“I heard everything. Take up that crusade. Write your report. I’ll help as best I can.”
“Thank you.” A light chuckle escaped. Her fellow foreigner, eager to upset the status quo. But if they spoke up, would anyone listen?
22
LONDON
SUNDAY, DECEMBER29, 1940
Huddled in a cramped studio in the basement of Broadcasting House, Hugh listened to his recording with Tom Young and another engineer.
An exuberant Cockney voice rang out from the recording, but the only coherent words were cuss words.
Hugh and the engineers laughed. “Not him,” Hugh said. Neither Fletcher nor Ridley would approve, nor would the listeners.
Young made notes, then played the next section, another Cockney man, but intelligible and not as colorful. “Excellent,” Hugh said. “I like his enthusiasm.”
After church, he’d stood outside Westminster Abbey with his microphone and the mobile recording van, asking passersby about their hopes for 1941.
An eager crowd had formed. Even though he needed only five minutes of material for his New Year’s Eve broadcast, he’d recorded for an hour as the joy spread, infectious and bright.
“Excuse me.” A young man slithered between Hugh’s chair and the desk behind him.
The bomb Hugh and Aleida had witnessed hitting Broadcasting House on 15 October had killed seven and destroyedthe news and music libraries. Then on 8 December, a parachute mine had floated down and exploded in Portland Place near the main entrance. Burst water pipes had turned the staircases into waterfalls and flooded entire floors.
After the second bombing, more departments, including the European Services, had evacuated to other locations. The news department remained but had descended into a warren of makeshift studios and offices in the basement. Many of the staff slept in a dormitory in what used to be the elegant concert hall.
The next voice on the recording was an elderly woman, quivering with emotion and wisdom.
Hugh jabbed his finger at the machine. “That’s the one. We’ll close with her.”
The other engineer turned dials. “I’ll cut the disc and add your introduction and closing.”
“Good man. Thank you.” Hugh took off his headphones, stood, and stretched. “Ready for our next excursion, Young?”
“I’ll meet you at the van in fifteen minutes.” A smile wiggled on Young’s face. “Your favorite ARP post.”
Hugh shrugged. He liked the narrative of following the same post over the course of several months. He also liked a certain lady who happened to be volunteering that evening.
Guy Gilbert stood inside the door, scowling at Hugh.
Hugh sent him a curious tilt of the head and joined him.
Gil stepped into the hall, and his nostrils flared. “You’ve caused trouble for me.”
“Oh?” Hugh kept his voice low to encourage calmness. “In what way?”
“I was to interview James Morris in Home Security today, but he refused to see me.”
“How odd. I interviewed him a few weeks ago, and he was most helpful.”
Red spots formed on Gil’s cheeks. “You misquoted him. Henever said what you claimed. And his words—you ascribed them to Herbert Little on the London City Council.”
A pit opened in Hugh’s stomach. Morris and Little hated each other. This was even worse than misquoting—this was a personal insult. “Oh no. I thought I remembered correctly.”
“Remembered?” Gil’s voice tightened. “Did you lose your notes?”
Hugh rubbed his temple, and his mind spun. “When I last saw Jouveau, I accidentally switched our notebooks.”
