“Uncle George is having a time of it over there, and with Rupert gone, well . . . he could use an Ivy League brain to help them through a rough patch.”
“How rough?”
“Something about being understaffed, paper rations and government restrictions causing all sorts of grief,” she said with a forced smile. “Just your thing.”
“That’s a bit drastic. Surely there’s someone local who knows the business better than me.”
“That’s exactly what I said. And it’s an appalling time to be traveling. I told Daddy it’s too dangerous, but for some reason he seems to think it will be all right.” Her voice cracked. “You’ll have to talk to him, darling. See if you can change his mind.”
Theo frowned thoughtfully into his glass before taking another swig. He’d worked with Partridge for the past four years, but his other work with the Council on Books in Wartime was reaching a critical stage. In six months they’d be publishing their first book for the troops: the Armed Services Editions would be accompanying men into battle, a paperback in their pockets to comfort, distract or entertain. This wasn’t the time to be abandoning his work for the council, but he knew his loyalty also lay with Partridge, particularly since his boss was also his future father-in-law.
“And what if I can’t?” he asked.
“I don’t know, but you need to try,” she said, eyes growing watery. “I don’t want us to be apart. And I’m scared for you.”
Theo cradled his near-empty glass between his hands, staring into the amber liquid before meeting her gaze. “He’s used to getting what he wants. Do you think I should go . . . if he insists?”
“Come on, you know that’s not fair.”
“Sorry,” he said, draining the last of the Scotch then trying to attract the waiter so he could order another. “It’s just . . . maybe this is one of his traps. He might be testin’ me again, hopin’ I’ll fail.”
Theo had always suspected he wasn’t the match Walter had wished for Virginia: he didn’t come from money or the district she’d grown up in, and he hadn’t been educated alongside her. But when it came to intellect, Walter now surely knew he was an equal.
“No, Daddy knows we’re perfect for each other.” She moved closer, pressing her thigh against his and coiling her leg around his ankle under the smoked glass table. The two wall sconces behind her framed her in a warm light, making her look even more beautiful and even harder to think of leaving. Sometimes it scared him to reflect on what his life had become, so different to the one he’d imagined for himself. He had never expected to fall for Virginia or be part of all this, so removed from his upbringing, his old circle of friends, but he was unnerved by the idea that it could all come crashing down.
She glanced at him and made a sulky face, pushing out her bottom lip. “I really don’t know any more than what I’ve told you, so please don’t ask me anything else. I just couldn’t keep tight-lipped about it all night. I’m sorry.”
“How long would it be for?”
“I don’t know, darling. A few months.”
“But what about the wedding?”
“Christ, Theo, you’d be back by then. It would just be to help them out, it’s not forever!”
But this wasn’t just about the wedding, or the books for the troops; his father was in bad shape, and he didn’t want to leave him either. In fact, Theo didn’t see how his parents would cope without him, especially with his sister so far away too. Even after six months, Howie’s death still cast a dark shadow over their family. Theo played with the lighter, flicking the flame on and off, as he thought about what Howie would have said. He’d joined the marines straight out of college, one of the few who was trained and ready for war; as much as anyone could ever be. And he had done his duty. It had come at a price, so the least Theo could do was serve his country with the council.
The band was taking a break, and he was grateful that the noise levels had dropped, changing the atmosphere and making him even more thoughtful. When he looked back at Virginia, her expression was serious too, so he smiled broadly; he reminded himself that it was her birthday, and he looked around again for the waiter.
When Virginia sighed heavily, he slipped his hand around her waist and pulled her close. “We’ll work it out, don’t worry.” He smiled reassuringly.
She looked into his eyes, and he lifted her chin toward him, pressing his mouth over hers in a long, passionate kiss. “I love you,” she whispered as he drew away. “You shouldn’t go, Theo. Don’t let him talk you into it.”
Five
Brighton, March 14, 1943
Alice huddled inside the wooden seafront shelter, the pages of her book flapping as the wind howled along the promenade and the discordant notes of the Salvation Army band whined from the nearby bandstand. It was after midday, and the weak sun cast a milky light, creating ghostly images of two young boys as they picked their way through the barbed wire and across the mounds of pebbles. They bent to fill their pockets before racing down to the water’s edge and taking it in turns to skim stones across the waves. A woman, presumably their mother, stood behind the fence, hands clenched into tight fists as she yelled for them to come back, her voice lost on the wind.
Seagulls screeched and swooped around Alice, chasing the fish-scented air as she waited for Ruth, who was now officially late. Alice’s heart sank as she realized she probably wasn’t coming. Ruth had only kept her promise to visit every Sunday for the first month; apart from Christmas, now it was only one weekend in four. Alice had so many questions about motherhood that books alone couldn’t answer, and while she understood that her mother had to contend with the demands of her work, the Women’s Voluntary Service and the church, Alice was lonely with only Aunt Hope and the other staff at the guesthouse for company.
She glanced at her watch again, then back to her book. This was the third time she’d read The Age of Innocence, and she was nearly up to her favorite part: when Newland realizes he has to tell May about the countess. Alice didn’t want to stop, but she couldn’t concentrate or shake off her unsettled feelings, which had worsened since she’d noticed all the families on the promenade.
