“I told you, they’ll never find her, that’s why I have to keep looking. And thanks to you, we might have found another way, through the warden network.”
Penny and Michael exchanged a look before she turned back to Alice. “Is that the real reason?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I have to ask . . . have you told the police who the father is?”
Alice looked away. “I don’t see that it matters to anyone else,” she said sharply. “And there’s a chance his family might want to keep Eadie . . . then I’d be certain to lose her.”
“Surely it’s worth taking a chance,” Michael suggested gently. “Better to risk finding and losing her again—at least you’d know she was safe.”
“It really makes no difference to the police.”
“But it might help if they knew,” said Penny.
Alice grew quiet. How could she explain to her friends how women like her were treated? It was all right for Penny—Michael was a loving husband and father, she was respectable—but there was little time or pity extended for women like Alice. Giving Rupert’s identity to the police wouldn’t help them find Eadie; it would just mean that there was a chance that he and his family could make a claim on her.
Penny glanced at Michael, who shrugged, and she pressed her lips together. “Well, thanks to your performance the book group left very motivated, so hopefully they’ll come back with some stories.”
Alice looked at her friend and smiled weakly. “Yes, I hope so.”
Nineteen
London, April 5, 1943
When Alice arrived in the boardroom, she smiled briefly at Theo before taking a seat next to Ursula. The women glanced at each other, Alice clearly as anxious as a cat in an air raid with her desire to know about the fate of her book project, but George unhurriedly took a piece of paper from his pocket and cleared his throat.
“I’ve had a letter from Rupert.”
“What does he say?” Tommy asked.
“How is he, George?” Emily interrupted.
“As you know we haven’t heard from him in quite some time—” George broke off, his voice hoarse.
“Can you tell how he’s coping?” Emily said insistently.
George unfolded the thin sheet of paper and pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose as he looked down.
“He’s all right as far as I can tell. He asks after all of you,” he said, looking around the table, gaze lingering for a fraction on Alice. “And he says he’s looking forward to reading our new titles when he comes back. He mentions the possibility of some leave in coming months—”
There was a murmur of excitement and George’s broad smile was replicated around the table, except for Alice, who listened benignly as George recounted the remaining contents of the brief letter.
“So there you have it. And with Mussolini’s weakening position, and the Allies’ advance into Tunisia, let’s hope that the tide is turning and that he will soon be home.”
George turned to Theo and caught him off guard since Theo shared the widely held belief that anticipated the war continuing, and a 1944 campaign.
“Yes, George. Let’s hope so,” he said, hesitating. “In which case, hadn’t we better get on with publishing some of those books for him to read?”
It had the desired effect, and George laughed.
“Then we’re all agreed; time spent waiting on a rooftop or in a shelter, or an aircraft hangar, could be better spent with a book,” George said cheerfully. “The question is, which one?” He looked at Theo.
“We’ll get to that in a moment,” Theo said, avoiding Alice’s stare, “but first of all, Tommy has an update for us.”
The production controller nodded. “Our biggest worry has been about the board and paper, but with the success of salvage and pulping this has temporarily abated. However”—Tommy paused to look around—“the type metal for printers is growing ever more scarce—even the standard type usually kept for reprints is being taken down and melted. We’ve had to do this ourselves on a few of our titles.”
“How scarce?” Ursula asked.
“Like the dodo—zinc, copper, brass, all the materials used for block-making and cover-stamping are virtually extinct.”
“What does that mean?” Alice asked worriedly.
“It means there’s little chance of us, or many publishers, for that matter, printing illustrated books until the war ends. Especially ones like Women and Children First with screened half-tone photographs.”
“We can use line blocks,” Ursula said.
“Or we could just have a cover,” Alice suggested, looking more animated. “We don’t need pictures inside, we could make do.”
“We can afford a four-page spread inside,” said Tommy, “but it would only be for this title. It’s all a trade-off. Is it a sacrifice we’re prepared to make?”
“It’s one book,” Ursula said, holding his gaze.
Theo was watching them thoughtfully, keeping his opinion to himself.
“She’s right,” George said, “it’s one book. But each book deprives the war effort of metal. We have to decide if that one book is really worth it.” He turned to Alice. “I’ve looked through your proposal and given it a great deal of thought. And we’ve talked about it,” he added, glancing at Theo. “We think it’s worth it. Don’t we, Theo?”
“Indeed, we do, George. It’s going to be the major release in the new season titles—if we can get it ready by then.”
He’d expected Alice to be more excited by the news, but her smile was fleeting before she grew thoughtful again.
“So, Alice, will it be written in time?” Theo asked as he leaned back in his chair, cradling a cup of coffee between his palms.
“Yes,” she said firmly, “but are you going to be able to pull everything else together in time?”
“You couldn’t be in better hands, Alice,” George said. “Theo has learned a great deal from the Armed Services Editions. They’re in production now.”
