When We Meet Again

by Caroline Beecham

  “Almighty God, Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, Maker of all things, Judge of all men: we acknowledge and bewail our manifold sins and wickedness, which we, from time to time, most grievously have committed.”

  The priest’s tone was loud and intimidating, and Alice struggled to see why anyone would choose to be bullied with these centuries-old words. But absolution was more important to Ruth than her daughter’s forgiveness or trying to protect her grandchild.

  Alice felt a gentle nudge against her right arm and turned to see an older woman looking at her solemnly, a white handkerchief scrunched in her outstretched hand. “Father Mitchell often moves me to tears too,” the woman said, and smiled. “May the Lord be with you.”

  “Thank you, and with you,” Alice forced herself to say before turning away. She hadn’t even known she was crying.

  As the chanting steadily rose, her heart began to race—but not in excitement, in panic. How would she ever find her daughter?

  “For God so loved the world, that he gave his only-begotten Son.”

  Is that why Ruth could bear to sacrifice her only granddaughter?

  “To you all my blessing. May the Lord be with you.”

  Where can I go now? Who else is there to turn to? I’ve run out of options.

  The greeting reverberated through the congregation; she was drowning in the sea of voices, swamped by their prayers. Time was slipping away, as if she was standing on a peninsula watching water rise over the isthmus, cutting off the only escape.

  Think, Alice, think. Think about the secrets people keep and the lies they tell. Who can be trusted?

  Not Theo, unfortunately. She’d had no idea until Ursula told her that he’d returned to New York because of his sick father—and his fiancée, Walter’s daughter. There had to be a reason he’d kept it hidden, and Alice could only assume he wasn’t the man she’d thought him to be. The knowledge had thrust her into even more of a depression, a spiral of regret for the trust she’d placed in him and all that they had shared.

  But she wouldn’t allow herself to dwell on Theo Bloom, another man who’d deceived her; she needed to focus on who told the truth. Penny hadn’t lied to her. Neither had Olive—the journalist was doing all that was possible to help her . . . or was she?

  * * *

  “No, it’s out of the question,” Elizabeth said, adamant.

  “It’s my last chance. I wouldn’t ask if there was any other way.”

  Alice had gone straight to the Daily Mail offices when they had opened the following day, and now she stood, hands braced against the counter, pleading with the librarian.

  “Absolutely not. You don’t know what you’re asking, Alice. I could lose my job, not to mention getting Olive in trouble. She’d lose all credibility and trust.”

  “But my cousin could lose her baby. Forever.”

  Elizabeth dropped her head into her hands.

  “Your paper ran the advert that led to her being taken, you know—”

  A silence stretched out between them, and Alice let it settle, giving Elizabeth time to think. Then Alice reached over to squeeze her hand briefly. “I only need his name. And I’ll be discreet, no one ever needs to know—not even Olive, if you don’t want her to.”

  “Of course she’ll know! Don’t be silly, Alice. Do you think her informer is ever going to trust her again after you turn up? There’ll be no more stories, no more information she can publish to keep the baby farmers in people’s minds. We could be sacrificing thousands of other kids for your cousin’s if I do what you’re asking me to.”

  “But the law is coming in anyway. There’s only a month to go. Yes, Olive’s reports are important, but she’s achieved what she set out to do—mothers and babies will be more protected. Her reports aren’t going to make as much difference as they have in the past . . . not as much difference as they could to my cousin’s baby and possibly others imprisoned by the same people.”

  Alice’s intuition that there was someone else who had been helping Olive—a contact on the inside—had been right, but Elizabeth was resolute in her loyalty.

  “Please. I wouldn’t ask if there was any other way.”

  “You could wait until Thursday and ask Olive yourself.”

  “But I thought she wasn’t back until the weekend.”

  Elizabeth grew silent again, her fingers playing across the edge of the desk, eyes trained down as if searching for the answer.

  Their acquaintance had grown into a friendship over the weeks of visits, and Alice sensed that the librarian felt the same. Alice hesitated briefly and then followed her instinct and reached out her hand, placing it over Elizabeth’s. “She’s mine, Elizabeth,” she whispered. “The baby that I’m looking for. She’s mine.”

  The librarian looked up and her eyes filled as she bit her bottom lip, and Alice tried not to cry too.

  “I don’t know if it’s even his real name,” Elizabeth replied as she blinked away tears, “but I know where you can find him.”

  Alice squeezed her hand. “I don’t know how to—”

  Elizabeth gently withdrew her hand and picked up a pencil, scribbling on a scrap of paper, then pushed it across the counter. “It’s best if we still keep it between the two of us, though. For the time being.”

  “All right,” Alice replied, reading the hastily written name and address.

  “And, Alice?”

  “Yes?”

  “Olive has good reason to want justice, and she trusts him . . . but be careful.”