Another group arrived and set up outside one of the turquoise wooden beach-huts, the father battling the wind to erect deck chairs in front of the opened doors, the mother brewing tea on a camp stove. The three children ran up and down the grass concourse, then started a game of hide-and-seek between the huts. These simplest of activities were at the root of Alice’s sadness, as she would never be able to do them with her own family. Her mother had been right about that: apart from the two of them, there was no one to be family for her baby.
She squinted, scanning the seafront again as she looked for Ruth. It went for miles, the grass-verged road a black ribbon behind her, the gray crisscross of barbed wire along the beach a reminder that their island was under siege. And further ahead still, a veil of blue sky, the aquamarine of a painted handrail, the steel-gray of the ocean—striations of color stretching as far as the eye could see. On clear days like this, she imagined she could see right across the channel, and she searched its choppy surface for any sign of boats as she thought about the young men they’d carried away. It was daft, she knew, but they were out there somewhere, lost to England for now. There was no sign of Ruth either.
Alice had decided to wait another five minutes when she felt a familiar sensation—a frantic flurry—and placed her hand on her belly as a tiny elbow or knee pushed against the skin. She left her hand there, feeling the tiny prods as she tried again to read, but the gulls were getting ever braver, their screeching louder, until they dive-bombed a couple on the bench next to her in an attempt to steal some fish and chips.
Alice hastily gathered her belongings and headed east, back toward Kemp Town and the guesthouse. She walked briskly, inhaling the briny air, taking it down deep into her lungs and measuredly exhaling as she pictured oxygen workin
g its way through her body to the baby’s, just like the diagrams had shown in the anatomy book. She felt another kick and had to stop walking as her baby wriggled into a new position, the skin across her belly growing taut again. She carried on, her hand inside her coat supporting the heavy curve as she smiled to herself. In only a matter of weeks she could walk along here with a pram and show her baby off, and she couldn’t wait—she’d be glad of any attention or conversation after her forced solitude. There had been the odd letter from her friend Penny that Ruth had forwarded, and some worrying updates from Ursula about how bad things were at Partridge and how they were trying to get on with her book, but Alice hadn’t replied to any of them. She wanted to stay in touch with friends and know the news from Partridge, but she didn’t trust herself to write back and not to say something that would give her away.
It was a direct walk along the promenade from the Angel, the statue that marked the boundary between Brighton and Hove, where grand Regency buildings gave way to wide Victorian avenues and homes. She ambled slowly, picturing Ruth getting off the train and navigating down Queens Road; Alice imagined bumping into her on the seafront or finding her back at the guesthouse, drinking tea and talking with Hope.
When Alice passed Regency Square, she noticed how some diners talked while others sat and read; everywhere she went now, many more people were reading books—in waiting rooms, at bus stops, and in shelters and cafés, losing themselves to other worlds. It reminded her of how she’d become obsessed with books.
She had been nine years old when she’d come home from school in tears after falling out with Penny, and her father had given her a copy of Heidi. Alice read it in one sitting, the candle flickering across the wall as she refused to let bedtime intrude on Heidi’s moving friendship with Clara. Her father was right; she and Penny became friends again after she shared the book, and she’d realized there must be a corresponding story for everyone, a book the reader knew had been written just for them. It became a challenge for her to find these stories, leaning against the cold stone wall of their local library, the hardback editions pressed open in her lap, featherlight pages fluttering beneath her fingertips.
Now the sight of people reading was just another source of frustration to her, because it reminded her of how much she missed her work.
As she passed the security fences of the closed Palace Pier, Alice thought how strange it was that her mother hadn’t seemed concerned by her loss of income or the extra expenses of the baby clothes and pram they would have to buy. Ruth’s usual parsimony made it even more surprising. Although she didn’t show it, perhaps she felt a small amount of pleasure at the prospect of a grandchild.
When Alice arrived back at the guesthouse, Hope was in the hallway, her long gray hair wound into a bun, a patterned apron obscuring her dark clothing. She greeted Alice with a solemn smile. “I’m sorry, pet, but your mother isn’t going to make it down today. She says there’s disruption on the tracks.”
The trains were frequently diverted, the lines commandeered as soldiers took priority, but apparently this was the third time it had happened just when Ruth had planned to visit. Alice found that difficult to believe, and tears pricked her eyes.
To distract herself from her loneliness she’d explored the seafront and hidden parks and squares. When it rained she’d taken refuge at the cinema, and when her feet had grown too sore or her back ached, she’d found a spot, like she had that morning, to sit and read. It had worked for a while, minimizing her anxiety. But now she really needed to see her mother, and she was angry and hurt that Ruth clearly didn’t want to see her.
She sighed heavily, and Hope put her bucket down and placed her hands on Alice’s shoulders. “How about you come to the sitting room, and I’ll make us some lunch?” she said sympathetically.
“Thank you,” Alice said, looking into her aunt’s pitying gray eyes—eyes that reminded her of her father’s—“but I think I’ll just go lie down.”