“That’s right,” Theo said, “they’ll be shipped to the troops in September. And it hasn’t been easy. Our skeptics said the paper was such poor quality it would fall apart, and that the glue would never hold when it got to the tropics, but we adjusted the prototypes.”
“What did you do?” Ursula asked.
“We’ve used staples, and the paper is twice the quality of that used for newspapers. Everything is designed to make them withstand the harshest conditions, so they can be read and shared by the men again and again.” Theo leaned in, resting his arms on the table. “If we want this series to become collectible, the paperbacks need to be able to withstand the same handling and conditions as hardbacks. Right, George?”
George nodded, giving a faint smile. He appeared to be following their conversation, but Theo noticed the drumbeat of his fingers on the table and his frown lines deepening. The months of concern over Rupert and the business had clearly taken their toll, and Theo felt a wave of concern for the older man. Unlike Walter, George shared Theo’s view that books should be used as weapons in the war of ideas—Theo just needed to help him find a way to carry on doing that.
Twenty
London, April 8, 1943
“Every desk in the production office had been taken over as work began in earnest on the book: interviews were being scheduled and stories written up, and a photographer had been booked for the four-page spread. But Alice was immune to the excitement that surrounded her; she found herself staring into space, unable to concentrate.
“The War Economy Agreement is on the poster over there,” Ursula said, pointing at the back wall. “Alice, are you all right? Have you been listening to a word I’ve said?”
“Yes, of course,” she replied, with a cursory glance at the poster. “The poster is over there, and I’m fine, thank you.”
The truth wa
s that she was far from it. On the one hand, working on the book was the best way she could gather information on baby farmers; on the other, she was working so hard that she couldn’t follow up on any leads. She’d been forced to take things slowly in recent days, partly by Penny and Michael—no more visits to the foundling hospitals or any child welfare organizations—and she knew that any information from the book group would take a while to trickle in. She’d had a medical checkup and been told she was physically recovering as well as could be expected under the circumstances, but it was her feelings at being back in the office that she hadn’t counted on—being faced with George’s likeness to Rupert and all the memories of the past couple of years. Now she was torn between the desire to repay the trust that George and Theo had placed in her, and her certainty of the need to leave Partridge as soon as she could. The American had won them over, and she could see why: it wasn’t just his support and hard work, it was his integrity. And that was yet another reason she wanted to remove herself—she’d found herself distractedly thinking about him, and she couldn’t afford to let that happen.
She tried to focus on the galleys in front of her, pen poised as she read through the Patricia Reece novel. Light pooled around the document as her hand moved down the page, stopping at each line as she methodically checked the punctuation and grammar.
“How are you getting on?” Ursula asked.
“Only another couple of hours, if all goes well.”
“Have you got the right measurements for the margins? And remember the new obligations for typography and binding.”
“Yes, I know.”
“What are they, then?” Ursula said half-seriously.
“Type area not less than fifty-five percent of the printed page, no more than four introductory pages.” Alice squinted again at the poster on the back wall. The print was barely legible from where she sat, but she knew it listed all the wartime requirements.
When she looked back at her work, the proofreader symbols appeared as unfamiliar as Arabic script, and she realized she had mistaken colons for semicolons and inserted hyphens instead of transposing words.
How can I be here when I still have no idea where my daughter is?
Ursula leaned forward, touching her forearm lightly. “Alice, are you really all right?”
“Yes, of course I am. Why shouldn’t I be?”
“You’re crying.”
Alice brushed her fingers across her cheeks, wiping away the tears. “Oh.”
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. I’m fine.”
“Oh, really? You don’t look fine.”
“I am,” Alice said, more tears springing from her eyes.
“What is it, Alice? I know there’s something wrong. You haven’t been the same since . . . well, since you came back. I don’t understand—I thought you’d be so pleased that the book’s going ahead.”
“It’s nothing.”
“Doesn’t look like nothing to me,” Ursula said, keeping her hand lightly on her arm. “Let me help. At least let me try.”
Alice’s fingers played with the edge of her sleeve, running back and forth across the seams, but she stopped as soon as Ursula noticed.
A moment passed before Alice said, “I really admire your strength, your courage.”
“What makes you say that?”
“It just seems as if nothing bad has ever happened to you, like you’ve never been touched by sadness.”
Ursula laughed. “Well, you know that’s not true.”
“I’m sorry,” she said immediately. How stupid of her. She knew all about Ursula’s estrangement from her family and her frequent spells of loneliness and depression. “You’re right, there is something,” Alice said, and sniffed, her eyes stinging. “I haven’t been entirely honest with you.”
“What is it?”
“I’ve not told you the truth . . . about the baby.”
“Yes?”
“It’s just that . . .” Alice hesitated. She was on the verge of telling Ursula about Eadie when a memory emerged of a conversation in which Ursula had claimed she would never have a child. At the time Alice had brushed the comment away, but Ursula had been adamant, and now Alice didn’t want to be insensitive a second time. She also cautioned herself against sharing the truth unnecessarily. “My cousin’s baby hasn’t been well, and it’s not been easy with Mum since we fell out. I think it’s all just got to me.”
