Hugh placed his fedora over his heart and smiled at the redhead. “I’m afraid my many gifts for you had to be discarded on the beach beside the recording van.”
“The story of my life.” She heaved a fake sigh. “Mr. Fletcher is waiting for you.”
How late was he? Hugh glanced at his watch. Only ten minutes.
Inside the office, Fletcher stood facing the window with the telephone cord stretched to his ear. He looked over his shoulder at Hugh, motioned to the chair in front of his desk, then returned to the window. “I understand, but I don’t—”
Hugh sat in a rounded chair of leather and steel, and he placed his hat in his lap.
Fletcher raised one hand, his fingers coiling. “I understand how important this is to the Honorable Mr. Hastings, but the BBC doesn’t serve as a mouthpiece for every MP and his pet project.”
Hugh winced. Uncle Elliott Hastings had no end to pet projects. At least Fletcher didn’t know that Hugh was his nephew.
Muffled words, quite annoyed, emitted from the phone.
“Tell—tell—please tell—please tell Mr. Hastings I will take that into consideration. Good day.” Fletcher thumped the receiver into its cradle and glared at Hugh. “You’re late again.”
“I do apologize.” Hugh put on his most contrite face.
Fletcher ran his hand into graying fair hair and sank into his chair. His expression softened. “I was sorry to hear about your brother.”
“Thank you, sir. I’m ready to go back to work. I have an idea.”
With a circle of his hand in the air, Fletcher told Hugh to proceed.
Hugh leaned forward. “Since Italy declared war on Britain on Monday, rioters in London have attacked Italian restaurants and businesses.”
Fletcher was already shaking his head.
So Hugh injected more passion into his voice. “Yesterday our government ordered the internment of all Italian men who have been in England less than twenty years, and—”
“Stop.” Fletcher kept shaking his head. “You’re not telling that story.”
“I’ll interview the government ministers who gave the orders, those who favor internment, as well as families of the interned—”
“Too controversial.”
“I’ll tell both sides. It’s imperative—”
“It’s imperative that you not tell that story.”
Hugh mashed his lips together. “Britain is a democracy. How can we say we’re better than the totalitarian nations if we lock up civilians, including those who fled from Hitler and Mussolini, those who oppose them?”
“I didn’t say I disagreed with you.” Fletcher’s long face set like flint. “I said you’re not telling that story.”
“The BBC isn’t censored.”
“Because we censor ourselves. Do you know how much ofyour material from Belgium I had to cut? You didn’t spill military secrets, but you interviewed too many who criticized our generals.”
Hugh had also reported on the fortitude of the British soldier and the stunning beauty of the evacuation. He sank back in the chair. Telling only one side defied everything he’d learned reporting for theTimesand in his first year at the BBC. “Sir, I—”
Fletcher flipped up one hand. “You’re in the posh set, Collingwood. If the BBC fires you, you’ll flit to the next thing that amuses you. But me? I had to work my fingers to the bone to come this far. There are no other broadcasting companies in Britain. Those toffs at the Ministry of Information—like that twit Albert Ridley—they’re waiting for this scholarship boy to make a mistake. If I let you broadcast a story like that, my career is over.”
A framed photograph on Fletcher’s desk showed his pretty, much-younger wife and his two tiny girls, now evacuated to the country. What would happen to them if Fletcher lost his position?
Hugh sighed. “Very well, then.”
Fletcher laced long fingers on top of his desk. “Try to be more like Gil.”
