When We Meet Again

by Caroline Beecham

  When he reached inside his bag for the mock-up, he found an entirely different book instead, one that he must have taken on his hasty departure. This was a journal with stories and illustrations, newspaper cuttings and commentary, and articles of celebrities and politicians visiting London Zoo. There were margins of scribbled notes and drawings—and it was all in Alice’s hand. The title page read: The Zoo Chronicles: Tales from London Zoo, and on the back cover there was an attractive black-and-white illustration, an advertisement for late night openings at the zoo with floodlighting and music. He’d had no idea that London Zoo was still operating or that it was so vast; a map showed there were different precincts for all the animals. His time in London had been spent south of Marylebone Road, and he’d had no reason to visit, although he vaguely remembered it being popular with US servicemen.

  There were several clippings about esteemed visitors and noteworthy employees, and he got drawn into reading one about Dr. Burgess Barnett, the “Snake Man,” a former curator of reptiles who had been awarded an MBE for staying behind with refugees during the evacuation of Burma. Theo read about the hero who, as well as facing death by handling poisonous snakes, had endured treacherous conditions to march the party through an unfamiliar and hostile country until they reached safety and much-needed medical treatment. And here I am worrying about facing Walter, he thought. The next feature was about how the penguins’ play-fights with the polar bears had brought them to the attention of the London papers, which commended their show as an antidote to the “jitters.”

  At the back of the journal was a suggested itinerary—“A Day in the Life of the Zoo”—also in Alice’s distinctive handwriting. With the doors open at nine o’clock there are a full three hours to wander at leisure and take refreshments in one of the cafés before the midday feed at the Penguin Pool. Then it is a choice between the polar bears at the Mappin Terraces and lions and tigers at the Lion House, and the sea lions or diving birds at three-thirty; one of the problems, or positives, depending on how you look at it, is that there is always so much to do. He could hear her voice as he read, the emotion so very real, and he wanted to visit the zoo with her by his side. This appeared to be a labor of love: the vivid descriptions, the knowledge of the animals, the level of detail.

  On the last page was a dedication: For my father, Frederick (Freddie) Charles Cotton and his granddaughter, Eadie.

  Alice hadn’t mentioned that her late brother had a child, so who was Eadie? And why hadn’t Alice shown any of the team this journal before? It was inspiring and uplifting, an unknown part of British life on the home front, featuring animal rescues and human bravery. It was exactly the type of book they had discussed and agreed they wanted: “extraordinary stories of ordinary people.”

  * * *

  “Good morning, Mr. Bloom,” Kenny the elevator operator said, with a curt nod.

  Theo felt a wave of nostalgia as he stood by the bank of brass elevators, their intricate panels of polished nickel and brass rivets giving the oversized lobby the appearance of a ship from the nearby Brooklyn yard.

  “How are you, Kenny, and how’s your granddaughter?”

  “She’s doing very well. Thanks for asking, sir.”

  “Very pleased to hear it.”

  “And how has London been treating you, Mr. Bloom?”

  “She’s been very kind to me, Kenny. I hope to go back—there’s still a lot to do.”

  When Theo stepped out of the elevator, he thought of how he’d intended to stay in New York until his father’s condition improved, and now he knew that it wasn’t life-threatening; the doctors appeared to be satisfied that they’d balanced his medications. The next time you see him he’ll be at home, one of the nurses had said cheerily. The issue now wasn’t the need to move his father, it was Walter—and getting on another flight.

  “Theo, great to see you,” Walter said, as he jumped up from his seat and came around the desk to give him a vigorous handshake. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here last week to welcome you. It’s terrific to have you back. You can see everything’s been piling up while you’ve been gone.” He motioned toward the stack of folders on his desk.

  “I thought the new associate was going to handle things in my absence,” Theo said with a frown.

  “Yes, the smaller pieces”—Walter took his arm and guided him toward the chairs—“but we wouldn’t want him involved in any of the bigger deals, would we?”

  Theo declined the cigarette Walter offered and took out a Piccadilly, George’s brand, which he now preferred.

  “How’s your father?” Walter asked, smoke curling from his mouth.

  “It’s early yet, but he’s doing better than expected.”

  “That’s good, really good. Your family must be relieved.”

  “He’s not out of the woods yet, but his condition is stable.” Theo didn’t want to tempt fate by assuming his father would be all right; the doctors had given them reason to be optimistic but with a note of caution.

  Walter tapped his fingers on the side of the chair. “Come on, then . . . tell me all about it.”

  Theo spent close to an hour going into the specifics that the restricted long-distance phone calls hadn’t allowed. He reiterated details of the wartime difficulties Partridge faced, but he also told Walter of the ingenious solutions they’d found, and about their new titles. Then he told him about the useful contacts he’d made and of the recent changes in the industry, including the opportunities for the Americans to supply books to parts of the Commonwealth and Europe, now that the British and their ships no longer could.

  By the time Theo finished he was satisfied that he’d made it sound as if things were looking up, and that once the new titles were out, the annual paper rations would increase and allow George’s team to continue to build their slate for the coming years.