Ursula’s face softened. “I’m not surprised. I think you’ve done marvelously. Living with all that chaos at Penny’s too. Are you sure you won’t come and stay with me?”
Alice loved Ursula’s home, with its salvaged furniture and bohemian décor. It was a perfect reflection of her personality and Hungarian heritage, richly decorated and full of warmth. But of course Alice needed to stay with Penny and Michael, as they knew the truth. “I’m happy where I am, but thank you,” she said, tears falling freely now. “You’re a good friend.”
That was still true, but a gulf had opened between them because of her secret, and soon she would let Ursula down by abandoning Partridge again. She felt trapped.
“What are we going to do with you?” Ursula said as she rested her chin on her upturned palm. “I know,” she said abruptly, “you should go to the Foyle luncheon next week in my place. It will do you good.”
The luncheons were a monthly highlight, and tickets were hard to come by. As a junior staff member, Alice had never been given the opportunity to attend until now. She appreciated the thought, and Ursula’s enthusiasm, but it was totally out of the question. “Getting our book finished, that will do me good,” she said, wiping her eyes on her sleeve. “No, you must go.”
“Absolutely not, I’ve already made up my mind. And it will give you an opportunity to talk to Theo about the book—see if you can talk him into a few more photos.”
An afternoon away from searching for Eadie, in the company of Theo, was the last thing Alice wanted, but she didn’t know how to say no to her friend.
Twenty-one
London, April 15, 1943
“Are you hungry?” Theo asked Alice, as the gray cornices and turrets of Piccadilly flashed past. The rain grew heavier, bouncing noisily off the roof and hood of their black cab.
“A little,” she said, “although I’ve heard the speaker outshines the food at these luncheons.”
Theo smiled, feeling his mustache curve up against his cheeks. Over the past week he’d been spending more time with Alice, and she kept managing to surprise him with her perception and knowledge. Her quirky way of looking at the world was so different from that of anyone else he knew, especially Virginia. Even her clothes were original, her tight-fitting emerald green jacket and flared navy skirt unlike anything he’d seen other British women wear. Virginia would probably have thought her unsophisticated, but he saw her as inventive. Today her classic pearl earrings were her nod to conventionality, and the only similarity he’d noticed so far between her and his fiancée.
He said, still smiling, “There’s likely to be several courses, you know.”
“I’m not sure I’ll be able to make it through them all,” she said, head turned away as she gazed out the window.
Theo had been delighted when Ursula suggested Alice accompany him, but she didn’t seem quite as enthusiastic. Either that or she was nervous about the event, since she hadn’t stopped fidgeting in her seat, folding one leg over the other and then uncrossing them again. Not that he minded admiring her long legs; it was difficult not to stare, especially when she was gazing off in the other direction.
“The speaker can go on for hours,” he said, forcing himself to look away.
“You sound like you’ve been to one of these before,” she said, finally turning toward him.
“They hold similar events in New York. That’s where I met Christina.”
“Is
she as eccentric as people say she is?”
Christina Foyle was the daughter of William Foyle, co-founder of Foyles bookshops, and she’d started holding the luncheons more than a decade earlier to bring together readers, writers and thinkers. It was well known that she’d written to Hitler to offer to buy books written by Jewish authors after the Nazis burned thousands, and apparently she’d received a reply.
“She brings together remarkable and unusual people. I think that speaks for itself.” He smiled warmly, very much doubting that Alice had met anyone like Christina; or that Christina had met anyone quite like Alice.
As they neared Park Lane, the Dorchester came into view, its pale stone exterior transformed into an unexpected waterfall of flowers, wrought-iron balconies cascading with red and white. The entrance was a crescent of verdant shrubs, the drive lined with topiary, and urns of ivy sat on either side of the lobby doors. Only the sandbags stacked against the windows gave an indication that the times were anything but ordinary.
“Impressive, isn’t it?” Theo said, noticing her stare.
“Yes . . . and somewhat of a surprise.”
“Why’s that?”
“Well, most Londoners are getting rid of their flowers in favor of edibles, but this place looks like it’s growing enough for everyone!”
Theo laughed. “It’s magnificent, though. And a lot like the architecture in Manhattan. These great concrete monoliths are everywhere you look now.”
“George told me it’s hard to impress an American, so I’m glad we’ve managed to do that,” she said with a straight face. “You know Eisenhower stayed here last year. Tommy said they’re considering naming a suite after him.”
“Gee, that’s really something. I read that almost half the hotel is underground, the perfect shelter.” His gaze locked on the building. “Must be one of the safest places in London,” he said, remembering the reason he was there—to meet important figures in the trade and the government; to work out how to improve Partridge’s position and supplies.
When We Meet Again Page 15
