, she just seems to know what readers want. She has this special sense for understanding people, an intuition for what they want to read.”
“Go on.”
“It’s because she’s one of them, a real reader. Not like you lot in your waistcoats and Savile Row suits—she lives where ordinary people live, talks to the people who actually buy and read the books.”
“And what about you, are you ordinary?”
Ursula smiled coyly. “No, I’m not very ordinary either.”
“What would you say about Emily and Tommy?” He fixed her with a stare. “Does she know better than them?”
“No, of course not.” Ursula pushed her hands deep inside her coat pockets. “Alice just has an instinct for it, I suppose.”
“Is there anything else?”
“Yes, the authors like her.”
“Well, that’s certainly something.”
Her lips curved into another smile, and this time he smiled back.
It was obvious that Ursula and the others were suspicious of him, unhappy about his involvement with their work. If he could help bring Alice back to the fold, that might be a way of showing them he was on their side.
Ten
Brighton, March 19, 1943
Alice winced with each movement as she crept down the stairs, eyes darting back and forth along the empty landings as she feared running into Hope, who was certain to try to stop her for the sake of her health. Breakfast wasn’t served until seven, another hour yet, so she had little chance of meeting any guests, who must have grown suspicious of the woman in the attic after her shrieking and her visitors’ comings and goings.
She carried on, lightly down the last flight, through the hallway and out the front door, closing it softly behind her.
It was still dark, and a thick fog was coming off the channel, threading spectral tentacles along the promenade and through the deserted streets. Alice shivered and clasped her coat tighter as she set off in the opposite direction, away from the seafront. She held one of the guest maps from her room that showed points of interest in the town: the Duke of York’s Cinema, the piers and arcades, the dance hall and restaurants—and the hospital and police station.
Alice had barely slept at all. Hope had carried on calling Dulwich the whole of the previous day with no answer. Where had Ruth gone, and what exactly was she planning? Alice hadn’t believed her mother capable of harm before, but now she wondered what else Ruth might do.
She followed the road north, her hand tucked inside her bag, fingers curled around the crocheted blanket. It should have been a ten-minute walk from the guesthouse on Atlingworth Street to John Street Police Station, but she could only walk slowly, one foot carefully in front of the other, measured breaths with each sharp stab of pain. Of course, Hope was right about her need for bed rest; her breasts were sore and she’d padded herself with rags, but every step was accompanied by a burning sensation and a fresh flow of blood.
And a rising panic that she would never see her daughter again.
She tried to imagine what the police would say when she told them what had happened, and what they would do to help.
There weren’t many people around, yet the streets seemed overly loud, every sound magnified: two pedestrians talked noisily as they strode by, a truck engine groaned angrily as the driver shifted gears, and a bus strained up the hill—it was as if she was seeing and hearing everything for the first time, as a baby might.
A homeless man was slumped in a doorway, and she crossed the street to avoid him, then felt a rush of pity before thinking again of her mother and the look of genuine affection on her face when she’d held Eadie for the first time.
Is this really happening to me, or is it a terrible dream?
The fog was giving way to a wind that blew with fury along the road, pulling her toward the corner of John Street. There the larger buildings provided shelter from the wind, and she sighed with relief when the blue lamp of the police station came into view.
Time’s ticking by; they could be anywhere by now. I have to hurry.
This was going to be the hardest thing she’d ever done: report her own mother, putting her at risk of being arrested and imprisoned. When Alice walked through these doors, it would change everything.
She cautiously mounted the steps, trying not to flinch at each movement. Her stomach was empty, and in her dizzy, weakened state she reacted too late as the double doors flew open and two policemen burst out, a man arm-locked between them; they nearly knocked her over. “Sorry, miss,” one of the policemen said, steadying her with his free hand. “You all right?”
“Yes, yes, I’m fine,” she said, forcing a smile.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m certain. Thank you.”
The smell of alcohol was pungent, and they both watched as the other policeman steered the drunk down toward a waiting police car. The man was getting more agitated, his language becoming even more obscene.
Alice said, “It looks like you’re needed . . .”
“I know . . . and, again, I’m sorry.”
Inside the station, a frosted ceiling lantern cast an insipid light over the worn wooden counter, the smell of disinfectant doing little to mask the odor of acrid smoke. Alice rang the brass bell and glanced around as she waited. There was a glass partition to one side and a large noticeboard on the other covered in lost and founds: pictures of pets and missing people vying for attention. The rest of the décor and furniture seemed unwelcoming: two wooden benches against anemic walls, and closed doors either side.
