“Gil ... is a fine chap.” But Guy Gilbert’s reporting managed to be both ingratiating and dull.
“You be a fine chap too. Find a story to make the public want to do their bit. We’re at war, and things are grim. The Ministry of Information wants us to boost morale.”
“To educate, inform, and entertain,” Hugh said in a soft voice, repeating the BBC’s purpose.
“Yes.” Fletcher poked one finger toward Hugh. “To educate, inform, and entertain so we have a fighting chance of not becoming another Nazi vassal state. Understood?”
“Yes, sir. I’ll find something exceptionally inspirational.”
“Quite right, you will.” Fletcher waved his hand to the door.
Hugh stood, bowed his head to his boss, and left Broadcasting House.
He strolled down Regent Street toward the family townhouse, past boarded-up windows and sandbags piled high. After the fall of Poland in September 1939, eight months of the “Bore War”—a practical hush on the western front—had lulled Britain into complacency. Everything had changed with Hitler’s blitzkrieg through the Low Countries and now to the very gates of Paris.
He passed a woman carrying a bolt of black fabric, for blackout curtains, no doubt. Yes, he needed to encourage people to do their bit and remember the nation’s ideals. But he also had a duty to reveal when the nation violated those ideals.
At Oxford Circus, Hugh turned right on Oxford Street, too quiet with petrol rationing in place. How much of his reporting from Belgium and Dunkirk had been cut? Perhaps he’d spent too much time listening to François Jouveau.
Jouveau was recovering nicely in a London hospital, and Hugh had secured him a position with the BBC European Services. The French Service was thrilled to hire an experienced and popular radio correspondent for their shortwave broadcasts to France.
A young man strode down the street carrying a sack far from his body. A squirming, growling, hissing sack.
“Pardon me.” Hugh tipped his hat to the man. “May I ask—”
“Throwing me master’s cat in the Thames. He’s a devil cat, he is.”
“In the Thames!” After England had declared war in September, far too many people had destroyed their pets. And regretted it.
The young man gestured over his shoulder with his thumb. “You know what they say, guv, what with food rationing and the Nasties coming. It’s more merciful-like to put them outof their misery now than let ’em starve later. And this one—a right devil cat he is.”
“I’ll take him.” What was he saying? He couldn’t take a cat.
“No, me master said—”
“Your master wants to be rid of the cat. You can walk over a mile to the Thames, or you can give him to me and be done with it.”
The man puffed his cheeks full of air, then blew it out. “All right, guv.”
The bag jerked, curved claws pierced the fabric, and “Mrrow!”
Hugh gritted his teeth and wrapped his hand around the knot in the sack. Holding the snarling bag far from his body, Hugh hurried down Oxford Street.
What had he done?
Passersby parted before him with alarmed expressions, and Hugh merely tipped his hat at them. How could he explain to them when he couldn’t explain to himself?
With his asthma, he’d never been allowed near dogs or cats. He knew nothing of cats. He’d have to find this poor creature a home. Somehow.
The graceful brick façade of the townhouse greeted him, and Hugh climbed steps framed by curved wrought-iron banisters.
He flung open the front door. “Simmons, I brought a guest for dinner.”
That guest let out a terrific run of snarls and hisses.
Simmons, the butler, trotted down the stairs. “What in heaven’s name?”
Hugh lifted the bag. “It is a cat. A rather angry cat, I’m afraid. But if someone tied me in a sack and threatened to toss me in the Thames, I’d be rather angry too.”
