When We Meet Again

by Caroline Beecham

  Her footsteps rang hollow across the dark marble foyer, causing the dark-haired receptionist to stop her conversation with the security guard and smile as she looked up. “Good afternoon, how can I help you?”

  “I’m Miss Alice Cotton, here to see Miss Olive Melville Brown.”

  “I’m afraid you just missed her.”

  “If it’s all right, I can wait.”

  “She might be some time. Do you have an appointment?”

  Alice had intended to call ahead, but the surprise of seeing Ursula, and meeting Theo, had distracted her, and she grew deflated as she realized that she might not meet Olive today.

  “Can I leave a message?” Alice asked, barely recognizing her own meek voice as she waited for the receptionist to hand her a pencil and paper. “Thank you,” she said, then hesitated, “but perhaps I could use your phone and call up now?”

  “There’s really no point—everyone’s at lunch.”

  It was only just midday, but why would the receptionist lie to her? Perhaps because of how she looked; she’d worn the cleanest of her two dresses but certainly not the smartest.

  “I understand that your library is on-site,” she said. “Could I talk to your librarian?”

  “It’s not open to the public.”

  Alice didn’t identify with the timid creature she’d become; if she was to get what she wanted, she would certainly need to be a lot more cunning. “I’m not the public,” she said, stepping closer. “I work for Partridge Press. You probably know of Patricia Reece—”

  “Why didn’t you say so before? I love her novels!”

  Alice smiled. “Next time I visit, I’ll try to remember to bring you a signed copy of her latest book. Today I just need to confirm some information for a special project I’m working on.”

  The slender receptionist stood up and then pushed the visitor book toward her. “Just sign in here.” She watched as Alice wrote her name, then beamed at her. “The library is on the lower ground floor. The stairs are on the left of the lift. And I’ll phone Elizabeth now and tell her you’re on your way down.”

  “Thank you so much.”

  “Not at all, Miss Cotton.”

  It grew colder as she descended into the basement, smooth stone steps giving way to the black-and-white tiles of a wide empty corridor. There were multiple doorways; the closest one was fully open, light pooling on the floor, and Alice walked tentatively through into a narrower passageway. Here another entrance gave way to a deceptively large room that smelled of dust and paper, and had a long wooden counter at the front. There were bare brickwork walls with mosaics of rudimentary plaster, and a ceiling covered in a skeleton of pipework. Rack upon rack of metal shelving and closed cabinets ran parallel from the counter all the way to the far wall. The air was thicker here, an almost tomblike stillness with no sign of life apart from the shadows that flickered across the room as pedestrians passed on the glass bricks of the pavement overhead.

  A woman appeared dressed in a WAAF uniform, her dark hair curling around her collar. “Miss Cotton?”

  “Yes. Are you Elizabeth?”

  The woman nodded, and Alice couldn’t help but stare; her eyes were so pale they were almost translucent. “I didn’t get time to change after my shift this morning,” she said in a south London accent as she glanced down shyly at her uniform.

  “Oh, I see,” Alice replied. “Well, thank you for seeing me at such short notice.”

  “That’s quite all right. It’s lucky you caught me, actually. I was just going on my lunch break.” She glanced at the large wall clock.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t want to hold you up.”

  “It’s quite all right. How can I help?”

  “I’m interested in the baby farmer articles by Olive Melville Brown.”

  “Ah, yes.” The woman’s eyes widened. “Unbelievable, isn’t it, what some people will do? Taking advantage of the vulnerable in these precarious times.”

  It seemed she was waiting for Alice to reply, but she could only nod and ask, “Do you have her stories on hand?”

  “I do, actually. I file the articles under reporters’ names and in chronological order, so it should be easy enough to find what you’re looking for. Is that all you want?”

  “I think so,” Alice said, encouraged. “For the time being, at least.”

  She listened to the vibrations of traffic and indecipherable conversations from passersby as Elizabeth wrestled with the metal drawers, returning with a tray of newspapers. “Now, you take these through to the reading room next door, and I’ll come and see how you’re getting on when I return.”

  Alice had never felt as vulnerable and alone as she did now, not in all the days since Eadie had gone, as she grasped the immense task ahead of her, and Elizabeth’s kindness made her suddenly teary. “Thank you,” she said, turning quickly before the woman noticed.

  Alice settled under the glare of an overhead light and picked up the first newspaper, recognizing the article as the one she’d seen at the adoption office. She felt a flicker of hope at the first few lines: Britain is ending the baby farming scandal. An act that comes into force on June 1 will prevent this and other forms of traffic in children. She reread the article because she couldn’t remember all the details. Only local authorities or a registered society would be able to make arrangements for child adoption and, most important, there could be no payment for a child without permission of a court.

  She leaned back in her chair, gazing at the blank wall as she thought it through. Even though the act wouldn’t come into force for a few months, perhaps it could help her by scaring the traffickers. They had to know they couldn’t get away with it for much longer.