  “There is just one small matter; there’s been an issue with the rent,” he said, making the judgment not to keep a secret that his employer was likely to soon discover. “George has been paying for it out of his personal savings for the past four months, but Clare won’t let him carry on.”

  “No, I can see that . . . I don’t know many wives who would. I wish he’d told me himself, though,” Walter said, puckering his lips.

  Theo grimaced as he tried to think of a tactful reply, but Walter beat him to it.

  “Still no profit, then?” he asked.

  “Not this financial year, but it will improve next year,” Theo replied. “The forecasts are promising.”

  “And how long are you proposing that we prop them up?”

  “We’re not. If you look closely at these figures, there’s no debt. Not unless this year’s books don’t sell.” Theo passed him the accounts. “There’s no reason for that to happen, though. It’s a simple case of supply and demand, Walter—there just aren’t enough books to go around.”

  He’d hoped for a better reaction, but Walter just looked through the papers and made a few gruff comments. Yes, conditions were dire, but they had learned to cope; they were adjusting and improvising, and it was working, but it was hard to see that from the other side of the world.

  “I really felt as if I was making a difference, and it opened so many doors being there,” Theo said, leaning forward and stubbing his cigarette out in the ashtray. “You know, Walter, without their drive and their lobbying and initiatives, there would be no publishing industry to speak of. What they’ve done is really quite remarkable.”

  Walter remained uncharacteristically quiet, and Theo thought that perhaps he had shared too much. He knew his employer didn’t approve of his work with the council, but he was convinced more than ever of how necessary it all was.

  Walter rose and walked over to the window, his back turned. “Thanks for making the trip, Theo; I am grateful to you. I know it’s been a sacrifice for you and Virginia. But the good news is, your work there is done.” He turne
d to face Theo. “I don’t need you to go back . . . I need you to start looking for a buyer.”

  Hadn’t Walter heard a word he’d said? He had to go back; he wanted to finish what he’d started. And he needed to see Alice.

  “But they’re doing all right. This isn’t necessary, Walter.”

  It was as if his employer hadn’t heard him. “Be discreet, though, don’t talk to the big guns, Blackie or Collins or Heinemann, anyone like that. I need you to go through other channels. It would be very difficult if George got wind of it at this stage.”

  “But why do you want to . . . ? We don’t need to sell.”

  Walter looked at him dispassionately. “Yes, Theo. I’m afraid we do. What you’ve just told me has made up my mind. We’d be crazy not to!” He’d grown more animated. “You say we’re growing a new generation of readers, but that won’t help us now—we don’t know when the war will end. What will help is selling London and investing the money here. Britain might not be able to export books anymore, but we can. We’ll be the ones to sell to the rest of the world.”

  The shock of what Theo had done slowly dawned on him, and he reflexively sat down while Walter spoke excitedly of his plans. George and the others would think that he’d betrayed them, that he’d known this was Walter’s intention all along, when he had actually been trying to prevent it. And what of Alice’s books and her career? He would be blamed for ending that too, along with any future they may have had.

  “It’s unfortunate, but you’re a businessman, Theo. You know it’s too good an opportunity for us not to take it.”

  “But what about George? What about his family?”

  “They’ll be fine. George has plenty of other business interests, and we’ll make sure he gets a fair price. Publishing has never really been in his blood.”

  What a mug he’d been. Unknowingly, he’d become one of the architects of their demise. And he realized that he couldn’t let it happen—somehow he would have to find a way to fix things.

  Thirty-four

  “Actually, I’ve changed my mind,” Theo said, leaning forward so the cab driver could hear. “Take me down to South Street, take Fulton to the end and wait for me there. I’ll only be ten minutes, and I’ll pay the waiting fare.”

  “You’re the boss,” the driver answered.

  It was lunchtime, and he’d been en route to the hospital to see his father, motoring down Bowery, about to turn on to the Manhattan Bridge, when the idea had struck and he’d decided to stop. He strolled east along South Street—it was where he’d spent much of his childhood riding bikes among the old steam plants and vast brick buildings in the “street of ships.” His mood had turned grim after the meeting and he still couldn’t believe that where he’d tried to help, he’d made things so much worse. What you’ve just told me has made up my mind. We’d be crazy not to! had been Walter’s words. Theo knew a sense of freedom could be gained from standing at the water’s edge—that you could have a foot in two different worlds on the Atlantic Seaboard—and he needed to think.

  He reached a wooden pier and took in the panorama of the East River: from the Williamsburg Bridge and the gigantic cranes of the Brooklyn Navy Yard across the water, to the floating docks and repair yards that clung to the waterfront like a special fleet. Ship horns blasted, and the staccato sounds of construction filled the air as steam spewed onto a horizon filled with machinery so gargantuan it dwarfed the skyscrapers. He looked to the right, the strong southerly nearly robbing him of his hat and depositing a fine spray on his expensive navy suit, forcing him to take a step backward.

