When We Meet Again Page 2

  George turned to face them. “The public’s appetite for books is still growing across all genres, but we don’t have the resources to try anything new, that’s the maddening thing. Tell them, Tommy.”

  “Our paper ration has been reduced again.” He waited for their collective groan to end. “And since it takes one ton of paper to produce three thousand books—”

  “Only if they’re two hundred and fifty pages long.” Emily clearly wasn’t willing to be outdone.

  “Well, yes, that’s right,” he said. “But it still means we can’t publish as many titles as in previous years. We’ll be lucky if we get five nonfiction and ten fiction books out of our paper stocks this quarter, and that means we can only produce two new titles.”

  “It’s difficult to take risks with only two new titles,” Ursula said, with the trace of her eastern European accent.

  “Precisely,” George agreed.

  The knot in Alice’s stomach tightened; this really wasn’t the day to be telling them that she was leaving, when what they needed were winning new ideas. The public was reading more than ever in shelters and in their homes during blackouts, as were the troops and voluntary services as they waited, and yet here was the publishing industry without the means to produce more books.

  Tommy said, “You all know the new rules, that we don’t get the paper ration next year unless we get the book sales this year. So, we can’t really afford to take risks. We need certainty, and to give booksellers titles they can sell.”

  “Well, that means more crime and romance, then,” Emily said confidently.

  “If we want to play it safe, it does,” Ursula replied.

  The Bookseller published a weekly chart of the bestsellers and the most borrowed books, and they included Agatha Christie, Ernest Hemingway, Daphne du Maurier, Graham Greene and Victor Gollancz, as well as the propaganda bestsellers that the Ministry of Information produced.

  “What about children’s books?” Alice suggested. “Apparently Five on a Treasure Island is proving popular.”

  “It’s just novelty,” Emily scoffed. “It’s not going to last. Do you seriously think anyone is going to be interested in reading about what four children and their dog get up to in the school holidays?”

  “I don’t know,” George said thoughtfully. “I really don’t, but we need to try something.”

  “Maybe we should publish new fiction,” said Alice. “We could take a chance on some new writers. It would be more economical, wouldn’t it?”

  “I like how you’re thinking, Alice,” said Tommy, “but now is not the time to be launching authors.”

  “All right, then maybe we should relaunch the classics,” Emily said. “Our most-loved authors, like Penguin did.”

  George sighed. “Yes, the backlist would have been the answer, if we hadn’t lost all the plates in the bombing.”

  “Oh yes, of course, I’m sorry.” Emily looked sheepish. She was as plain-looking as she was plain-thinking, with her short brown bob and knitted clothes that no one in their twenties should be seen in, even during wartime, but Alice didn’t hold that against her; it was the frequency with which she said such inappropriate and thoughtless things.

  “We do know the MOI books are popular, that they’re a new kind of narrative,” Ursula said. “We’d be insane not to try to find our own version of them.”

  “We don’t have the same access, though,” George said, as he paced the room. “Those books rely on expert knowledge and firsthand accounts from serving officers.” He picked up The Battle of Britain, tapping the front cover with his finger. “Look, diagrams and photographs from the army—where would we get any of those?”

  “Rupert would have known what to do,” Emily said under her breath.

  “Yes, well, Rupert’s not here, is he?” Tommy snapped.

  Alice chewed her lip as she tried to put Rupert from her thoughts and decide whether she should tell them about her idea, or just that she was leaving. But the smoke was beginning to nauseate her, and her brain was like wet porridge. It was excruciating: here she was, about to tell them that she wouldn’t be working for the foreseeable future, and they needed her more than ever.

  Instead, she blurted, “We could get our most popular authors to write on a topic of war, long essays from their point of view—just like Hilary Saunders did.”

  “That’s because Saunders isn’t just popular, he’s damn good,” said George. “He’s just done a six-week sellout tour of America. What do the rest of you think?”

  As they carried on discussing the idea, Alice picked up a copy of Bomber Command and found herself caught up in a story from one of the returning aircrew members, even though she’d read it before. There was no getting away from the fact that these topical nonfiction titles were compelling; when real life became more dramatic than fiction, it was hardly surprising that people wanted to read these types of books. Her gaze fell across the bookshelf that took up the entire back wall, containing an edition of every one of Partridge’s books that hadn’t been destroyed: the successful crime series, the one-off novels, the how-to’s, the breakthrough successes, and even titles that had been returned. There were hundreds of emotions and thousands of brave words and ideas bound inside those covers, and she needed to show bravery now too.

  “Well, what about real lives and real voices?” Alice said hesitantly. “They make better storytelling these days.”

  Tommy looked puzzled. “But we’re not in the business of producing propaganda, Alice, which is what these ‘real life’ books are intended for.”

  “I know, but I’m talking about civilian stories,” she said, “and they are just as dramatic as any Hollywood film, but they’re real.”

  “What do you have in mind?” Ursula asked, leaning forward, resting her chin on her clenched hand.

  “Stories from the home front . . . not the soldiers’ point of view but the women behind the scenes. The female wardens and the ambulance drivers, the Wrens and the WAAF—we could show their side of the story and that their experiences count too.”

