Careless words had killed Uncle Elliott. Killed Jouveau. Wrecked Hugh’s career.
Hurt Aleida.
He winced. He hadn’t meant to imply that Theo would forget her, but that was what she’d heard.
He’d been careless, he’d hurt her, and he couldn’t help her.
“Collie?” The engineer nudged him. “We’re ready with a new disc.”
Hugh pulled himself together and reported on those brave, freedom-loving Norwegian men and women.
Not for the approval of Fletcher or his listeners or his parents, but because good broadcasting informed the public and aided the war effort. Because God had given him a good voice and the talent to be a correspondent.
And using those talents for a good purpose made a far more satisfying beverage.
31
LONDON
MONDAY, MARCH10, 1941
At her desk at the Ministry of Health, Aleida smoothed a letter from a billeting officer in Northamptonshire. No mention of a Teddy Randolph or a Theodore Randolph or a Theodoor Martens, which was his real name.
She was no closer to finding him. Thanks to Hugh’s interference, she’d missed Mr. Randolph that Friday. The next Friday, she’d followed him to Trafalgar Square Station, where he’d taken the Bakerloo Line, which revealed nothing. He could take the line to Paddington Station and to the country—or to the Northern Line, which went to his home.
How many more weeks before she found Theo? Mr. Randolph might not visit the country every weekend.
The letter wouldn’t lie flat, and she smoothed it over and over. Until it lay flat, she couldn’t work with it, couldn’t record the information from the billeting officer onto registry cards.
What about the billeting officer’s plea to transfer some French children from a hostel to private homes? The officer said the WVS ladies accompanying the children to her village insisted the Ministry of Health reserved home billets forBritish children. If it was indeed policy, it was unjust, and the billeting officer wished to lodge a protest.
After Aleida added to her registry, she’d pass the letter to Miss Granville for clarification.
Behind her, Miss Fuller clucked her tongue. “You’ve fussed with that letter for a quarter of an hour. With Miss Sharma absent, we don’t have time for such nonsense.”
Aleida’s hand pressed hard on the letter, and she glanced up to Miss Fuller. “I wonder where Miss Sharma is.”
Standing by a filing cabinet, Miss Granville flipped through a folder. “I tried to ring, but her family doesn’t have a telephone. I’m sure she’s simply ill.”
Something didn’t feel right, twisting in Aleida’s belly. “This isn’t like Miss Sharma at all. Last month when she was ill, she had her sister ring from her office first thing in the morning.”
Miss Granville stopped flipping, stood still, then whirled around with a stiff smile. “Very well, Mrs. Martens. It’s time for lunch. If you’re so concerned, why don’t you pay a call to her home?”
And skip lunch, of course. “Yes, ma’am.”
After Aleida wrote Nilima’s address on a slip of paper, she put on her spring coat in a muted dark pink.
She stepped outside to a gray sky, but at least the morning drizzle had dissipated.
Louisa Jones approached, wearing a plum-colored coat and hat.
Aleida’s step hitched. She hadn’t visited the Hart and Swan or seen any of Hugh’s friends since the argument.
Louisa waved. “I came to take you to lunch.”
“Thank you.” Aleida watched her step on the damp pavement. “I’m afraid I won’t be having lunch. One of the ladies didn’t come to work this morning, and she doesn’t have a telephone. I’m concerned about her.”
“Want some company?”
