“Exactly.” Red spots bloomed on Miss Granville’s cheeks. “Those complaints interfere with our work, which is precisely why I ordered you to cease.”
Aleida pressed her fingers flat so they wouldn’t coil in frustration. “We shouldn’t be ignoring the complaints but addressing them. Our department is entrusted with the welfare of the evacuees. We need to help the children in bad situations. Weshould also seek ways to support foster families and billeting officers.”
Stiff red lips bent upward. “Are you still compiling your registry of evacuees?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Aleida clasped her hands behind her back. “We’ve collected thousands of names, all recorded on cards. The billeting officers have been most helpful, and they inform us when children arrive or leave.”
Miss Granville slid Aleida’s report to the edge of the desk. “Why are you still visiting the country for this project? It’s a dreadfully inefficient process. Why not simply use the post? Send letters to any remaining towns. They can send the information by post.”
Aleida’s fingers went numb, and her cheeks tingled. If she didn’t go to the country, how could she search for Theo? Could she ... she’d have to go on her own. She could still meet with the billeting officers. Of course she could. She worked for the Ministry of Health, after all.
Miss Granville folded her hands on top of the desk. “From now on, you will conduct inquiries by post only. You will no longer visit billeting officers. I will not countenance any more reports from the country saying you’ve visited and meddled in their affairs. You will not defy me—again.”
Aleida’s breath lodged in her throat, throbbing. Miss Granville knew she was searching for Theo—she’d never hidden that.
But Aleida had crossed Miss Granville, so Miss Granville had crossed her back.
“That is all, Mrs. Martens.”
Unable to inhale or exhale, Aleida gave what passed for a nod, and she fled.
Without visiting the country, how, how, how could she find Theo?
28
WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY12, 1941
The hazy sky dimmed in the sunset as Hugh trudged to the Hart and Swan after recording yet another broadcast chained to the studio.
Frustrating. Humiliating. But he’d earned it.
“Be thankful you still have a job,” he muttered, and he pushed open the pub door and the blackout curtain.
If Fletcher fired him, what then? He could return to the newspapers, a better fate than the one wished upon him by his parents. But his heart was in radio, his talents, and Britain had but one broadcasting company. If only he could earn his way back into Fletcher’s good graces.
In the back room, his friends greeted him warmly—Lou, MacLeod, Barnaby Hillman, Leonard Kensley. And Gil.
Hugh might have publicly forgiven Gil, but he didn’t always feel it.
He worked up a sunny “good evening,” pulled up a chair, and plunged into the conversation. The Luftwaffe had rarely visited London since the New Year. Was this a temporary reprieve or permanent? Would the Nazis mount an invasion in the spring?
“The Germans may try, come spring,” Hugh said. “But before they can invade, they must gain air superiority. If they failed to gain it last summer when we were at our weakest, they certainly shan’t now. The RAF grows stronger every day.”
Murmurs of agreement rounded the table. These men and women liked him and respected him, and Hugh’s chest filled with the sweet air of approval.
His chest clenched. He needed to rest in God’s approval alone.
Hugh knew it. But did he believe it?
If only the Lord would sit down with him, look him in the eye, and say Hugh was a decent old chap and he was proud of him.
More sweet air entered the room in the form of Aleida Martens.
Hugh sprang to his feet, kissed her on the cheek, and helped with her coat.
She smiled up at him, glowing with warmth.
Words surged in his mouth, but he swallowed them. Telling her he loved her didn’t seem proper when she was mourning the separation from her son and he was burdened by murders and career problems.
