When We Meet Again

by Caroline Beecham

  Flimsy curtains divided the ward into quarters, the overhead lights fizzed, and dark-painted lamps clung to the walls like crouching grasshoppers. Theo examined each bed closely before he found his father.

  Samuel Bloom was lying motionless in the metal-framed bed closest to the window, two stands either side drip-feeding fluid into his bandaged hands. The sight made Theo’s breath catch in his throat.

  As Theo drew closer, he saw that his father’s eyes were closed, not observing the green belt that spread out before him on the other side of the glass. Two bound feet protruded from beneath dull gray sheets, their white gauze protecting his father’s agonizing ulcers. His bulk was a substantial contour beneath the blanket, reminding Theo of one of the causes of his illness. That and the diabetic ketoacidosis—a life-threatening condition, the doctor had explained to him after his father’s last hospitalization. He supposed the fluids were for the insulin and the infection that Samuel had developed, and hopefully something for the pain.

  Theo placed his small suitcase at the foot of the bed and moved quietly to stand by his father’s shoulder, gazing down at his pale waxy skin, not the usual ruddy complexion of the diabetic. No matter how well you know a person, there’s always a mystery to discover, he thought, noticing the deep creases at the sides of his father’s mouth and the bony ridges of his eyebrows as if for the first time. It was the same with Alice’s face, which offered surprises every time he saw it: a new expression, eyes lit in a different way, or a singular mannerism—

  “What the heck are you doing here, son?”

  Theo looked back down to see his father’s blue eyes staring up at him. “How ya feelin’, Pop?”

  “Fine. Still don’t know why I’m here.”

  It felt as though a brace around Theo’s thorax had been loosened, and he could breathe again. “Yes, you do, Pop. The denial thing won’t work anymore, it’s been fifteen years.”

  Samuel smiled. “You shouldn’t have come. Madelaine was wrong to bother you.”

  “It’s not bothering me, I wanted to come. Where is Mom, anyway?”

  “She sleeps at home then comes back when visiting starts. She’ll be here soon.”

  “How are you, really?”

  “Honestly?”

  “Honestly.”

  “Feels like someone laid me down on Madison and drove a truck over me!”

  “That good, huh?”

  “Yep. Don’t tell your mother, though,” Samuel added quickly, trying to haul himself up.

  “Here . . . let me.” Theo gripped him by the elbow and shifted the pillow further behind him while he shuffled carefully until he was sitting.

  “So, what have they said to you?” Theo had an idea of what the doctors had said about his condition from his mother’s hurried phone call, and he wanted to see if they’d shared the same information with him.

  “They said what they always say: ‘Samuel, lose weight. Get more exercise.’ ”

  “Sure, but that’s not why you’re here. What did they say about the ketoacidosis?”

  “Oh, that—trust Madelaine . . . I told her not to tell you. You’re not to get involved, Theo. You’ve been here two minutes and look, you’re already trying to take over. How did Walter ever let you go, or those London people? Tell me about London.”

  Theo was overjoyed and confused; the phone call had made out that his father’s condition was dire, but Samuel didn’t look like a man clinging to life. What was going on?

  “Stop trying to change the subject, Pop. I want to know what the doctors said. How serious is this?”

  “I’m in the right place, son, that’s all that matters right now,” he said, his tone more somber. “Sit down, will you?”

  “Okay.”

  “Look, I know there have been some serious complications, but thankfully I’m recovering now. Your mother doesn’t need to know about them, so it’s best we just keep that between us.”

  Why did his father have to put a spin on things no matter what? “The truth, Pop, the truth.”

  “All right! I’ve been lucky, I grant you.” He held his hands out in front of him, steady palms facing outward. “See, most of the symptoms have gone . . . and once the infection is under control, I’ll be laughing.”

  Theo knew that wasn’t the case. The doctor had once explained how in some diabetics with infection there can be a resistance to the normal effects of insulin, and that his father was one of them. Unfortunately, this time it was too late to rely on weight loss or exercise as treatment; the doctors would need to find the right combination of drugs, and that in itself was problematic. Theo had witnessed his father’s ongoing pain, and the vomiting and hyperventilation of an earlier attack, so there was little Samuel could hide from him. But he would go along with his father for the time being, just to keep him happy.

  “And how is it here?” Theo asked, glancing around.

  “You wouldn’t want to bring your family here on vacation, but it’s not as bad as it looks. Some of the nurses are pretty.”

  Theo smiled at him. He hadn’t expected to see him in such good spirits, but it wasn’t fooling him either—Samuel was worried.

  “Would ya mind moving?” Theo asked.

  “You’re not taking me back to London with you—your mother wouldn’t cope with the journey.”

  Theo couldn’t help but smile again. “How about we move you over to the Mercy? It’s got a great reputation. It would be a longer journey for Mom, but I’m sure she wouldn’t mind if your treatment was better.”

  “You know we can’t afford that.”

  “You wouldn’t have to, Pop. But don’t think about it right now. Just concentrate on getting better.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Samuel grumbled. Then he perked up again and raised his eyebrows. “Virginia came to visit yesterday.”

