“He must have taken your notebook to France—and your credibility with it.” Gil made a scoffing sound. “How could you broadcast without notes?”
Hugh grimaced. “I was certain.”
“You were wrong. You were sloppy and too lazy to ring Morris and Little to verify.”
Hugh opened his mouth to defend himself, but he stopped and swallowed a vile mouthful of pride. “That is correct.”
Triumph shone in Gil’s blue eyes. “Tell Fletcher, or I will.”
It was the right thing to do, and Hugh sighed. “Fletcher’s in the country with his family for the holidays, but I’ll tell him when he returns.”
With a hard smile, Gil departed.
Hugh marched away. What on earth had he done? All reporters knew better than to trust their memories, especially when quoting people. How arrogant to think he could evade protocol.
On Christmas Day, his mother had told him once again to get serious about his life and find a more fitting position. If Fletcher fired him, her wish might come true.
After he used the loo, he washed his hands and studied his image in the mirror. What business did he have pining over a respectable woman like Aleida Martens? He was sloppy, arrogant, and soon he’d lose his job. Then he could add aimless to his fine list of credentials.
He slapped his image in the mirror and headed out to the recording van.
Tom Young and Gerald MacTavish joined him, and they drove slowly over darkened streets. The sun had set two hours earlier, and no moon would light the sky tonight.
Through November and December, the Luftwaffe had turned their attention to other British cities but had never abandoned London for long.
The van parked outside the ARP post, and Young and MacTavish made ready.
Hugh mustered a smile and entered the post.
Across the room, Aleida stood by the lockers, donning her blue ARP coat. She spotted Hugh, and a smile bloomed on that loveliest of faces.
She already knew he was sloppy. She knew of his infirmity. And tonight he’d tell her of his arrogant mistake and what might result.
Still she beamed at him and hurried his way. If she should ever fall for him, she’d fall for the real man. He would never be so foolish as to turn away such a gift.
Hugh gripped her small warm hands in greeting. “How was Christmas with your aunt and uncle?”
“I’m afraid it was a bit sad.” She squeezed his hands and released them. “We miss Theo and our family in the Netherlands, but we do have each other. How was your Christmas?”
Stiff. Unpleasant. Mourning the lost family members and criticizing the living. “We had a beautiful dusting of snow, and my parents invited you to Collingwood Manor next weekend. Some of their friends have billeted mothers and children in private arrangements. They thought you might like to visit them.”
“I would. How kind of them.” She stepped back and gestured to the other wardens. “We’re ready for the recording. I’ll take you on my rounds, then you’ll join Mr. Peabody on the roof of this building at seven—he’s a spotter. At eight you’ll—”
The phone rang, and the room fell silent. “Yellow warning,” the lady on the phone announced.
Everyone sprang into action. The warning came when the bombers’ course was clear, about ten minutes before the air raid siren, allowing services to prepare.
Hugh took a stack of tin helmets from Aleida. “I’ll meet you outside,” he told her.
At the van, Hugh handed Young and MacTavish their helmets. “Yellow warning.”
“The Hun is early tonight.” Young leaned out of the van and gave Hugh his headphones and microphone. “It’s only a few minutes past six.”
Aleida and her messenger, Tommy, a boy of about sixteen, came out with helmets, gas masks, and torches.
The siren wailed.
Hugh strapped his helmet quite uncomfortably and precariously over his headphones, but the headphones were vital to hear Young’s instructions from afar. “Ready?”
