When We Meet Again

by Caroline Beecham

  Theo nodded. People everywhere were talking about the war, not just the conflict but also its political, economic and social effects, and they were forming new ideas. But to Theo, what the troops were talking and thinking about mattered more. What counted to Theo was the reading material soldiers like Howie had to occupy them through the long days and nights, so getting books into their hands was Theo’s priority. He couldn’t be there fighting alongside them, so he would do everything he could to help, the only way he knew how.

  “I agree with you, Walter, and that’s why we’re carrying on doing what we’ve always done—publishing the world’s best books. There’s no denying it’s getting harder, but like everyone, we’re adapting.”

  “We wouldn’t have to if Roosevelt hadn’t gone soft, giving everything away while our own boys go without,” Walter said, glowering.

  Theo had managed his relationship with Walter by avoiding too much political debate, since he didn’t share his future father-in-law’s Republican values, or like tempering his own views. Theo agreed wholeheartedly with Roosevelt’s Lend-Lease program, which supplied material support and goods to the Allies, and it had been an easy decision for him to help vote the Democrat in for a third term.

  “Ten percent of this nation’s families can tell you about that support,” Theo said, unable to control himself as he thought of Howie and his own family, “and it’s not ideals we’re trading in—it’s their sons.”

  “So, we give them our money and our future, Theo. What else do you suggest we give away?” Walter frowned at him as he banged down his coffee cup onto the table.

  “Let’s do something about it, then. Let’s give their sons books to distract and motivate them.”

  “I know you’re keen on your council books, but I don’t think it’s our place to provide propaganda for our troops—and the industry can’t afford it.”

  “I’m not saying we provide propaganda, Walter. The council is publishing fiction too.”

  Walter went to stand by the window, looking out to the east, eyes scanning the water towers and cranes that punctuated the skyline. Watching him, Theo found it hard to believe he was still so rigidly opposed to supporting their citizens because of his own political prejudices, and that he couldn’t see what was happening right under his nose: New York still looked grand, but workers were scraping the metal cornices off its hotels.

  “You were at the last board meeting, Theo. You know the cost and what was said.”

  Theo came to stand next to the older man, observing his profile as he continued to gaze out at the city.

  “So, you’re not just worried about the profit margin anymore?” he asked.

  “That ship sailed a long time ago, Theo.” Walter turned to face him. “When they started producing Pocket Books. Besides, we couldn’t produce hardbacks now anyway.”

  The nationwide paper shortage had limited book production, and with the army taking all the cotton for camouflage netting, there wasn’t enough left for bookbinding.

  “I have something to tell you,” Walter said. “I need you to make a trip to our London office. Publishers are facing even more restrictions over there, and the way the British rationing system works means they get paper based on the sales achieved the previous year. It hasn’t been good for them.” He looked Theo in the eye. “And I do know how you like a challenge.”

  “Normally, yes, but this isn’t a good time, Walter—”

  “It’s never a good time, Theo, particularly in the middle of a war, but we must all do what we can.”

  The men surveyed each other. Theo had been willing to make the sacrifice that Howie had, but his government had deemed him more valuable serving the American war economy, and he didn’t know how to defend himself to others when he could still taste his own bitter disappointment so strongly.

  Theo said, “Hypothetically, what can I do that they can’t do themselves?”

  “There are some opportunities—paperbacks, access to the new quota systems—but they haven’t made the most of them and, as you can imagine, with their lack of resources and skilled labor, it’s a precarious situation. Everyone’s getting a little nervous. Especially George.”

  “Is he happy for me to intervene?”

  “I’m sure he and his staff would prefer to handle matters themselves, but they’ve had a rough couple of years. Rupert’s departure left a big hole, and I understand there are other staffing issues that haven’t been handled well. No matter what George thinks, I would rather you went.”

  Theo knew that Walter’s brother was the minority partner in the business, and surely he wouldn’t feel great about an American interloper showing up. It would be difficult enough for Theo to abandon his commitments here, let alone offer help that was unsolicited and unwelcome.

  “Look,” said Walter, “I know it’s not ideal, and I know Virginia isn’t pleased about it either. But the war isn’t as distant as it was, Theo, and with your industry contacts and expertise—well, I need to find out if you can help them . . . or if we might need to close their office.”

  “It’s as bad as that?” Theo asked, struggling to keep the shock from his voice.

  Walter nodded gravely. “If they can’t meet the demand for books, maybe we can.”

  This was worse than Virginia had suggested, far worse than he’d contemplated, and he was surprised that Walter expected him to fall into line so easily.

  “But you know my work here with the council is important?” Theo said hurriedly.

  “Yes, I do, and I know you’ll be making a sacrifice by putting it on hold, but we’re only talking a couple of months.”

  Theo had been working with the Council on Books in Wartime ever since he’d attended a meeting at the Times Hall theater last May. It had been filled with writers, journalists, publishers and editors, all eager to explore the power and potential of the written word in wartime. After two nights of discussion, a working committee had been formed of figures from the larger publishing houses and the broader industry, with the motto “Books are weapons in the war of ideas.”

  Walter added, “You could be one of the few men helping to take more American books to the British market.”