  Encouraged, she turned to the next article, dated more than a month earlier, on February 2. The headline was even more explicit: Law Will End Baby Farming Evil. But as she continued reading, the blood drained from her face.

  The byline announced: Jail for Women Who Sell Children, and the article reported that mothers who gave their babies up for illegal adoption would face either a fine of two hundred pounds or six months’ imprisonment. It added that these children had no name or identification, and therefore no citizenship or rights. Alice couldn’t draw her eyes away from the last sentence: By law they have no status. It was sickening, and far worse than Joanna had let on: Eadie didn’t even count as a person under the law, and Alice could be fined or sent to prison after June 1 if anyone thought she had given her daughter up voluntarily. And presumably the same law would apply to her mother since she had done exactly that.

  She struggled to breathe as the low ceiling seemed to press down on her. Now she would have to be even more careful with the truth, and she urgently needed to speak with Olive Melville Brown: the journalist was the expert on this world and the people in it—and probably Alice’s only chance of finding Eadie.

  Sixteen

  The entrance to Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese was tucked in an alleyway off Fleet Street, its dark nondescript exterior making it so difficult to recognize that Alice passed it by a few times before finding the doorway. Once inside the narrow flag-stoned entrance, her eyes took a moment to adjust to the dingy light before noticing the cozy bar of dark-paneled wood, the dramatic portraits and the sparkling etched-glass windows.

  Alice smoothed down her skirt and coat, then stepped toward the bar. The place was no bigger than a modest living room, with a fireplace on the wall opposite and a few low barrel-end tables and chairs scattered around, but it was obvious from the creases of the well-worn seat cushions and the patina of the tabletops that history was made here; this was the kind of place that writers and journalists liked to visit. At five o’clock it wasn’t busy, with a group of men drinking at the bar, and no one who fitted the description Elizabeth had provided when Alice had asked where she might find Olive.

  Then, through the thick smoke, she glimpsed a woman s
itting alone on a stool halfway along the bar, her neck craned down as she read. Noting the dark hair and small frame, Alice squeezed her way through the men to approach her. “Miss Melville Brown?”

  The woman swung around. “Yes?”

  Alice felt a wave of relief; Olive appeared much younger and friendlier than she’d imagined her to be. “I hope you don’t mind . . . Elizabeth mentioned you might be here, and I wondered if I could have a moment of your time.”

  “Well, that depends.”

  “On what?”

  “On who you are, of course, and what it’s about.”

  “I’m Alice Cotton, and I’ve been following your stories on the baby farmers—”

  “Well, I’ve got half an hour before my train if you don’t mind the location,” Olive said, glancing at the rowdy group next to them. “I find it’s the perfect transition from the busy day to the quiet of home.”

  “It’s perfect,” Alice agreed, feigning enthusiasm. “Very lively.”

  Olive studied her for a moment before returning her smile. “Do you want to go somewhere we can talk?” she asked in an even tone.

  “Is there somewhere a little quieter?”

  “Yes, of course. We can go through to the restaurant. There’s usually more room anyway.”

  “Thank you,” Alice said appreciatively.

  “Let’s get you a drink before we go. What would you like?”

  “What are you having?”

  “Stone’s ginger wine, not everyone’s pick.”

  Alice hadn’t contemplated having a drink, as she’d gone without for so long, but maybe it would be an idea to have one now, steady her nerves. “I’ll have the same, but let me—”

  “Not at all. As I said, I’ve only got half an hour, so let me. Besides, the job does still have a few perks.”

  Alice felt awkward as she waited for Olive. Glancing around self-consciously, she thought about the journalist’s measured way of talking; she gave equal emphasis to each word so that everything she said sounded important.

  During the few hours between the library and now, Alice had decided that it would be too confounding to tell a stranger the truth, no matter how sympathetic they might be to the provenance of illegitimate children, so she’d had the idea to try another approach. Once they’d settled into a quiet nook in the restaurant, Alice carried out a plan she’d come up with in the library. She told Olive about the book she’d been working on for Partridge Press, Women and Children First. She explained that as Olive was an expert in the field, Alice would like to interview her for the project. It would reflect the experiences of women and children on the home front, and at the same time could help the cause that seemed so close to Olive’s heart.

  “I’m afraid my work is copyright of the paper—I’m a staff reporter, you see,” Olive said, with a kind expression. “There’s not much I can tell you outside of what you’ve read in my articles.”

  “But you must know quite a bit more about these baby farmers. Things you haven’t included in the paper.”

  “Well, yes, that’s true.”

  “Like who they are?”

  Olive narrowed her eyes.

  “And where they might be? I get the sense, reading between the lines, that you might have spoken to some of them.”

  “I’m sorry, your book does sound interesting, but I’m afraid I don’t think I can help you,” Olive said, straightening. “You’re asking me to share confidential information.”