  “But why would we want to tell the same stories that Picture Post and Illustrated do?” Emily said, shaking her head. “And why would people pay sixpence for them?”

  “These titles wouldn’t be like the magazines you read once then give away to your next-door neighbor—they would be books to treasure. The first could include stories of what women and children are doing to cope, how they’re helping and being affected.” Alice pushed the book back into the center of the table. “Families will want to keep them for their children, to remember this aspect of how we won the war and understand what was sacrificed for them. It’s about the women and children first.”

  “Hear, hear,” George said, clapping, “marvelous!”

  Alice wasn’t sure what had come over her, but it had seemed the right moment to share an idea she’d been thinking about for some time. After all, she had nothing to lose now. “They’ll be extraordinary stories of ordinary people,” she said, smiling at the thought.

  “It is rather clever,” Tommy said slyly. “We won’t need to pay any advances or royalties.”

  “So, what are we going to give them then, Alice?” Emily asked, with a note of skepticism. “What specifically is the first story going to be about?”

  They were all looking at her, expecting an answer. This was far worse than she’d imagined; she wasn’t just letting her mother down anymore but also the people she respected and admired, the ones who had believed in her. And she couldn’t even tell them why.

  “Come on, Alice,” said George, “how far have you developed this idea?”

  Was there any way she could stay longer, perhaps leave in a few more weeks? She pulled out her notebook containing schematics of the idea, clippings from newspapers that, once investigated and researched, might make for bigger human-interest stories. There were the schoolboys
now working as zookeepers, the child wardens, and small children reunited with long-lost parents, but there wasn’t nearly enough to illustrate the idea, let alone content for a whole book—not yet, anyway.

  Alice looked at her employer, knowing that whatever she said now she wouldn’t be able to deliver on; it would be someone else’s job.

  Everyone’s eyes were on her, and she was drowning under the weight of their expectation.

  “Well, at least we have something to think about,” Ursula said, coming to her rescue. “We can have a brainstorming session after lunch. There are other things we need to discuss now, aren’t there, Tommy?”

  “You can make a start now though, can’t you, Alice?” Tommy asked. “Draw up a list of possible stories, people to interview.”

  “Of course, but—” It really was terrible timing, but she couldn’t wait any longer; the worrying was keeping her awake at night. “I’m so sorry, and I realize this is awful timing . . . but I’m afraid I can’t work on these books. I’ve got to go away for a few months.”

  George looked confused. “What do you mean, Alice?”

  “My cousin is about to have a baby, and her husband has just been killed.” The lie made her throat constrict. When she glanced up, George was glaring at her, and Ursula looked surprised. “I’ve got to move in with her for a while. She’s a mess, you see. Heading for a breakdown, my mother said.” Her cheeks burned as the blood rushed to her face.

  “What about your mother?” George asked. “Or isn’t there someone else in the family who can help?”

  “George!” Ursula snapped, narrowing her eyes at him.

  “I’m sorry, Alice. That’s terrible news, and I’m sure we are all very sorry for your cousin. Please give her our profound sympathies. And there really isn’t anyone else who can help look after the poor woman?”

  “I’m afraid not, George. It’s up to me.”

  The group’s excitement dissipated, and even Nelson rested his head on his paws and lay forlornly at George’s feet. The meeting continued in a genial manner, and after some discussion it was decided that Emily would coordinate the work on Alice’s book idea. They would bring in a freelance writer to develop it until Alice came back; it was hoped they could generate some noteworthy stories about women and children on the home front, as well as tales of exceptional romance and bravery from everyday lives.

  Just as they were preparing to leave, George addressed them again. “I’ll be expecting you all to dig deep into your own lives—think about family members or friends who might have had experiences they’ve never shared before. You know how people can surprise you.” He stared directly at Alice.

  She didn’t know where to look, but she waited for everyone to leave and caught up with him. “I am really very sorry, George,” she said, forcing herself to meet his gaze. “I will try to hurry back, but I understand that you can’t keep my job open.” She’d no idea what had got into her; there was no possibility of her ever coming back. How could she keep up the pretense in the office, hiding the identity of the baby’s father along with her anguish over what had happened? The whole idea was wildly inappropriate, and she couldn’t believe she’d suggested it, yet the thought of leaving them all and her job for good seemed just as impossible.

  “Nonsense!” said George. “There will always be a place for you here; you know that. And that’s the reason why you will have to excuse my selfishness, even though I really am very sorry for your cousin.” He placed an arm around her shoulders.

  Alice shuddered, bracing herself against his touch; so much about him reminded her of Rupert.

  “We’ll all be sorry to see you go, Alice, but we understand how difficult it must be for you too. And we value your loyalty to your family. It’s only right to keep strong principles during these times.” His sincerity made her feel a hundred times worse.

  “Thank you, George. I think so too.” She forced a smile, wishing things were different and that she could have shared the truth.

  Two

  At lunchtime Ursula followed Alice into the courtyard. Bundled in her red velvet turban and old sable coat, Ursula was clearly fuming that Alice hadn’t confided in her. “So,” she said, “this cousin of yours, I don’t think I’ve ever heard you talk about her before.”

