When We Meet Again

by Caroline Beecham

  George had stayed in Norfolk, but the others were in the boardroom when Theo arrived: Tommy, Emily and Ursula. And, to his surprise, Alice Cotton sat at the far side of the table. Ursula had been right about her after all, although he wondered what had changed her mind. “Good morning,” he said. “And welcome back, Alice.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Bloom.”

  “Theo, please.”

  A cold spring air blew through the open windows, the fresh sunlight whitewashing the room, and Theo took the seat opposite Alice. It was only a few feet away yet close enough to see how her appearance had improved: blond victory rolls framed her made-up face, and she wore a smart blouse and jacket. She still looked rather pale, her features altogether more fragile than they’d appeared in the café, but perhaps that was just the contrast of her navy eyes against her delicate English skin.

  Ursula brandished a large cardboard poster. “Ta-da!” she announced, holding it upright on the table. It featured an assortment of images of children: innocence caught in some expressions, others with beaming smiles, and emotive photographs in front of ruined homes.

  “So, what do we have here?” Tommy asked.

  “It’s the new mock-up of the cover for Women and Children First,” she said with a smile. “Now that Alice has agreed to come back part-time, the content will be ready by the start of June—won’t it, Alice?”

  “Um, yes . . . that’s right,” she replied, sounding less than confident.

  “But I’ve got the print run booked for early July, so that’s cutting it a bit fine, isn’t it?” said a worried-looking Tommy.

  “I think that should work,” Alice said, exchanging a look with Ursula. “The typesetting is being outsourced, but everything else is in-house. The schedule is under our control.”

  Theo hoped she was right.

  “And what is the content, exactly?” Emily asked, arms folded across her chest.

  “Well,” Alice said, “as you know, it was going to be about ordinary women and children in extraordinary situations on the home front.”

  “We’re all in extraordinary situations, surely?” Emily said.

  “Yes, although some of us are more ordinary than others,” Ursula said with a straight face.

  “Alice, perhaps you can elaborate for us,” Theo said, smiling at the banter.

  “We already have interviews with families, accounts of children thought missing who have been miraculously found, and stories of children placed with new families”—Alice hesitated and caught Ursula’s eye—“and then there are the stories about children who have been stolen and sold.”

  “What?” Emily said with a look of horror. “You’re including those in the book?”

  Alice nodded. “We’re planning to.”

  “That’s different than what you told us before you left, and I for one think it’s rather bad form. I mean, who wants to read about that? It’s frightful!”

  “Lots of people do,” Alice snapped back, “because it’s been happening all over the country, and the government is soon to pass an act in an effort to stop it.”

  Emily looked around at the others. “I’d have thought we wanted good news stories, uplifting ones that make people want to pick up the book, not throw it in the bin!”

  “There will be lots of those too,” Alice said, “but we can’t ignore what’s going on right under our noses. We need to draw people’s attention to it, and—”

  “Thank you, Alice,” Theo said, concerned about her growing agitation. “I’m sure they would all be very worthy stories, and perhaps they can be included.”

  “Are you sure about your sources?” Tommy asked. “After all, we do seem to be spending a disproportionate amount of time and money on this book. We need to know it’s real, and worth it.” His eyes darted from Alice to Theo.

  “Yes, Tommy, I understand,” she said, straightening in her chair. “We’re working with a good journalist—an exceptional one, in fact—who is bringing us valuable material and has spent her career fighting for the rights of these children.”

  “So, she’s got an ax to grind,” Emily murmured, “or papers to sell.”

  “On the contrary,” Alice said, “Olive is just a damn fine journalist!”

  Theo finally understood what Ursula and George had meant about her; she was so passionate that he could tell how much she loved her work. And she clearly knew what she was talking about: she gave them an impressive rundown of the information she’d gathered. By the time she’d finished, they were all soberly staring at her.

  Theo cleared his throat. “These stories have a huge emotional impact, and you’ve done terrific research, but why include them in this book?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” Ursula said, looking perplexed.

  “Children are the innocent victims of this war,” said Alice, “and they have no voice, these stolen kids in particular. Why not incorporate inspiring stories of them being reunited with their families? The book will be optimistic, full of happy endings. A way of giving children their voices back.”

  “I see,” Theo said thoughtfully. They all knew what a gamble they were taking on this new book, and he still wasn’t convinced. In spite of Alice’s passion, he wasn’t persuaded that she could pull it off. He picked up the mock cover, studying the faces of the children: a curly-haired infant; two school-aged children, a boy and girl of about seven or eight; and a boy of sixteen or so in a zookeeper’s outfit.

  Alice pointed to the two school-aged children. “They’re Martha and Duncan—their friend was killed by an unexploded bomb while they were playing. They’ve founded their own junior wardens group, patrolling playgrounds to make sure kids know where it’s safe to play.”

  Theo was starting to see what Alice was aiming for—but would it work?

  “And that’s Christopher,” she said, pointing to the teenager, “one of the lads from Eton who works as a boy-keeper at the London Zoo. He’s got some wonderful stories to share, about the animals and the other boy-keepers.”

