When We Meet Again - Softcover

Beecham, Caroline

 
9780593331156: When We Meet Again
Softcover
ISBN 10: 059333115X ISBN 13: 9780593331156
Verlag: Penguin Publishing Group, 2021

Inhaltsangabe

An emotionally compelling tale of love and mystery set in the publishing world of World War II London, When We Meet Again tells the story of a mother searching for her stolen child, and illustrates the unbreakable bonds among families, lovers, and readers under the shadow of war.

London, 1943: War and dwindling resources have taken their toll on the book publishing industry, but Alice Cotton, a young editor at Partridge Press, has seen her star begin to rise. She has a knack for creating new books to distract readers from the grim realities of the war. And the demand for books is greater than ever, both on the battlefield and on the home front. But just as her hard work seems poised to pay off, Alice unexpectedly falls pregnant.

Facing the stigma of being an unwed mother, Alice flees to a small town to give birth to her child, Eadie, whom her family has promised to help raise. Instead, her mother sells the newborn to "baby farmers" who plan to give the child up for a private adoption. Alice begins her desperate hunt to find the daughter she never planned for but suddenly deeply loves.

Alice's story intertwines with that of Theo Bloom, an American editor tasked with helping Partridge Press overcome the publishing obstacles of the war. Theo and Alice are quickly drawn to each other during their darkest hours, bound by hope, love, secrets, and the belief that books have the power to change lives.

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Caroline Beecham is the author of four historical novels. She studied the craft of novel writing at the Faber Academy in Sydney, with Curtis Brown Creative in London, and has an MA in film and television and an MA in creative writing. She lives in Sydney with her husband and two teenage sons. When We Meet Again is the first of her novels to be published in the United States.

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Prologue

Brighton, 18 March 1943

Alice woke with a start, seagulls screeching from the gabled rooftop. The dawn-glow bled through uneven curtains, illuminating the white wicker crib that stood only a few feet away. She was curled on her side at the very edge of the bed, eye-level with the crib, which sat beside the splintered paintwork of the windowsill.

Her lips curved into a smile. She needed to nurse Eadie now, just as the midwife had shown her the day after the birth. Alice tried to ease herself up onto one elbow, but her limbs were so weak with tiredness that her arm wouldn’t support her, and she collapsed back onto the pillow. Everything was so tranquil; Eadie must still be sleeping—​this most precious time preserved—​and all Alice could hear was her own breathing. It was clear that no one else in the guest­house was awake.

Her lips twitched into a half smile as she wondered if her daughter would always be so calm when she slept; her mother had told her that she’d snored like a grown man.
Alice pushed herself up again, trying to ignore the soreness and discomfort as she carefully swung her legs around and levered up with both hands. With eyes alight, she beamed in anticipation as she tilted forwards, ready to see her newborn, her face hovering over the crib—​but when she looked down, it was empty.

Her eyes flashed wide in horror, staring unblinking at the wrinkled cot-sheet and white crocheted blanket flung over the sides.

The sound of traffic intruded from the road outside as the clock hands carried on their twin journeys, and several moments passed before Alice regained the capacity to think, running her fingers across the place where Eadie’s tiny swaddled body had lain.

It was stone cold.

Was her mind playing tricks on her? Could she be hallucinating, even though they had refused her any pain relief?

No, she could feel it in each aching tendon and the viscera of her body, in the thickness of her womb. Eadie had been born weeks early; Alice’s mother hadn’t arrived by the time the baby came squalling into the world, so her aunt had taken charge, calling the doctor. He had stitched Alice with unsympathetic detachment before telling her to rest, and that any questions should be saved for the nurse who would come the following day.

Her aunt had been on hand, helping with hot water and the constant supply of towels, until the other guests complained there was no supper on the table.

That was it: her aunt must have taken Eadie downstairs.

Alice relaxed as she gathered the white crocheted blanket between her fingers and lifted it to her nose, breathing in her daughter’s scent.

Then she saw the handwritten note.

I’m sorry, Alice, but this really is for the best.

She recognised the handwriting.
 
