Hugh sat forward. “I do understand your position, Mr. Ridley, but reporting live and on the scene lends power and immediacy. Look how Ed Murrow and Eric Sevareid and LarryLeSueur are swaying the hearts of the American people by conveying the sounds and voices of our fair city. That’s the future of broadcasting.”
Ridley’s dark eyes narrowed. “I expected better from you, Hugh.”
“Better?” And why the overly familiar use of his given name?
“What’s more important? The future of broadcasting or the future of England?”
Hugh’s breath caught.
Across the table from Hugh, Guy Gilbert bunched his pale eyebrows together. “If England falls, there will be no BBC, no true news, only vapid readings of German propaganda.”
“Right you are.” Ridley nodded. “Hugh, you should listen to ... to your colleague.”
Gil’s moment of victory disappeared, as did the glint in his eyes. What did Gil gain in earning Ridley’s favor if Ridley didn’t know his name?
He knew Hugh’s. Because Hugh came from the same circle. Gil didn’t, nor did Fletcher. But Gil worked hard, and his heart was in the right place.
Hugh gave Gil a soft frown. “Thank you, Mr. Gilbert. That is a sobering thought.”
It was. But also sobering was the thought of adopting fascism in order to fight it. Surely a better way could be found.
11
SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER7, 1940
Aleida tore off coupons for her weekly ration of two ounces of tea and eight ounces of sugar, and she handed them to Mr. Byrne, the grocer.
“It isn’t right,” a woman behind her muttered to her friend. “Foreigners stealing our food.”
Aleida’s cheeks burned. Since she didn’t take sugar in her tea, she only took her ration every few weeks.
“Foreigners, Mrs. Winslow?” A frown crossed Mr. Byrne’s wide face and deepened the wrinkles around his mouth. “Like the Polish fighter pilots shooting down Huns faster than even our boys do? Like Mrs. Martens here who volunteers with my wife at the ARP? I think you meant to say Allies, not foreigners.”
Mrs. Winslow spluttered out embarrassed apologies, probably worried about losing favor with the grocer who controlled the supply of rationed goods.
Aleida gave Mr. Byrne a grateful smile and headed outside into a warm and sunny afternoon. Thank goodness, far more Londoners shared Mr. Byrne’s attitude than Mrs. Winslow’s.
Aleida had spent her day off visiting orphanages, giving each her address in case a boy matching Theo’s description arrived.
The man at the last orphanage she’d visited had suggested that Aleida give up her search. If Theo was in England and hadn’t been sent to an orphanage, that meant the couple was caring for him. And as long as Theo was safe, what else mattered?
The audacity! Aleida would sooner give up her life than give up her son.
Her hand tightened on her string bag. One hundred twenty days since she’d seen Theo. Twelve times ten—and yet no success.
She sighed, forced her hand to relax, and turned onto Montpelier Square.
A man strolled toward her—Hugh Collingwood, suave in a light gray pin-striped suit. He raised a confident smile and tipped his fedora to her. “Good afternoon, Aleida.”
Her heart lurched in an unnerving mix of joy and apprehension. “Good afternoon.”
He gestured toward her building. “I see why you weren’t at home. May I help with your package?”
Such a small bag, but she passed it his way. “Thank you. What...” How could she word it without sounding rude?
“Why am I here?” His smile never faltered. “I brought the list my uncle promised.”
A gasp flew out, and she restrained herself from snatching the portfolio from his hand.