  A seaplane motored onto the sound then took off, banking to the right on the start of its journey; transporting one of the wealthy few who still took seaplanes from the Downtown Skyport to their Long Island homes, and it made him think again of Walter. His employer had placed him in an impossible position, but what galled him the most were Walter’s comments before he’d left. “Think of the opportunities for America, Theo. We can send our greatest works to countries that have been under colonial control for far too long—places like Canada and Australia, South America and India. Think what it will mean for the company.” And he’d told Theo again that it was his responsibility, as head of business affairs, to see that it was done.

  He’d been naive to believe that Walter was ignoring the gathering demand for books, when it was obvious now that he’d been planning this the whole time. But what mattered was how Theo was going to put it right.

  He took in the sight a moment longer, then carried on along the waterfront, the aroma of sea salt and Colombian coffee mingling in the air as the wharfies heaved sacks of beans from their freighters. The docks were quietening now, just the usual lighters steaming along the river, ferrying cargo from the larger freight ships to the piers, workers hauling the goods into waiting vans. In the hours before dawn the area would have been in a frenzy; it was then that Theo and his childhood friends had come to watch hardy crews unload their fishing boats and crate the catches with ice, ready for the Fulton Fish Market. Even now, dozens of trucks were still being loaded, destined for markets and restaurants across the city and upstate.

  He knew he had better turn around soon—the taxi was still waiting—but something drove him on. His boots scraped across splintered planks while great gulls circled overhead, screeching their orders at the fishing vessels and their crews. After a few minutes, he found a sheltered spot and lit a cigarette. He was right to feel circumspect; this wasn’t just about Partridge, it was about his work for the council, and about his father, and Alice and Virginia, and letting people down. He’d already failed to serve his country in the way he’d wanted to, and in the way that Howie had; he didn’t want to fail again.

  Theo glanced at his watch and took a final pull on his cigarette before grinding it into the plank; his ten minutes had passed, and he needed to visit the hospital and then attend meetings uptown before an early dinner with Virginia. He turned back along the boardwalk, churning with anger at himself and resentment toward Walter. He still had no idea what to do.

  * * *

  Samuel Bloom sat dozing in a high-backed chair, an open book in his lap, his glasses barely balanced on the end of his nose, and the sight of him made Theo smile. He could have been at home in his armchair, the radio blaring sports commentary in the background as his wife volleyed inaudible questions at him from the next room. Only he wasn’t there, he was still here at the Brooklyn Methodist, thirteen days after his life-threatening episode. The two drip stands had gone from his bedside, and the table held transparent beakers of fluids, a basket of fruit and an assortment of cards. It was quiet, apart from the uneven snore of the patient in the bed opposite and the disconsolate whirr of hospital machinery.

  The two other beds on the ward were vacant, mattresses eerily bare, a new pile of linen stacked portentously on the pillow, but Theo knew better than to ask what had become of the previous patients when Sister Dorothy arrived on the ward.

  “How is he today?” Theo asked.

  “Mr. Bloom is doing exceptionally well, considering . . .” Sister Dorothy had been on duty when his father was admitted, and she’d been encouraging about his improving condition. Her strong Irish lilt never made anything sound particularly bad—even serious conditions sounded like compliments—but today she was uncharacteristically stern. “Your father is an intelligent man, is he not, Mr. Bloom?” She pursed her lips and eyed him keenly.

  “Yes, for sure.” Theo didn’t like rhetorical questions, but he assumed she was going somewhere with this.

  “And he’s well read, I understand.”

  “Very. Books have always been a big part of his life.”

  “Then why, in God’s name, does the man not listen to what the doctors say?”

  She was talking about their repeated requests for him to lose weight, and their other suggestions on lifestyle changes.

  “Why does it fall u
pon deaf ears?” she continued. “Do patients think the doctors are comedians, that there’s really a cure but it’s a big secret that they’re keeping from the rest of us?” She shook her head, her starched white cap remarkably staying in place. “There is no secret cure, no easy answer. They just need to do what they’re told!”

  Samuel stirred then opened his eyes, and it seemed impossible that he hadn’t heard.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Bloom. Sister Rachel will be around soon to take your vitals,” she said, before turning back to Theo. “And good day to you too, sir. Perhaps you can talk to him.” She disappeared noiselessly, and he considered what she’d said. He had tried talking to his father before, so too had his mother; maybe Samuel didn’t want to change—or maybe this scare would be the one that mattered. Only time would tell, and Theo wasn’t going to spend the little time he had with his father lecturing him. Anyway, weren’t sixty years of experience worth something? Hadn’t he earned the right to decide how to live?

  “Theo . . . what is it, son?”

  “Sorry, I was miles away,” Theo said, coming to stand closer. “How are you feeling?”

  “Like it’s time to go home.”

  The doctors had established that his infection had gone but that he needed a strict regimen of drugs and exercise to keep him stable, and possibly help him improve.

  “How long have you been here?”

  “Not long. I know Mom’s on her way. I just wanted to check that you’ve got everything you need.”

  “I certainly have. I can even see Prospect Park Zoo through the window over there.” Samuel pointed west to the collage of brown and green knitted in between the grid of Brooklyn’s townhouses and tenements, and Theo could just make out the larger trees and enclosures. It made him think of Alice’s book, her amazing pictures and stories.

  “Maybe we could borrow a wheelchair to take you?” Theo suggested.