One

London, November 1942—
​Five months earlier

The baby’s face was scratched and dirty, the blanket barely covering its pale unwashed skin. But the haystacks looked as if they could provide some warmth and comfort, as did the Three Wise Men standing nearby—​even though one was missing his head. Alice stared at the nativity scene a fraction longer, a smile broadening her lips as she gazed at the infant, fear and excitement blooming inside her.

Shopfronts glistened with Christmas decorations and seasonal greetings, the frosted windows strewn with multicoloured tinsel and sprigs of holly, handmade decorations and signs: defiant gestures by Londoners determined to get on with their lives. Alice wished she had time to stay a while longer, but she had to hurry; it was Monday morning, so they would all be assembled for the weekly meeting, and she would make the speech that she’d been practising for some time.
More shops and offices were opening as she hurried by, their entrances and doorways crowded with the morning rush. She carried on past a line of steam-filled cafes, only slowing when the storefront of W.H. Smith & Son came into view. A sign above the entrance read, blacked-out evenings—​take home some books, and a familiar poster stood propped against the end of the bookstand:

IMPORTANT
Newspapers and Magazines Supplies to order only.
The only way to make sure of regular supplies is to give a standing order for all newspapers, periodicals and magazines required, whether these are to be delivered or bought over the counter.
Please give your order NOW.

Alice buttoned her coat as she read, trying to even out her breath, the brutal sting of cold air reawakening her nervousness over what she was about to do. There was no time for second thoughts now, no chance to turn back the clock, so she placed her hand protectively across her belly and carried on into Russell Square.

Above the dark slate roofs, the firewatchers’ platforms and terracotta chimneys, a reluctant winter sun struggled through a sullen sky and the city grew more orderly. Alice headed south towards a Gothic building flanked by taller neighbours, trying not to step on the cracks between the paving stones as she ran through her speech one more time.

The old five-storey building creaked as it welcomed her inside. Since the entrance hall was empty, she stood and looked longingly around: at the substantial glass lantern overhead, still hanging obstinately despite the bombing raids; at the black-and-white tiled floor with its worn oriental rug, and the two wingback chairs either side of the buffet table. An oversized mirror hung above it, reflecting the vase of cascading silk flowers. On the opposite wall, an imposing carved Victorian coat stand resembled an upended fishing vessel full of coats, hats and umbrellas, with Nelson’s leash dangling at one end; he was her employer’s black Labrador.

She dropped her belongings at her feet, heart hammering in her chest, grateful no one was there to see her dishevelled state. She’d caught her reflection in a shop window: her dark-blonde hair frizzy in the damp air, navy eyes ringed red with tiredness. Her mother was right, she did need more sleep. For her and the baby’s sake.

Her colleagues had told her that lots of people had once milled about in the entryway to Partridge Press: agents, delivery boys, a visitor from one government department or another, or a journalist on the scent of a story about one of their writers. Their offices had once been in Paternoster Row in the heart of the city, until a tragic night in December 1940 when their building and seventeen other publishing offices had been destroyed, larger ones like Hutchinson, Longman and Blackwood included. The firms had moved to locations around the British Museum and further west, the event uniting the industry as publishers lent each other office space in a show of solidarity. That was when she had joined Partridge, and she still tried hard not to imagine the collective loss of books and artworks. Her company had lost thousands of works and illustrations, and most of their steel and copper engraving plates and woodcuts, and they were still struggling to recover.

She took another long sweep of the hallway, trying to quell her fear as she remembered the day nearly two years ago when she’d stood in this exact spot, an administrator with little knowledge of the industry. How welcoming they’d been, and how like a family they’d become.

On the left of the entrance was the closed office door of the managing director, George Armstrong-Miller, his name engraved in bright gilt script. On the opposite side was the office of his son, Rupert, one-time financial controller and now an engineer in the Royal Air Force. His image, in full...

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Verlag
Penguin Publishing Group
Erscheinungsdatum
2021
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 10 
059333115X
ISBN 13 
9780593331156
Einband
Taschenbuch
Anzahl der Seiten
385
Kontakt zum Hersteller
preigu GmbH & Co. KG
mail@preigu.de

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