  Thirty-two

  London, May 3, 1943

  Alice was in a part of London that the world had forgotten. The East End slums and council housing had been razed and ravaged—and whatever the Luftwaffe and their Messerschmitts hadn’t annihilated had been looted and vandalized, or so an older woman told her when she stopped to ask the way. “I’m not sure you should be wandering around here by yourself,” the woman added in a hoarse voice. But Alice was long past caring for her own well-being, although she couldn’t ignore her heart palpitations. Were they born out of anxiety or anticipation because there was a small chance Joe Stevenson, Olive’s informer, would be able to help?

  A raven-black cloud obscured the sun, throwing the street into temporary darkness, and Elizabeth’s words reverberated in her mind: Olive has good reason to want justice . . . but be careful. That was exactly what Alice planned to do, and she’d come up with a way to speak to Joe without risking herself or Olive.

  The meeting place, a public house called the Black Swan, was on a corner site, the only business open in the row of closed shops. There was an ugly right angle of metal and glass to one side, and patched wooden hoarding on the other.

  Alice couldn’t see through the beveled glass door, so she moved inside the doorway, palms prickling as she gripped the handle. Remember your story, Alice. Think about Eadie. Think about William and how brave he was, how brave and strong all soldiers are.

  There was a narrow bar at the back and upholstered stools, the rest of the room given over to a dining area of Formica tables and red vinyl chairs. A dark-haired man with a slight build moved back and forth behind the bar, serving customers: Joe. According to Elizabeth’s description, he had eyes that never stayed still, and she’d also learned that the librarian had delivered and collected packages on a few occasions.

  “What can I get you?” he asked Alice when she approached.

  “Oh, just a soda water, please.”

  He leaned back on his heels and crossed his arms, a frown knitting his dark eyebrows together. “You can’t have come all this way just for that.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked, her hands clenching.

  “I can tell you’re not from round here, and our egg sandwiches are notorious,” he said with a grin.

  “Yes, you’re right.” She noticed he wasn’t from round here either: his accent was
from the Midlands, or maybe further north. “I’ll have one of your notorious sandwiches too,” she said with a polite smile.

  She observed him as he poured her drink and wrote the order down: average height, hair neatly groomed into a single wave and shirtsleeves rolled up—ordinary in every way, except that he could be the person who held the key to finding Eadie.

  At one of the Formica tables, Alice finished the sandwich and a second drink, taking it slowly and reading a newspaper, her legs jiggling nervously as she waited for him to clear the empty plate.

  “Can I get you anything else, miss?”

  “I’m fine, thank you, Joe—”

  Alice froze. She’d just risked everything with another stupid slip of the tongue.

  He looked at her as if seeing her for the first time. “Do I know you, miss?”

  “No, but—” She tried to replicate a smile she’d seen before, one Ursula used all the time to feign familiarity and put people at ease. “I’ve got some information that might be useful to you. Perhaps we could talk somewhere more private.”

  He glanced at the bar. “There’s someone starting the next shift in about fifteen minutes. You could stay here or wait for me across the road.”

  She followed his gaze through the window to a playground opposite the pub. It was the only open space and appeared to be part of the housing development, but it would do.

  * * *

  No sooner had Alice settled on a bench than a group of children, accompanied by a teenage girl, arrived to play on the mangled equipment. Three girls rushed over to the roundabout; one of them, with auburn braids, lay across the bars, while another leaned backward, letting her head tip upside down, blond hair flying up as the roundabout whirled clockwise. The third girl pushed off with her left foot as the teenager waved at them frantically to slow down. Alice flinched at the memory of Ruth’s face, rueful and pained, when she’d told Alice how much she and Freddie had wanted a child. As Alice watched the little girls at play, she realized that she understood the desperation that had driven Ruth to adopt William under dubious circumstances.

  Alice released a breath and slumped back against the bench, the cold hard wood digging into her spine as she scanned the road for Joe. There weren’t any trees to shelter under; the main features of the park were piles of shattered bricks that even the salvage crews had left. Dust and sulfur clogged her nose. Her first impression had been that the area was unsuitable and unsafe for a playground, yet daisies were poking their heads out of the dirt and bright yellow buttercups grew among the scrappy grass. It might be a wasteland, but it was also an oasis for the kids, and she felt sure there would be stories here for Women and Children First if she could only look.

  Joe was true to his word and appeared fifteen minutes later, kicking up clouds of dust as he came toward her. She hadn’t noticed in the pub that he walked with a slight hitch, his right leg making straight lines in the dirt, whereas his left leg created only a single footprint like Morse code. She guessed it must be from the war, and it lent him an air of vagrancy that seemed useful for his cover.

  He sat next to her and promptly lit a cigarette, staring out over the playground as if purposefully avoiding eye contact. Alice desperately wanted to look him in the eye and see what Olive saw, and to know that what Olive surely believed was true—that he was principled and decent.

  “I expect you want to know why I’m here.” Alice wished her voice wasn’t so uneven.

  “I’m more interested in knowing who told you where to find me.”

  “Would you be surprised to know it wasn’t one person?” she said, sticking to her plan not to mention Olive. “That you’ve quite a reputation?” She’d decided to use flattery, as she’d often seen Rupert do—especially since it had got him exactly what he wanted, she thought with a flush of shame.