  Walter was right about increasing the potential to export, and Theo knew the council would be keen on that too, but his employer was wrong in trying to appeal to his ego; he didn’t have any when it came to this. It seemed, though, he did need to be Walter’s henchman, and he felt uncomfortably hot. Can I say no? Is that even an option?

  “And the wedding date?”

  “That’s up to you and Virginia to decide, but from what she’s told me you should be back in plenty of time.”

  When she and Theo had discussed it the night before, they’d decided to keep the original date the following February, whatever happened with this London trip.

  He looked out at the smoke trails rising from the dockyards, at the lighters traveling back and forth on the river, and the ribbon of vehicles across the Queensboro Bridge; the sight always filled him with hope for human progress. Hundreds of feet below, thousands of workers made intricate patterns on the frosted sidewalks as they journeyed around the city. He knew he wouldn’t be able to stay; he’d contributed as much as he could to the council, and now he would try to make a difference in London.

  Seven

  Brighton, March 15, 1943

  “Your mother is on her way!” Hope said, squeezing Alice’s hand. “Just breathe, slowly . . . One, two, three, one, two, three—”

  Alice blew out a long forceful breath as another contraction racked her body. Once she’d expelled all the air, she collapsed back onto the pillow, hands gripping the bedclothes. After only a few moments, another one began. She groaned louder as she drew another breath, muscles clenching across her belly, gathering their own rhythm as they wrenched at her insides. “Oh my God!” she screamed.

  The curtains w
ere open, the brightening sunlight sweeping into the corners of the room, throwing a soft haze across her clammy body. Her cotton nightdress clung to her wet skin as she gripped her knees with both hands, neck stretched rigid with exertion.

  “I don’t care about her,” she hissed. “Where’s the bloody midwife?”

  “The midwife is on her way too,” Hope said, peeling moist strands of hair from her niece’s face.

  Alice slumped back on the bed, waiting for another contraction to arrive, eyes rolled up at the ceiling. Was this her punishment, or was labor always like this? If so, why on earth did women ever endure it again? Other questions flooded her mind as she struggled to remember the small amount of knowledge she’d found in books. How long would it take? How would she know if the baby was all right? How would its head fit through her pelvis? Ruth hadn’t been any help; in fact, she’d been very reluctant to discuss her experiences giving birth to William and Alice.

  “Sweet Jesus, here comes another one!” Alice dug her nails into Hope’s hand and wailed. She desperately wanted to move around, yet she was determined to stay exactly where she was; she wanted her aunt to massage her back, and she didn’t want anyone to touch her. She wanted to clamber up onto all fours and bellow at the top of her lungs; she was frantic for some company, and she was impatient to be alone.

  She was exhausted after laboring since sundown, and what she wanted most was peace and quiet. But the other residents were waking and moving about the guesthouse: a creak on the stairs, the bathroom door on the floor below sticking as it closed, a murmur of voices through the walls.

  “Hope?”

  “Yes, love?”

  “Have you told them,” she panted, “that no one . . . phew . . . that no one is being murdered . . . in the attic?”

  “Yes, dear. They know. Don’t you worry yourself, just concentrate on what you’re doing.” Hope squeezed her hand again. “You’re doing wonderfully . . . you’re very clever and very brave.”

  Alice didn’t feel very clever. Labor did feel like a punishment. She’d lost the ability to move, all her strength had gone, her mouth was dry, her eyelids swollen and heavy, and she wanted sleep.

  She watched, blearily, as a tall, gray-haired man entered the room, followed by a midwife, grateful that they had sent an Obstetric Flying Squad rather than just a midwife. He looked just as she thought an obstetrician should: a stern, bespectacled elder, the many lines across his face seeming to represent all the babies he’d delivered. She tried to greet him, but each time the pain subsided she barely had the chance to catch her breath before another brutal contraction came.

  Her aunt ushered the doctor and midwife to the hand basin in the corner of the room, then listened to his instructions before clearing the top of the dresser with some urgency. He set out his equipment before presenting himself at the foot of the bed, buttoning up his medical coat as he spoke. “Now, you’re not to worry, Mrs. Cotton, you’re in safe hands now.” His deep voice had a reassuring tone that she wanted to believe.

  The midwife took her blood pressure as the doctor pulled up her nightdress and examined her without even telling her his name.

  Hope looked on anxiously from the side of the room.

  “You’re already fully dilated, so you need to push when we say,” the doctor said. “Do you understand?”

  Alice nodded, her eyes involuntarily closing, the warmth draining from her face.

  “Come on, dear, you’re nearly there,” she heard the midwife say.

  “I’m so tired.”

  “You can rest afterward,” the doctor said firmly. “First you’ve got a baby to deliver.”

  “Can’t you give her something for the pain?” Hope asked.

  “Not now. It’s too late for that.” Then he whispered something in the midwife’s ear.

  “Is everything all right?” Alice said, startled.

  “Everything is fine, just take a deep breath and get ready to push.”

  Another contraction built, more intense than the others, the sheer force making her whole being tremble.

  “Where’s Mum?” she said, reaching her hand out to Hope, her eyes wide with fear.