  “That was nice. How was she?”

  “Fine . . . but haven’t you seen her yet?”

  “No, Pop, I came straight here.”

  Samuel placed a hand on his arm. “Thank you, Theo. You’re a good son.”

  Theo smiled back, pleased his father felt that way but knowing what they were both really thinking: he might be a good son, but he was also an only son now, and he’d never be a hero like Howie.

  Twenty-eight

  Theo studied the mandarin skies as he walked up Fifty-fifth Street to the Blue Angel, hoping the fresh air would help wake him up. He was meeting Virginia at her friend’s birthday party. After his grueling journey and the emotion of the morning with his father, he hadn’t made it into the office; he’d been unable to face Walter, who he knew would want a detailed report on the London operation. Theo had been selective in what he’d shared with him so far, but he knew that Walter would be able to tell if Theo wasn’t disclosing something important, like the recent problem with the Russell Square rent being hiked up—one of the much larger publishing houses had allowed Partridge to relocate there after the 1940 bombings and only charged a peppercorn rent until recently. He believed it was all manageable, and he wasn’t deliberately deceiving Walter; he just wanted to buy the London team more time. In the next few months they’d know if their new titles were going to work—and if they’d get the paper rations they needed to publish next year’s books.

  As he entered the Blue Angel, Theo caught a glimpse of Virginia through the crowd, at a table surrounded by her usual fashionable group of friends. He didn’t recognize many of them, perhaps the reason he suddenly felt awkward. She was deep in conversation with the woman next to her when she turned and caught sight of him, and she stood instantly and waved him over. “Look, everyone, Theo’s back!”

  Those who heard stopped talking and turned to look, and Theo’s cheeks burned. It was unlike Virginia to be so exuberant and showy, and unlike him to feel embarrassed.

  It proved tricky for her to navigate through the other partygoers an
d squeeze round the table, so she threw her hands in the air and blew him a kiss as he approached, which he caught and stopped shy of returning.

  “I think you know everyone, apart from Arky and Felix—oh, and Alexandra. They’re our new recruits.” She smiled at the two men and woman she’d been talking to.

  Theo could barely hear what Virginia said above the band as she leaned one hand on the table, champagne flute held high in the other. He didn’t recognize the black velvet dress that hugged her figure, or the several strands of pearls that circled her neck and fell across her breastbone, barely concealing her cleavage. It struck him how starkly different she was to Alice, and how unsettled and conspicuous it made him feel.

  A waiter appeared with a drink for Theo. Plates of lobster rolls, chicken wings and filled potato skins paraded past, and he realized how ravenous he was—and how obvious it was that the owner, Max Gordon, must have left instructions for the group to be well looked after.

  Theo took his drink and sat in one of the nearby booths to wait for Virginia, the plush upholstery sinking under his weary limbs, and he closed his eyes. The musicians were doing improv, then songs he didn’t recognize, until he heard the sweet and somber tone of a Charlie Parker number. He hadn’t heard this kind of music for months, not since he’d visited an after-hours club with his friends in Harlem, where Dizzy Gillespie had been playing a set with Parker and Earl Hines. Virginia was taking her time coming over, so he listened to the music and reflected on how it had felt to fly home: seeing the fog rise off the Hudson and watching proudly as the city came into view, the rising sun gilding the Manhattan skyline.

  He must have drifted off because the next thing he knew the seat next to him sank down and something brushed lightly across his cheek. He inhaled Virginia’s distinct floral scent, and as he opened his eyes, her lips pressed against his. “Hello, sleepyhead,” she whispered. “How’s your pa?”

  “No change since you saw him. He’s putting on a good show of things, though, keeping the little staff they have busy.”

  Virginia glanced back at her group of friends, the birthday girl waving her over. His fiancée’s profile was revealed in silhouette, her feline nose and her chin elongated under the harsh light, altogether stronger compared to Alice’s gently sloping nose and heart-shaped face, features that now felt more familiar.

  When she glanced back round, he was still staring.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Nothing,” he said, except it wasn’t, and no amount of showers or shaves or sleep was going to change it. “You go be with your pals. I’ll be over in a minute.”

  “And then we’ll go off, just the two of us?”

  “Of course.”

  * * *

  They did, but it wasn’t the reunion he’d imagined it would be. Virginia seemed too caught up with her crowd, and although she was still volunteering at the Red Cross station, she was surprisingly unfamiliar with the broader events of the war. Their conversation glided over the weeks they’d been separated—how everyone was and what they were doing—but she asked him very little about London.

  At the end of the evening he felt dissatisfied; despite the abundance of food and drink, the champagne and easy laughter, there was something deeply unfulfilling about spending time with his fiancée. The experience was a stark contrast to what he’d left behind: to sheltering from the cold and rain in warm cafés, to the robust discussions around the Partridge meeting table, and to being welcomed into their homes to share hard-won meals from rations that had been queued for and carefully cooked. He suddenly couldn’t relate to Virginia’s world, even though it should have been his too.

  It was almost midnight before he was able to prize himself away.