Over the past several months she’d felt betrayed, angry, afraid and excited, but no emotion had been as heartfelt as the disappointment that ached inside her now.
“All right, pet, but you let me know if you change your mind. I’ve got fresh eggs—I could make you an omelet.”
“I’m fine, honestly, Hope. Thank you, but you have them.” Alice sniffed then tried to smile. “I’ll be down later.” She climbed the stairs to her room, wondering, as she had the last time Ruth had let her down, whether her mother had become unstable again or if she just couldn’t face her anymore—and what that said about the future.
Six
New York, March 1943
Theo was in the lobby, tapping his feet like Fred Astaire as he waited for the elevator, the burning sensation in his toes barely easing. He’d insisted on walking to work, despite the frost, and a crowd of equally numb-looking workers grew around him, not even their Brooks Brothers coats and hats insulating them against the unseasonably low temperatures. The long winter had brought the worst storm in decades when more than seven feet of snow had fallen in one day, then an onslaught of sleet had brought New York to a standstill. Everyone was looking forward to spring.
When the elevator arrived, Theo stood aside for the other office workers to file in before squeezing in next to the smiling operator, unexpectedly pleased by the proximity of other warm bodies.
“Good morning, Mr. Bloom,” said the operator.
“Morning, Kenny. How’s the world treating you?”
The Irishman’s smile beamed even wider, brightening his already shiny complexion, his pristine gray uniform and its polished buttons. “Couldn’t be better, Mr. Bloom. I’ve got a new grandchild.”
“That’s wonderful, congratulations. Another boy?”
“No, our first granddaughter. She’s a pretty wee thing, but ever so noisy—I thought boys were trouble.” He shook his head. “Boys are less demandin’ until they get to about ten, and then it switches, you need a good set of lungs for makin’ them listen and ears that don’t work right so you can ignore the back talk!”
Theo laughed. “I’ll remember that.”
“Yes, you’d do well to,” Kenny said, becoming serious. “How is Miss Virginia?”
“She’s very well, thank you, although these temperatures don’t agree with her.” His fiancée wasn’t part of the skiing crowd; she preferred to stay hot and dry, vacationing in Miami and Bermuda, something he would have to get used to after years of family vacations on Long Island.
“Have a good day, Mr. Bloom,” said Kenny as they reached the seventeenth floor.
The elevator doors slid open to reveal a bright reception of seamless cream marble, and chrome and leather furniture that appeared to float in midair. The feathers of an oversized partridge were etched into a large glass panel along the facing wall; the words partridge press—new york & london were suspended below in metal letters. On the walls to either side were large framed posters: eye-catching covers of their American bestsellers.
A striking blonde wearing glasses looked up from behind the reception desk as Theo and the other workers stepped out. “Good morning, Mr. Bloom.”
“Good morning, Janice.” He picked up the latest editions of Publishers Weekly and The New York Times, then headed to the left of the reception desk and the partition that led through to the offices.
His meeting with Walter wasn’t for another fifteen minutes, so he sat behind his desk, elbows on the table and forefingers interlocked as he stroked his mustache and scoured the paper. He didn’t want to miss anything before he saw Walter; the publishing veteran was always one step ahead, and he didn’t like it if his employees weren’t in the know too. When Theo had satisfied himself that he was well versed in the day’s news, he strode up the corridor to Walter’s office, and the secretary ushered him in.
An expansive window formed one entire wall, framing a panorama of the skyline, from the vast girders of the highwa
ys and elevated tracks uptown, all the way down to the Brooklyn dockyards and the semirural suburbs beyond.
Theo accepted the offer of freshly brewed coffee and settled into one of the deep sofas just as Walter appeared in his usual business attire. He had a wardrobe of near-identical clothes—dark brown three-piece suits, pressed white shirts, patterned bow ties and tan brogues—about which Virginia endlessly teased him.
“Theo, how are you?” He walked over briskly, shook Theo’s hand and took a seat in the armchair opposite.
Theo found it a bit unnerving to look at the same narrow face as Virginia’s, although thankfully Walter’s dark hair had turned gray, and small round spectacles were perched on the ridge of his feline nose, framing dark restless eyes most unlike his daughter’s. His uneven frown lines made him look older than his fifty-two years, and he managed to keep his tan all year round.
“I’m well, thank you, Walter. How’s everything with you?”
“Good, a busy week. I’m glad we could get together this morning, though. We’ll see each other at Virginia’s birthday lunch on Saturday, of course, but I wanted to talk to you about something first.”
“What’s on your mind?” Theo asked. He readied himself; he’d spent most of the night working out the right way to say no, but he knew how convincing Walter could be.
Walter shifted to the edge of his seat, hands clasped together, legs angled outward, tartan socks barely covering his ankles. “You and I know that while the war is taking place thousands of miles away, there’s a battle being fought right here—a mental battle.” His finger prodded the top of the glazed coffee table, his slow, deliberate enunciation using his Oxford-English diction to its full effect. “It’s the ideas we discuss with our friends at the bar, the ones we talk about over the dinner table, that count in that battle.”
When We Meet Again Page 5