Could Aleida lay down her rights? Lay down her very heart?
34
LONDON
WEDNESDAY, APRIL16, 1941
Three minutes early for the meeting, Hugh entered the conference room at Broadcasting House to see Norman Fletcher, Albert Ridley, and Robert Clark, Chief News Editor and Fletcher’s superior.
A pit formed in Hugh’s stomach. When Fletcher summoned him from Scotland, Hugh knew it didn’t bode well, but the presence of the two other men confirmed it.
Regardless, he’d climb the career gallows with dignity, so he smiled and shook all three men’s hands.
Clark, a light-haired man in his fifties with a mustache and a trace of a Scottish brogue, motioned for the men to sit around the table. “Thank you for coming from Scotland, Mr. Collingwood. I wanted to compliment you on your fine work. Your reports have been very well received.”
Ridley glowered. “Not by the Ministry of Information.”
Fletcher looked as if he were sucking on a lemon. “Mr. Collingwood—Mr. Ridley came to my office to discuss your latest reports. When he heard you were coming today, he insisted on attending this meeting.”
Hugh nodded at his brother Cecil’s friend. “It’s always good to see you, Mr. Ridley.”
Ridley’s mouth pulled taut. “If your brother were alive, Hugh, he would be ashamed. You push the limits.”
Hugh forced his face to an impassive expression and clenched his hands over his knees beneath the table. How dare he use Cecil’s memory as a weapon? How dare he treat Hugh as a child by using his given name in a professional meeting?
With his hand flat as a cleaver, Fletcher gestured toward Hugh. “All of his reports were vetted by military censors. His recordings were reviewed before broadcast—without a single problem. He hasn’t broken any guidelines.”
A weight eased off Hugh’s shoulders. “Thank you, Mr. Fletcher. I’ve been most careful.”
“Careful?” Ridley wrinkled his rather large nose. “You broadcast about our aircraft being shot down and our ships being sunk.”
“I mentioned no numbers, no names, no locations, no dates,” Hugh said in a measured tone. “I complied with the guidelines.”
Ridley jutted out his jaw. “You shouldn’t mention any losses. It’s bad for morale.”
Clark removed the cigarette from his mouth and blew out a slow puff of smoke. “The only way to strengthen the morale of the people is to tell them the truth, and nothing but the truth, even if the truth is horrible.”
Clark had a reputation for fighting for his boys, a stance for which he’d almost lost his position in 1938.
That sense of fight burned in Hugh’s veins. “The people of this nation already know we’re losing aircraft and ships. When we ignore that truth, they lose faith in us.”
“Quite right.” Fletcher’s gray eyes went hard as steel. “If they lose faith in us, how will they trust us when necessary?”
Ridley’s cheeks darkened. “But Hugh pushes the limits.”
“With all respect, Mr. Ridley,” Hugh said, “even limits have limits.”
“Aye.” Clark made little glowing circles in the air with his cigarette. “I will remind you, Mr. Ridley, that we work closely and amiably with the ministry. We listen to your concerns and honor them when possible. But the BBC is independent of the government, and your ministry serves as advisor—not controller. We do thank you for your time and your advice.”
Then Clark stood and ushered a flustered Ridley to the door.
After the door shut and Clark returned to his seat, Fletcher muttered, “Pompous twerp.”
Hugh didn’t disagree, but he allowed only the slightest smile.
Fletcher leaned back in his chair and nodded at Hugh. “I called you back to London to stay. I’m sending Butler to be the new regional reporter in Scotland.”
The bottom fell out from Hugh’s stomach. He knew the assignment was temporary, knew his days at the BBC were numbered, but the tone of the discussion had allowed hope to fluff up. He licked dry lips. “Yes, sir.”