  Theo nodded. Yes, he could see it now: extraordinary stories of ordinary families. It wasn’t likely to rival Bomber Command, but it might do well enough. He tried to use his imagination as Alice continued to describe the stories—until a heavy logbook in the center of the table caught his eye. It was their record of all the papermaking stocks they had to list; materials that had become scarce because wood pulp could no longer be sourced from Norway and esparto grass came from North Africa, which was now controlled by France.

  “Let’s think about it,” he said, studiously avoiding Alice’s gaze. “Let me talk to George, and we’ll make a decision for when we next come together.”

  “I’ll support whatever decision you make,” Tommy said.

  “Me too,” said Emily.

  Alice and Ursula exchanged a puzzled look, then they both reluctantly nodded their agreement.

  “Thanks,” Theo said, “I appreciate it.” He summoned a smile as he turned to meet Alice’s curious expression, but it felt hollow. The hurt was clearly visible to him in the depths of her beautiful blue eyes, but he knew that whatever he and George decided, he needed to think of the New York office first and foremost—and getting home to his fiancée and parents.

  Eighteen

  London, March 31, 1943

  When Alice arrived back at Penny’s after work, she heard her friend’s laughter and followed it through the hallway into what Penny called her “second salon,” where the community book group was under way.

  Penny had given Alice a rundown on the personalities involved: a warden, a serviceman, a retired major, a librarian and a civil servant, all of whom were mothers or fathers, or brothers or sisters, or uncles or aunts. Penny was convinced they might be able to furnish Alice with more stories for the book. Alice was grateful to her friend, even though she was still anxiously waiting to hear if Theo and George would go ahead with the n
ew version.

  She didn’t know what she would do if they rejected it. She had no other leads on Eadie, and she’d almost forgotten her daughter’s face. She could still feel the barely there weight of her in her arms, the shape of her imprinted on her skin, yet she didn’t know how long it would last. Even her body was losing signs of her daughter: her stomach flattening, stretched skin resuming its elasticity, and her milk reabsorbed. The bleeding was reduced to spotting, but still the baby blues and the sleeplessness were reminders that she was a mother now.

  Although Alice expected the book group to be there, the sight of the darkened room, the shadowy bookshelves and the unknown faces distorted by the trembling candlelight took her by surprise. They were assembled in a horseshoe of chairs, the remnants of an afternoon tea on two of the café tables. Alongside the assorted crockery and crumbs were their copies of How Green Was My Valley.

  Trusting in her friend and her friend’s husband, Michael, had been good for many reasons, not least of which was Penny’s idea about the book group. Another was because of how supported and grateful she felt by Michael’s calm acceptance of her and for putting a roof over her head.

  Penny was still in her work clothes—a dirty gray smock—and frizzy-haired as she stood up, eagerly gesturing to Alice in the doorway. “So, everyone! This is Alice.”

  Alice tried to look as open and friendly as she could as she smiled at each of them, trying to distinguish who was who based on Penny’s earlier descriptions. The young woman with milky white skin and auburn hair must surely be Helena, the librarian. Then Rex, the friendly warden with a shiny red scar across the left side of his face. Beside him was a nervous ball of energy, Marjorie, the civil servant who volunteered to repair books for the services. Then Terrance, the youngest member, Oxford-educated and on sick leave from the Royal Air Force. And, of course, the bespectacled Henry, dark-haired and intense, just as she’d imagined the retired major to be.

  “Alice is a good friend of mine,” said Penny. “She works at a publishing house and has offered to get us books for our group.” There was a murmur of appreciation before Penny carried on. “Alice is working on a new book, a very important book,” she said, growing serious, “and she’d like to ask for our help. I thought it was the least we could do to show our gratitude.”

  Penny sat down, leaving Alice standing by herself, nervously rubbing her hands together. “Hello, and it’s nice to meet you all. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  “Some good, I hope,” Rex said, and chuckled.

  “Shush,” Marjorie said with a frown. “Let her finish. Go on, dear.”

  “Fire away!” Henry added.

  Alice cleared her throat and looked at Penny. Then she bent down to retrieve the newspaper articles from their folder and place them on the table. She had spent hours poring over these cuttings. Several of the accused baby farmers’ names appeared more than once, and although she’d tracked most of them down and ruled them out as the people responsible for taking Eadie, there was one couple Olive had warned against trying to trace in one of their off-the-record conversations: “The Pritchards are not only evil but very dangerous.” The journalist had promised to help, but she wanted to run it by legal affairs at the paper first. There was no telling how long that might take—it could be any number of days or weeks.

  “First of all, thank you for letting me join your group.” Alice paused. “I’m working on a book called Women and Children First—and, well, it’s about just that really. We’re collecting stories of remarkable relationships, bravery, family reunions, you know the kind I mean . . . to do with women and children, the uplifting ones. Stories of battling the odds and winning.” She hoped that even if George and Theo turned down her initial proposal, she would be able to convince them if she just gathered enough good material. She’d pinned clippings to a board that dominated her office, a decoupage of children’s faces. But Theo was right, there had to be an overwhelming optimism to the book, the triumph of human nature, and she wasn’t sure they had that yet—and she was running out of time.