  Alice worried that she’d pushed too hard. She really didn’t know where else to turn, so she took a calculated risk. “Are you a mother?”

  “Married to the job, isn’t it obvious?” Olive said, sipping her drink.

  “No, not at all. . . . The thing is”—Alice took a deep breath, noticing the journalist glance at her watch—“this isn’t strictly a work matter.”

  “How so?”

  Alice’s feet fidgeted under the table and her fingernails dug into her palms. “I have a friend who’s fallen victim to one of the baby farmers, and she needs help.”

  “She should go to the police.”

  “That’s the thing, she did but their investigations have led nowhere—”

  Olive stopped stirring her drink and looked Alice in the eye. “So, you want me to help, is that what you’re saying?”

  “Yes, I suppose I am.”

  Olive gave her an unfathomable glance before she took another sip of her drink and rested the tumbler on a coaster, gazing thoughtfully into it. Then she looked back up.

  “Have you ever heard of Clara Andrew?”

  Alice shook her head.

  “She helped find homes for more than six thousand children in the last war, and she founded the National Children Adoption Association—”

  “That’s right,” Alice said, remembering the certificates in Joanna Swift’s office. “I saw her name recently. Something to do with the Adoption Act.”

  “It was another of her achievements—getting the Adoption Act passed in nineteen twenty-six—and lobbying the home secretary to set up a department on child services. If it wasn’t for Miss Andrew, there would be far more baby farmers than there are now.”

  “And there’s been no one like her since?”

  “Not just that; as you know from my stories, the nineteen thirty-nine Adoption of Children Act she fought so hard to get through was never passed. When war broke out, the bill was set aside, until now. Too late for your friend.”

  “I know, but you’ve done such a good job of drawing people’s attention to it.”

  Olive gave a small smile. “I appreciate your confidence, Alice, but have you seen the news lately? Even though we like to believe it’s women and children first, the money is being spent on munitions and transport; it’s going to the weapons that everyone hopes are going to win the war for us, not the innocents.”

  Alice recognized the determination in Olive’s voice. “Why do you care so much?” she asked.

  Olive’s mouth twitched; the beginnings of a smile. “Let’s say I know what happens when there aren’t any formal adoptions in place.”

  She gave Alice a meaningful look, and Alice was about to ask her what she meant when Olive said, “What information can you give me about the mother . . . or the child?”

  “She’s a baby, a newborn,” Alice said, a lump forming in her throat. “I have the date and place of birth, and the date of the handover. Is that enough?”

  “It’s a start.”

  “She was given to a couple from London.”

  “That makes sense, they usually work in pairs.”

  “Are they real couples?”

  “Sometimes, sometimes not. They might just pretend to be doting parents.”

  Alice’s mind wandered, goose bumps tingling up her spine. “Will you help me, then?”

  “All I can do is see if my contacts might know of anyone operating in the area. They do tend to work regionally, so that could be useful. And I’d like to help with your book, so I’ll have a chat with my editor to see what information I can give you—on the record. The more people who know about these monsters, the better.”

  “Of course.”

  “Can I reach you at the Partridge office?”

  Alice had been relaxing into her chair, smiling with relief, until with Olive’s words she realized she would have to take Theo up on his offer if she was to engage Olive’s help. But how would she have time while she was looking for Eadie?

  “Well, Alice?”

  There really wasn’t an alternative. “Yes, here . . . I’ll write it down.” She handed Olive the slip of paper, and the two women smiled at each other.

  Alice felt a stirring deep inside, not unlike the quickening she’d felt with Eadie, infused with nervousness. She had achieved what she came for: Olive’s promise of help. Now she had to hope that it
would be enough.

  Seventeen

  London, March 29, 1943

  As Theo raced up the stairs to the boardroom, a spring in his step, he thought about the telephone call he’d just had with Virginia and her excitement when he’d recounted the events of the weekend.

  He hadn’t been able to refuse George’s offer to be his guest in Norfolk, but it had been a resounding success; while there had been disappointingly few grouse, George’s family had been faultless in their hospitality. As well as his wife and two daughters, there had been a horde of neighbors and other London visitors. Friday supper had grown into a rowdy affair that lasted until well after midnight so that their dawn hunting departure came far too soon, then luncheon rolled into another long supper. He’d captivated Virginia with his descriptions of the estate: the handsome seventeenth-century house, sandstone walls covered with ivy and wisteria; a formal garden with fragrant verbena, lavender and rose; and the kitchen garden of equal size featuring herbs he hadn’t tried before, including borage, lovage and lemon thyme. Not even Walter owned such a prepossessing home.

  On Sunday, Theo had been driven back to London feeling a little shabbier than on the drive up, relieved he’d accepted the Alka-Seltzer and packed breakfast offered by the butler on departure. He’d wanted to go through everything before the Monday morning meeting, and he was glad he’d spent Sunday afternoon doing just that; there were still areas he didn’t understand and British terms he couldn’t fathom.