  “Really? I’m sure I must have . . . she’s a poor old thing.” Alice picked at a corner of her sandwich. “Mum’s convinced she’s having a nervous breakdown, so we need to be there—for the baby.”

  They’d settled at one of the wrought-iron tables to eat their lunches, the brittle wind carrying the noise of traffic from surrounding streets. Alice felt oddly unnatural, as if they were actors on a stage about to begin their scene, and not colleagues and friends who knew each other well and did this all the time.

  “That’s understandable,” Ursula said, “but what about you? I can see how upset you are about leaving. It just doesn’t seem very fair.” Alice felt Ursula eyeing her surreptitiously, as if noticing that something had changed—perhaps even the shape of her belly—and she tried to remain composed, knowing that the more guarded she was, the more suspicious Ursula would become.

  “Why isn’t it fair?” Alice asked.

  “You having to give up work, for one thing.” Ursula pushed away her barely touched lunch and pulled out a packet of Sobranie cigarettes, offering one to Alice, who shook her head. “So, you’re giving up cigarettes too?” Ursula said flippantly, then placed one between pursed lips.

  “Well, of course I’d obviously rather not give up my job, but Mum won’t stop working, so I have to.”

  “Maybe you should let me talk to her,” Ursula said as she forcefully exhaled. “You’re going to make such a great editor, Alice. And after all my hard work training you . . . I really don’t know how you can bear to throw it all away!”

  Alice didn’t know how she was going to either. She didn’t have a degree like Ursula, Emily and Tommy but had learned through reading widely and taking a course at the London College of Printing. After a lot of hard work and determination, she had been hired as an administrator by George, then Ursula had trained and supported her in becoming an assistant editor—much to the horror of Emily, who couldn’t understand how on earth this could happen. Ursula had shown Alice how to assess manuscripts, copyedit, proofread, brief illustrators and typographers, and look after the department’s ever-shrinking advertising budget; all things Ursula had told her that she’d need to know when her time came to be an editor. Only now that could never happen.

  “Well, I’m sure I’ll be back before we know it,” Alice said somberly.

  “It is a lot to ask, though, for you to put your job on hold rather than hers. After all, you’re in a profession now, and she’s not,” Ursula replied emphatically.

  “I know, but she doesn’t see it that way. She thinks I’ve only been here for two years, and she’s been at the munitions factory for much longer. She won’t give it up.”

  Alice took another bite of her sandwich, trying desperately to hide her watery eyes as she fixed her gaze on a robin that tapped its beak on the frozen water of the nearby birdbath. Ursula watched too as the bird persevered, but she cast sneaky glances at her friend. Alice wanted to tell her the truth, but for every reason she found to share her secret, another swooped down like a magpie to steal the thought. Still, she couldn’t silence the tiny voice that whispered, A trouble shared is a trouble spared, or the avalanche of other old sayings that sprang to mind. She looked up at Ursula and forced a smile. It hurt to keep the truth from her, but it could hurt more not to. And Alice knew that her friend was keeping a secret of her own, one she might not be inclined to share even if Alice revealed hers.

  She forced herself to finish her sandwich, then got up to explore the small courtyard, crunching across the slippery gravel as she examined the ropes of ivy that twisted over the gray flint walls and trailed down the other side. This compact space
felt like a safe haven, but soon Alice would only be able to dream about it.

  “Anyway,” she said with a sigh as she turned around, “Mum says bullets are more important than books.”

  “Christ, your mother really is a drain and not a radiator!” Ursula said with a roll of her eyes. “Anyway, books have a great deal of power.”

  “That’s what I told her.”

  Smoke curled through Ursula’s lips. “Don’t you love earning a decent wage?”

  “Of course I do. But you know Mum, she says it’s our ‘God-given role’ to look after family first and foremost. You have no idea how many times she’s quoted verse at me.”

  Alice rolled her eyes, and Ursula smiled. “Go on, which one this time?”

  Ursula was always amused by stories of her mother’s piety, and the unspoken tension dissolved as the rhythm of their friendship returned.

  “The First Epistle to Timothy,” Alice replied quickly. “ ‘But if any provide not for his own house, he hath denied the faith, and is worse than an unbeliever.’ ”

  It surprised Alice that she still remembered the verse although there had been years of forced churchgoing for her and her brother, William.

  “Oh, dear, you don’t want to risk going to hell,” Ursula said in a dramatic voice, then smirked. “Well, some of us would never go back to how things were before the war,” she added, exhaling heavily.

  “Of course I like earning money, but if it’s a choice between having three pounds in my pocket and not having a war, I know which one I’d take!” Alice said as she sat back down, gathering her coat around her and shivering.

  “You know that’s not what I meant. It’s just that it’s not all bad.”

  “What about your mother?” Alice asked, wanting to change the subject. “You rarely talk about your parents.”

  “What of them? I told you they banished me to London after I had too much fun at college. Besides, Oxford is too far to travel on my one day off. And there’s enough excitement to be had in this fine city.” She looked up and smiled, but Alice sensed a sadness behind the mask.