  “She’s on her way. You know she wouldn’t miss the birth of her grandchild.”

  Alice tried to look into her aunt’s eyes for reassurance, but Hope glanced toward the window.

  Alice’s mouth dropped open, ready to wail, when the midwife leaned over and, with a firm voice, ordered her to pant. “Just like this,” she said, taking exaggerated breaths.

  As Alice panted, she could feel the head crown with a burning sensation, her body stretching. There was a release of pressure and a rush of blood, and as Alice tipped her head backward, releasing an agonized groan, she heard an exquisite cry.

  “It’s a girl,” the doctor announced, lifting up the blood-streaked alabaster body. His hands probed and patted, then he passed the baby to the midwife, who washed and swaddled her, endless minutes passing before she was handed back to Alice.

  “Isn’t she beautiful?” said the midwife.

  Alice took her baby in her arms, breathing her in, mesmerized by the smooth crimson face as she studied every part of it: the perfect lips, the faint arch of the brow, the tiny upturned nose and plume of golden hair. Alice fought off the temptation to judge the resemblance to Rupert; instead, forcing the thought of him from her mind, she examined her daughter’s fingers one by one.

  “See, you are a clever girl,” Hope said, watery-eyed and smiling. She leaned over the bed and brushed her finger ever so gently across her great-niece’s cheek. “What are you going to call her, pet?”

  Alice looked at her aunt intently. “Eadie, after Granny.”

  Hope gave her a meaningful smile—it had been her mother’s name—then she began to cry, setting Alice off too.

  “Your father would have been pleased,” Hope said.

  Eadie meant “rich in war,” and Alice was determined that only good should come from her daughter’s arrival in the world.

  “Well done, Mrs. Cotton,” the doctor said. “You can write to tell the father that she’s arrived and that you are both doing well, with nothing at all to worry about.”

  Alice’s lips tightened, but they wouldn’t form a smile. She would never share the truth of how Rupert had deceived her with anyone, especially Eadie.

  Gently grasping her daughter’s tiny curled hand, Alice kissed the crown of her head. Her beautiful dark-eyed girl blinked once or twice before she fell asleep.

  Eight

  Brighton, March 18, 1943

  When Alice woke a few days following the birth, the guesthouse was quiet. After a couple of tries she managed to get to her feet and shuffle over to the white wicker crib. With eyes alight in anticipation she leaned forward, ready to see her baby.

  But the cot was empty. Her breath caught; she closed her eyes, then opened them, but there was still only the bare wrinkled sheet.

  She reached out, expecting warmth but felt only smooth, cold cotton, and she snatched her hand away.

  Her eyes darted about the room, searching, as she remembered the birth. How her mother hadn’t arrived in time and her aunt had taken charge. Alice smiled in relief as she realized it was clear that Hope had taken Eadie downstairs—then she picked up her daughter’s blanket and found the handwritten note.

  I’m sorry, Alice, but this really is for the best.

  She sat on the edge of the bed, frozen. Obviously her mother had taken Eadie, but her brain kept seeking another explanation. Perhaps Ruth was downstairs, or the note meant something else. Alice kept the blanket pressed to her face as she thought through scenarios, but they all seemed too implausible.

  Her memory of the day after the birth was muddled, but she had a vague recollection of voices when the nurse had shown her how to feed Eadie and finally given her something for the pain. It must have wor
n off a little, and that was when her mother had arrived. Yes, Alice remembered seeing her now, watching Ruth hold Eadie . . . before falling into an exhausted sleep.

  The sickening bile of panic rose in Alice’s throat. Her mother must have had another breakdown. The birth of an illegitimate grandchild, not long after the losses of her husband and son, had been too much for someone so religious and principled.

  Alice reread the note.

  But Eadie was Ruth’s flesh and blood, her granddaughter.

  How could she? And where has she taken her?

  It finally sank in: Ruth was going to offer Eadie up for adoption.

  As soon as Alice had recovered from the shock, she made her way unsteadily across the small landing to the top of the staircase. She clung to the rail, one hand passing urgently over the other as she made her way to Hope’s sitting room, the bloodstained nightgown flapping around her. She turned the handle and pitched through the doorway, nearly toppling over.

  “Heavens, Alice, what on earth are you doing?” Hope said, startled.

  She was already dressed in a floral housecoat, gray hair pulled neatly back, and she guided Alice over to a small armchair. “What are you thinking? Remember what the doctor said—it’s a full week in bed, two if you’re not recovered enough.”

  “Where’s . . . where’s Eadie gone?”

  “I was about to come and see you—”

  “Where’s Mum taken her?” Alice could barely get the words out, nearly hyperventilating.

  “I don’t know. She told me she was going for a walk,” Hope said uneasily.

  “But when did she leave?”

  Hope’s gaze dropped to the floor and then back at Alice. “I haven’t seen her since last night.”

  “How could you let her go?” Alice said, face crumpling though her eyes were dry.

  “I didn’t think anything of it at first, not until she didn’t come back, but then . . . then it was so late; I didn’t know what to do. I’m sorry, Alice,” she said, her voice breaking. “I kept looking in on you, but you were so exhausted . . . I couldn’t wake you.”