  Joe turned to face her, brown eyes fixing on her closely. “And what’s my reputation for, miss?”

  “Sarah, please call me Sarah. And it’s less of a reputation and more of a . . . let’s see, a status. People speak highly of your ability to get things done.” There was no going back now; she’d already decided that an honest request for help would likely be greeted with a flat refusal, and then where would that leave her? No, this way he would have to take her into his confidence and lead her to his contacts. Before he could ask any more questions, she carried on. “And, well, I’ve got rather a lot of things to get done that I hoped you might be able to help me with.”

  “Such as?”

  “Girls in trouble. Friends, and friends of friends. Girls without boyfriends, girls with fellas who aren’t coming home anymore.”

  He narrowed his eyes, understanding.

  “And then there are those men who are just pigs,” she said for good measure. “Ones who could do with a good beating if anyone caught up with them.”

  “And what is it you want from me?”

  “I heard you know where they can get some relief from their little problems.”

  Joe ground his half-smoked cigarette beneath his heel, then ran his hands over his face. “Excuse me, I’m tired,” he said, rubbing his eyes.

  “That’s all right, we’re all entitled to a break. When are you due back at the pub?”

  “No, that’s me done for the day. I’m off to my second job now.”

  “And what’s that?” she asked.

  “Now that would be telling,” he said, tapping the side of his nose.

  “So, do you think you can help me?”

  “Well, here’s the thing.” He laid his arm over the back of the bench as he shifted closer. “You don’t seem to me to be the kind of girl who has friends with little problems, so I’m wondering what it is you really want.”

  Alice held herself steady. “I might not look like that kind of girl, but unfortunately it’s true. And . . . well, I was told you have the best contacts in London.” She looked at him with doe eyes, hoping she wasn’t overdoing it.

  His mouth twitched into a half smile. “And these little problems,” he said, “when will they arrive?”

  Alice swallowed. “A few are here already . . . and there will be others over the next few months. The girls don’t have much money, and they want to know how much it is to take them off their hands.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “But you must have some idea?”

  “No, it’s not my area of expertise.”

  “What is, then?”

  Joe stared at her, then got up from the bench and started to limp away.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked, chasing him across the playground. Did he suspect something?

  He turned, lifting his hands from his sides. “Do you want to come or not?”

  “Where are we going?”

  “I thought your friends were in a hurry. Do you want to meet the boss, or don’t you?”

  “Yes, but—” It was happening too quickly: the introduction had been too easy, and she wasn’t armed. For the first time, she felt genuinely scared. “But I can’t go right now. I wish I could, I just didn’t know it would be so soon.”

  His gaze flitted over her. “Friday, then. I’ll meet you here at midday.”

  Thirty-three

  New York, May 5, 1943

  Theo hurried the three blocks to his favorite diner on the corner of West Forty-sixth and Ninth. He needed coffee flowing through his veins before he faced Walter, particularly since it would be the first time he saw his employer—Walter had been away and was making a special trip from his New Jersey home.

  Over a week had passed since Theo’s return to New York, and he was still having restless nights. He lay awake listening to the clamor of garbage trucks as he wrestled with everything that was on his mind. There were concerns about his father and George, but most of the time he was consumed with thoughts of Alice. It wasn’t just the guilt he felt at being disloyal to his emp
loyer and his fiancée, but also a deep-rooted panic at the very real prospect he would never see Alice again.

  He usually enjoyed the walk through Hell’s Kitchen, past the noisy banter of street traders and in among the tourists as they headed toward Times Square, but today he couldn’t stop thinking about what to say to Walter.

  Trying to distract himself, he crossed the street and looked up at the spaces between the buildings into avenues of cobalt sky. He was enjoying the fresh spring air, and it seemed the rest of Manhattan felt the same; they had descended on the Upper West Side and taken all the diner’s outdoor tables.

  Theo lit a cigarette and waited until a small table became available beneath the green vinyl awning. It suited him perfectly, and he ordered breakfast and spread his papers across the table so he could run through the figures one more time. He had to present a realistic picture of the British firm’s predicament, while trying to make the accounts look as good as possible. He knew instinctively that the London office was worth saving—he just needed to be sure that this was a rational decision he could justify under Walter’s intense scrutiny. He drained his coffee, relishing the taste after two months of Camp, the insipid liquid the British passed off as just as good.

  It seemed that despite the odds, George and his team’s blind faith and hard work had kept them going for all these months—and a bit of luck. What was that patriotic song that endlessly played on the radio? “Land of Hope and Glory.” He couldn’t help but smile as he realized he had to try to ignore the contagion of their foolish optimism. And to remember that this was his home—that he was a New Yorker—and his life here needed to go on.

  When his food arrived it was a huge plate, not just fried eggs and Canadian bacon but also fried potatoes, tomatoes and rye toast, and he ate guiltily as he thought of the meager portions the British were living on. He ordered a coffee refill and decided to look through Women and Children First before he showed it to Walter.