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 unbuttoned 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 bags 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 uniform with a teasing half smile and a mass of dark hair, commanded attention from his portrait beside the door; his expression was the one that always beguiled people, its playful immaturity making him seem harmless and charming. That look had drawn her in, made her trust him, and given her the ill-conceived idea that she was protected here. When she took a step backwards his eyes seemed to follow her, just like when they’d first met and he’d always kept her within his sight. He’d never hidden what he thought of her or been too shy to show it.

Alice averted her eyes and tried not to think of him as she hurriedly backed away, trying to focus on what lay ahead as she climbed the staircase.

The third-floor editorial department was accessed from a helter-skelter of stairs, with uneven landings pivoting in all directions. It always felt to Alice as if she were stepping off a fairground ride to be propelled through small doorways, their brass handles far too low down. She held on to the handrail and planted her feet firmly as she climbed, striving to ignore the growing tightness in the pit of her stomach as she passed the production department on the first floor, with its unmistakeable chemical reek, then accounts on the second floor.

On the third floor she stood outside the boardroom for a moment to steady her breathing, worried her rapid heartbeat and flushed cheeks might give her away—just as Nelson had, scratching at the bottom of the door.

Alice unbuttoned her coat, letting it fall loosely around her hips, and turned the handle. The door opened into a large wood-panelled room where a meeting was underway, and they all turned to look at her. George was at the head of the grand mahogany table in a haze of cigarette smoke; Tommy Simpson, their bald-headed production controller, was seated at his side; and Emily Dalrymple, the non-fiction editor, was at the other. Ursula Rousson, the fiction editor, had her back to the door, a brightly patterned scarf tied around her neck and her blonde hair tousled into a hairstyle every bit as unorthodox as her personality. She swung round to look down her nose at Alice, then tutted good-humouredly. ‘Good morning, Alice,’ she said, smiling warmly.

‘Come in,’ George said, motioning at the seat next to Ursula. ‘You haven’t missed anything, although I was just saying that we do have some important discussions to get through.’

Nelson greeted her with his wet nose, and she bent down to scratch his neck. ‘I’m sorry I’m late. The bus was so crowded I had to wait for the next one.’ She quickly looped her bag and gasmask over the back of the chair before she sat down, gathering her coat self-consciously across her lap.

‘Can’t be helped,’ George replied in his gravelly voice, ‘and you’re here now.’ He smiled broadly as he leaned back in his chair, lifting his elbows as he smoothed back his wisps of hair with both hands.

He was the youngest of the two sons in the publishing family, and he had a gregarious and generous nature. He’d given Alice an opportunity, ignoring the gaps in her education as if he already knew what other powerful men didn’t—that thousands of young women like her around the country were completely unqualified for the roles war had chosen for them but immensely capable, nevertheless.

He leaned abruptly forward, resting his arms on the desk in front of him, which reminded her of where Rupert got his habit of fidgeting from. ‘Actually, we started early because there have been some developments. Tommy, why don’t you fill Alice in.’

The boardroom had formerly been a morning room, its ornate light-fittings and oversized windows allowing in plenty of light as well as providing glorious views over Russell Square. Spread across the vast table were several editions of Bomber Command and The Battle of Britain, their eye-catching covers featuring images that had become all too common in recent months: the faces of actual pilots—the real heroes of the empire—not fictional characters. In the six months following its release by the Ministry of Information, The Battle of Britain had sold nearly five million copies to become a surprise best-seller, and none of them—not Penguin or Hutchinson or any of the other major book publishers—had been able to replicate the success.

‘Rumour has it they’re planning a new one on minesweepers,’ Tommy said, leaning across the table to push the latest edition towards her.

‘You can imagine the drama and intrigue in that one,’ Emily said, raising an eyebrow.

‘The truth is, we can’t really compete with the Ministry anymore,’ Tommy said, sounding glum. ‘We need some big new ideas of our own.’

George stood and moved over to the window, leaning his shoulder against the architrave, hands thrust into his trouser pockets as he gazed out onto the grass square.

The others glanced at one another, waiting for him to speak, and Tommy offered cigarettes from a smart leather case. Only Ursula accepted, and as Alice watched him light it for her, she desperately hoped the smoke wouldn’t nauseate her now as it had started to. She’d been lucky with her pregnancy so far, only developing a deep distaste for fish and eggs, and since they were difficult to get hold of it hadn’t been too much of an inconvenience—but most of her co-workers smoked.

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 tonne 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 non-fiction 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 said, nodding.

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 were 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 first-hand 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.

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 only popular, he’s damn good,’ said George. ‘He’s just done a six-week sell-out 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 air-crew members, even though she’d read it before. There was no getting away from the fact that these topical non-fiction 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 soldier’s 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 neighbour—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 centre 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. ‘Marvellous!’

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 scepticism. ‘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 their weight.

‘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 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 realise 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 pretence 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.