If they’d remained in the building ...
Without thinking, Hugh pulled Aleida to him.
She let him.
17
MONDAY, OCTOBER28, 1940
Miss Granville set her blue tin pan helmet on top of her perfectly coiffed copper hair. “I’m so sorry you wasted time on those interviews, but the ministry simply can’t use such a report.”
At the ARP post, Aleida turned her own helmet in her hands. Over the past two months, she’d interviewed dozens of evacuees, foster families, billeting officers, and teachers. While Miss Granville appreciated Aleida’s registry of children in each town, she didn’t want the children’s stories.
Miss Granville set a hand on her hip. “If we were to tell the mothers of London that even one child was unhappy, it’d be the end of the entire evacuation scheme.”
“Most of the children are in splendid situations, but some are not. The families should know the truth.”
“The truth?” Miss Granville lifted her hand like a shield. “The truth is, a child in even the most unfeeling country home is far better off than in city squalor. A city is a most unnatural place for English children. They need greenery and fresh air and wholesome living.”
“But we should do something for the children who—”
“Chin up.” Miss Granville nudged up a fist and a smile. “Assembling your registry will be smoother without the burden of interviews. Now, shouldn’t you prepare for your duties?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Aleida suppressed a sigh and headed to meet Tommy Thorne, her messenger.
Nilima Sharma intercepted her, took her arm, and looked her hard in the eye. “Write that report, Mrs. Martens. I don’t care what Granny says, write it. People need to know.”
Aleida’s heart warmed at the urgency in Nilima’s big brown eyes. Those stories had been entrusted to her and shouldn’t be wasted. “I will.”
The front door opened with a puff of cold air, and Hugh entered in his black overcoat. His gaze fell on her, and he raised his gorgeous grin.
Her heart tumbled in her chest. What was he doing here?
He doffed his hat, strode to Miss Granville, and shook her hand. “Good evening, Beatrice. As I mentioned on the telephone, I’d like to record another broadcast here in a few days. Tonight I’d like to observe your volunteers in action.”
Miss Granville slid a sly look toward Aleida. “Since you’refriendswith Mrs. Martens, perhaps she could show you around.”
“That would be lovely, thank you.”
Aleida felt every eye in the post. If only she could fade into the racks of equipment. She’d been widowed less than six months ago. Was it too early to be linked romantically?
Did she want to be linked? Sometimes she wanted it dearly, like on the night the bomb blast at Broadcasting House killed seven people, and Hugh had protected her and held her. Other times, something inside her balked when he was near.
And he came nearer, smile lines radiating through his cheeks, and he bowed. “Good evening, Mrs. Martens. May I have the honor of accompanying you on your rounds?”
With her winter coat bundled beneath the thin and shapelessARP coat, she cut no picture of elegance, but Hugh always put her at ease. She dropped a curtsy. “The honor is mine.”
“Shall we?” He held out his elbow to her.
“Not yet.” She fastened her helmet, found one for Hugh, and made sure she had her torch and gas mask.
Aleida took Hugh’s elbow and led him outside into the dark night with Tommy behind them. She flicked on her torch, its beam dulled by blue paper. “The bombers don’t usually arrive until eight, so we use the hours after sunset to check blackout conditions and make sure routes to shelters are clear.”
“The moon won’t rise until after three in the morning. Might be a lighter raid tonight.”
She passed a quartet of men on their way home after work. “We can hope.”
Hugh patted her hand. “I must confess. I do plan to broadcast from your post, but I came tonight to ask about your weekend in the country. How could I wait?”