A young policeman appeared behind the counter. “Good morning, miss. How can I help you?” He looked her up and down disdainfully, and she registered how creased and filthy her clothes were, but it was too late to disguise them.
“I need to report a crime,” she said, pressing her hands onto the counter for support.
“What sort, miss?”
“I don’t know—kidnapping, child abduction . . . I don’t know what you call it. My baby’s been taken.”
“Someone’s stolen your baby, miss?” he said, sounding puzzled.
“Yes, my mother.”
He frowned momentarily before breaking into a smile. “Well, I’m sure she’ll bring her back. Probably just lost track of time.”
“No, you don’t understand. She’s taken her without my permission. She’s not allowed to do that, is she?” Alice asked, the words tumbling out as she grabbed hold of his sleeves. “She’s not allowed to take my baby.”
“Madam,” the policeman said, as he pulled his arms away and straightened out his cuffs.
“I’m sorry.” Alice’s breath caught in her throat, threatening to suffocate her.
“No, your mum can’t, miss—I mean, madam. But are you sure about this . . . ? I mean, what about the father, is there a chance he’s got the baby?”
“None,” Alice said, eyes welling with tears. “He’s no longer with us. It’s my mother. . . . You have to help me. . . . I don’t know where they’ve gone.”
“You’ll have to wait for the station sergeant to come back, but I can take a statement. Why don’t you come through and have a seat? I’ll get you a nice cup of tea and take down some details,” he added, at last showing some concern.
“But why can’t you do something?” she said, staring at his dark navy tunic and the helmet with police written on it. “We have to hurry,” she pleaded. “You need to start looking. They could be anywhere by now.”
“I’m sorry, madam. I can take a statement, but the rest will take time. There’s far too much crime for the regular police to investigate, let alone us special constables. But let’s start with your name.”
Of course, she needed to keep herself in check and act reasonably, so they would take her seriously and not question her story. She thought for a moment: was it better to give her real name or a false one?
“Cotton, my name is Alice Cotton.”
“And your mother’s name?” The constable glanced at her again, eyes lingering on her messy clothes as she took too long thinking what to say. She couldn’t say Ruth Cotton because then he’d realize she wasn’t married, but she couldn’t lie about that and the father too.
“Ruth Cotton.”
He frowned, then put the pen down and leaned closer. “So, what makes you think your mother would take your baby?”
“Because she . . . we no longer have anyone to support us. She’s scared. But it’s illegal, isn’t it? I mean, she can’t do it?”
“I don’t know about illegal, though it’s certainly unusual. I haven’t had to deal with anything like this before.”
“You can help me, then?”
“How old is the baby, madam?”
“Four days,” Alice replied, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes.
Just the thought of her newborn made her breasts tingle as the let-down reflex released some milk, and she glanced down to check her coat still covered her.
“Any distinguishing features?” he asked as he started to make notes.
She’d barely had the chance to look at Eadie’s tiny body; all she could think o
f was a small birthmark on her left shoulder.
He looked up. “Any distinguishing features?” he repeated, still sounding patient.
“A small birthmark on her shoulder. Barely the size of a pea.”
“And the father’s name?”
“I told you, he’s no longer with us,” Alice said sharply.
“But I still need to know his name. Presumably you have the birth certificate?”
It was no good, she couldn’t give Rupert’s name; if they contacted his family, she stood to lose Eadie anyway. And if she gave a false name, there was a good chance the police would find out she’d lied, and then they might refuse to help her.
“No. No, I don’t.”
“I see,” he said as he stopped writing and looked up at her again. His brow furrowed. “Are you sure about any of this, Mrs. Cotton? Are you unwell, or perhaps you’re just confused? Or maybe you’ve done something with your baby—left her somewhere, or done something you regret, and now you’re trying to blame somebody else?”
“No, that’s not true. I told you, my mother’s taken her. Here . . . I’ve got a note.” She pulled the crumpled paper from her bag and handed it over to the sergeant.
“Look, I’m sorry, but you could have written this yourself. Can anyone corroborate your story?”
“Yes, the doctor . . . he can, and my aunt, Hope. She’ll tell you what happened.”
“What’s this doctor’s name?”
Alice wanted to scream his name as loud as she could to make the policeman listen, but she had no idea what it was.
“His name, Mrs. Cotton?”
“I don’t know,” she replied, lips quivering.
“So, let me get this right. You don’t know the name of the doctor who delivered your baby, you don’t know where your mother is, you don’t know where your baby is, and you haven’t got a husband. Are you really a new mother?” He gave her a slow once-over, and she saw herself through his eyes; she looked and felt every bit as powerless as the homeless man she’d passed on the street.
When We Meet Again Page 8