  “Oh, you poor thing, you should have said something earlier,” she said, giggling at his twitching eye. “What time is it in London?”

  “Seven in the morning, so I’ve got roughly forty-eight hours of sleep to catch up on. And then some.” He yawned.

  “That’s a shame,” she said, stroking his face. “I was going to ask you to come back to my place, but I suppose we’d better call it a night and let you get some rest.”

  “I’ll drop you off, if that’s all right,” he said, as she pulled him in for another kiss.

  When their taxi turned on to Madison, her hand slid into his and squeezed his fingers. “It’s divine to have you back—I’ve missed you,” she said as she nuzzled her head into his shoulder.

  He looked down at the soft smile playing on her lips. “Yes. I’ve missed you too.”

  But there hadn’t been butterflies when he’d first seen her in the Angel. Desire, yes, a fondness and a longing, yes, but he hadn’t felt compelled to take her in his arms—which was just as well, considering the large marble table that had stood between them.

  He glanced out of the window at the lights of his city spinning by. After six weeks in London he no longer identified with these people, Virginia’s people, and he found it hard to imagine spending the rest of his life with them. As the implications registered, an uneasy feeling settled inside his chest. Virginia hadn’t changed, but he had, and he didn’t think he could ever change back.

  Twenty-nine

  London, April 26, 1943

  Alice pulled her collar tighter and braced for the downpour as the sky darkened, the air grew thicker and the first droplets began to fall. She hadn’t slept again—she’d been unable to let go of the troubling thought that Frank and Beatrice Pritchard had been released from prison and were back preying on children. They could even be the couple who’d been in contact with her mother. So she’d tracked them down and was navigating as best she could with her scribbled map, passing row upon row of dreary interchangeable homes either side of the street. Most were empty, curtains pulled halfway across their cracked windowpanes. Leytonstone hadn’t escaped the bombing raids, but even in the fading light the grimness of the area was evident in its run-down houses and disconsolate atmosphere. It was an area of northeast London she wasn’t familiar with, and she counted herself lucky she hadn’t had reason to visit before.

  The rain grew more persistent, plastering strands of wet hair against her cheek, splashing in her eyes, but she was still a distance from the number she was looking for. It was strange: she should have been scared, but her breathing was level, her hands didn’t shake and her thoughts were ordered. In fact, it now seemed the obvious thing to approach this head-on, and she struggled to think why she hadn’t done it sooner—for everyone’s sake. She’d been naive to think she could keep working and also look for her daughter, or rely on anyone to help.

  When she’d discovered that Theo had left for New York, she’d known that things were dire. George explained it was for family reasons, but she felt she knew the truth: her book, and their days at Partridge, were numbered. Theo had been open and optimistic, full of ideas and enthusiasm, but he hadn’t managed to hide his concerns from her, and now he’d gone running back to Walter.

  A hundred yards further on, Alice found number seventy-nine: another slate-gray terrace house with boarded-up windows, splintered doorframes and no sign of life. She sheltered under the narrow doorjamb, listening out for voices, the steady beat of rain counting down the seconds. Then there it was—a child’s cry. At least she thought it was, as everything fell quiet again.

  Now she had to summon up the courage to knock.

  She had imagined this moment so many times: the joy of finding Eadie, or a confrontation, or both. As a girl, she’d divided her books into categories: bravest heroines, best adventures, most romantic love stories. She had collated memories of other people’s lives, albeit fictional ones, that she’d drawn on to help her through tricky situations. She’d wanted to emulate her bravest heroine now, but it suddenly seemed so pointless. The books, the stories, the characters—they weren’t real, none of it was. She wasn’t the same person she’d been a year ago, and her life might
feel as illusory as any fiction she’d read, and her mother’s actions and the truth about William’s birth as impossible as any story, but this was real. She was here now, and Eadie might be too.

  Alice was supposed to be at the book group, but she’d sent a note to Ursula asking her to go instead and take the promised books. She’d also left a message for Penny: a detailed account of everything, and list of contacts in case she didn’t return, not to protect her so much as to ensure they would continue to look for Eadie.

  She raised a clenched fist to the door, but it hovered in midair inches from the green flaking paint and the tarnished brass handle.

  Perhaps it was madness coming to the Pritchards’ home, given what she knew of them: they were convicted murderers, they’d starved children to death and left others emaciated, and she felt sick every time she thought about the conditions in which police had found the infants. But picturing them was enough to give her the rush of adrenaline she needed.

  Alice knocked, glancing back over her shoulder in the hope that someone might be there to see her go in. It was too late to turn and walk away—this was her only hope—and she had to believe that no matter how wicked they were, no matter how evil this family could be, they might know where her daughter was.

  The door scraped open, and a bulky man filled the space. He was backlit by the hallway pendant, and it wasn’t until he stepped closer that she saw his hair, thinned to long wisps and combed across his crown. There was something birdlike about him, his fleshy cheeks divided by a long hawkish nose that threw his top lip into shadow. He was every bit as repulsive as she’d imagined him to be, but he wasn’t one of the men her mother had described.