  “So how can we help you?” Helena asked.

  “Well, first, by putting me in touch with anyone you know who would be willing to share their experiences.”

  Rex and Helena nodded, but Marjorie just listened.

  “Can you give us an example?” Rex asked.

  “All right . . . well, did any of you hear about the boy who was saved from a burning restaurant just before Christmas? A daring rescue by a Polish refugee. It would be that kind of heroic act—a real story, not fiction. One where we would include pictures of him and his family being reunited, and the rescuer, of course.”

  Helena tilted her head as if she was giving it some consideration.

  “Other stories we’re looking for are those that might not have such happy endings, ones about children who have been taken by baby farmers—”

  “By whom?” Henry asked.

  “Baby farmers,” Alice said louder, “like the ones in these articles.” She passed the clippings around—stories about children being shipped overseas without any checks or safeguards, photographs of railway stations where infants were swapped, and of notorious maternity homes selling babies to adoptive parents and earning fees from both the parents and the birth mothers—and her heart beat a little faster as she watched their expressions change. Helena shifted uncomfortably in her seat, while Marjorie chewed her lip as she read. Terrance’s feet tapped nervously on the floor. Rex leaned closer, straining to read the print. Their involvement made her feel that it wasn’t just about Eadie anymore, that they were investing their support to help all the poor helpless children who were being traded like the Lend-Lease food.

  When they had all finished, Alice said, “I wonder if in your neighborhoods, or among your families and friends, you might know of anyone this has happened to.”

  “I say,” Rex said, “I’ve an idea.”

  “What?” Marjorie said, head bobbing up.

  “Well,” he said, shifting to the edge of his seat, hands clasped together, elbows on his legs as he leaned further in, “it seems us wardens know our neighborhoods better than most . . . and who and what goes on there.” He widened his eyes at Alice.

  “And?” Helena said.

  “I’m just saying, there’s a lot that goes unsaid but not unnoticed, if you know what I mean.” He tapped the side of his nose with his forefinger, then gave them each a purposeful stare.

  “Can you elaborate for us, Rex?” Penny asked.

  “Of course. I know most of the streets and what goes on, and it strikes me that most of the other wardens would be the same. It would only take me having a word with some of them to see if anyone knows of anything untoward in their area.”

  Alice caught Penny’s eye and smiled, feeling hopeful at this new avenue to explore. “Thank you, Rex,” she said. “That’s a marvelous idea. You’ve been most helpful.”

  “It doesn’t seem right to me,” Terrance said with a sniff.

  “What do you mean?” Helena asked.

  “Isn’t there some code of conduct, something wardens have to sign to protect our privacy? I mean, what goes on in our homes should stay in our homes, shouldn’t it?”

  “What have you got to hide, then?” Rex asked crossly.

  “I don’t have anything to hide, but I also value my privacy,” Terrance said, looking affronted.

  “I understand what you mean,” Alice said. “Remember the posters: careless talk costs lives? But we also have a moral obligation, don’t you think? It’s our duty to be vigilant.”

  “Exactly,” said Penny. “It’s our duty to look out for spies. And baby farmers.”

  “So, you’ll talk to the other wardens from the different areas?” Alice asked Rex.

  “I’ll certainly talk to the ones I know.”

  “And how can the rest of us help?” Helena asked.


  “By talking to your friends and family,” said Alice. “Ask if there’s anything unusual happening in your area—couples with babies or children they didn’t have before.” Her energy was ebbing away, and she sat down. “Thanks, all of you.”

  “Can we get on and talk about the book now?” Marjorie said with a sigh. She picked up her edition of How Green Was My Valley, the cover image bearing the stoic faces of miners.

  “In a moment,” Penny said. “Alice?”

  The room suddenly felt quite stuffy; the windows were closed, the blackout blinds drawn, and steam from the kettle had heated the limited air. Alice undid her top button and wiped the hair from her face, then took a large gulp of water. She felt faint and couldn’t keep track of what they were all saying.

  “Are you all right, love?” Rex’s voice echoed distantly.

  Penny’s face loomed in front of her before it began to spin, and everything went black.

  * * *

  When Alice came to, she was lying on the sofa in Penny’s empty living room and straining to hear whispers in the hallway outside. After a while the door opened, and Penny and Michael came in.

  “Saint-John’s-wort tea,” her friend said as she handed Alice a mug and sat in the chair opposite, Michael perching on the armrest. “It should help relax you.”

  The steam rose quickly and filled her nostrils with a bittersweet smell, and Alice placed the mug down on the carpet. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t be silly. You’ve nothing to apologize for. But, Alice, we’ve been talking, and we think you need to see a doctor first thing in the morning, then go back to the police.”

  Alice pulled herself up to sit. “There’s no point—”

  “Yes, there is. I’m not going to take no for an answer,” Penny said sternly. “Can’t you see? You’re not well enough for all this. You’ve done great work looking for Eadie, and now you have to let the authorities handle it.”