Mr. Collingwood released Aleida’s hand and bowed his head. “My apologies for the misunderstanding. I promised to ring if the story was approved. It wasn’t.”
Her dream of Theo’s story humming from every wireless set in Britain leaked away with the air in her lungs, and she tapped her knuckles.
“You promised a story?” The blond man curled his upper lip. “The BBC doesn’t broadcast about missing persons.”
Mr. Collingwood pulled out two chairs. “Please do join us, Mrs. Martens.”
Aleida hesitated.
Miss Jones sat and looked up at her. “Got anyplace better to be?”
Her silent flat where she’d fret about Theo, all alone. She sat.
“Gil’s correct. The BBC doesn’t broadcast such stories.” Mr. Collingwood directed hazel eyes at the man across from him, then at Aleida beside him. “But you aren’t the only refugee searching for family. I was in Belgium and France with the BEF—so was my friend François Jouveau.” He nodded to the dark-haired man on his other side.
Then pain flickered across Mr. Collingwood’s face.
Aleida stopped tapping. He’d seen. He knew. He understood.
“I planned to tell about refugees searching for family, including you, Mrs. Martens.” Faded freckles crossed Mr. Collingwood’s cheeks and nose. “However, my editor did not approve the story. The BBC has limited airtime, and every minute must prepare us for the German onslaught. Maybe in the newspapers? You have more space, right, MacLeod?”
An older gentleman sitting across the table harrumphed. “Haven’t you heard? With paper rationing, we’re now limited to eight pages. Besides, that’s old news. As Churchill said, ‘The Battle of France is over ... the Battle of Britain is about to begin.’”
“Has already begun,” Gil said. “For the past week, the Germans have been bombing our ports and our ships in the Channel.”
Aleida’s throat swelled. The Nazis would invade soon. She had to find Theo before the chaos of clashing armies and fleeing civilians.
Miss Jones made a sweeping motion as if brushing away the men’s words. “Sounds like censorship to me.”
“Censorship?” Gil all but spluttered.
Miss Jones whapped Gil’s arm with the back of her hand. “Being told what you can and can’t write—that’s censorship. Why, I’d write Mrs. Martens’s story myself, but a fat lot of good it would do to tell Chicago about her little boy.”
Aleida rolled her fingers around her purse strap. If only Miss Jones wrote for a London paper.
“Not censorship,” Gil said. “Priorities.”
Mr. Collingwood’s eyes lit up, and he poked one finger at the table. “We do have priorities, and we mustn’t broadcast anything that might benefit the enemy. But my reports from Dunkirk were edited to eliminate any hint of criticism of British military strategy.”
Gil’s narrow nostrils almost closed. “Criticism is bad for morale.”
“But the free exchange of ideas is vital for democracy,” Jouveau said.
Something stirred in Aleida’s chest, fed the intellect starved during her marriage.
Mr. Collingwood scooted forward in his seat, and his shoulders rippled with energy. “As a nation, we must examine our actions and our government.”
“You reporters.” A middle-aged man stood by Mr. Collingwood’s chair with a towel draped over his arm. “You need to watch your tongues.”
“Ah, Irwin.” Mr. Collingwood lifted an arm to him. “Dearest of old chaps. Would you be so kind as to take the ladies’ orders? Tea? Coffee?”
“A pint for me,” Miss Jones said.
“I’ll have tea,” Aleida said. “No milk.”
Irwin nodded to the ladies, then frowned at Mr. Collingwood. “You mustn’t speak ill of Mr. Churchill.”
“I think the world of Mr. Churchill. He’s the right man to run our country. But calling attention to failures is the duty of the press. Lou—you’re an American. You agree.”
