CARMARTHEN, WALES
THURSDAY, DECEMBER 12, 1940
Thanks to Mrs. Owen’s thorough local registry, Aleida’s work in Carmarthen went quickly, leaving time to interview evacuees and foster parents. Miss Granville still encouraged her to visit the country to build the national registry of evacuees, but Aleida hadn’t mentioned she continued her interviews.
Her initial goal for collecting the stories had been to persuade families to evacuate their children. Now she simply wanted to document conditions, good or ill. With hundreds of interviews, she would soon be ready to type her report.
After Aleida packed her notes and registry cards in her small suitcase, she smiled at the billeting officer seated across the desk from her. Mrs. Owen showed extraordinary care for evacuees and foster families. “Thank you for your help. The evacuees here are blessed.”
“It’s our blessing to help them.” A slender woman around forty, Mrs. Owen wore her light brown hair in a simple pageboy cut. “Are you finished?”
Aleida rubbed the nubby brown leather of her suitcase. To ask about Theo on the twelfth day of the twelfth month—on Theo’s fourth birthday, nonetheless—felt like yielding to superstition.
Yet she’d be remiss not to ask in every town she visited. She gripped the suitcase handle to busy her hands. “Has anyone mentioned a boy of four, blond hair, blue eyes, possibly a Dutch accent? He’s missing the fingers on his right hand.”
Mrs. Owen pressed her fingertips to her round chin and frowned. “A few months ago we had a little boy with some sort of hand deformity. We had to send him to the hostel.”
“The hostel?”
“For the children who are hard to place—persistent bedwetters, delinquents, those with delicate health—and we’re required to send all refugees to hostels as well.” Mrs. Owen raised a flimsy smile. “It isn’t as medieval as it sounds. The children are cared for well, and they’re better off than with foster families who can’t manage their needs.”
Aleida’s face tingled as the blood drained away. Although stories of hard-to-place children peppered her interviews, no one had mentioned hostels. Theo was a refugee. Could he be in a hostel?
“The little boy is Dutch?” Mrs. Owen inclined her head. “You know him?”
“He’s my son.” Her voice cracked.
Mrs. Owen sprang up and flung her coat over her green WVS uniform. “My husband is a doctor, so we have petrol in the car. Shall we go?”
What if this little boy was Theo? Could it be? Would she see him today?
“Come.” Mrs. Owen handed Aleida her dark blue coat.
With an intake of breath and hope, Aleida put on her coat and followed Mrs. Owen out of the guildhall and down to the road running alongside the ruins of Carmarthen Castle.
They climbed into a black car, and Mrs. Owen drove away, chatting about the history of the castle and of the new bridge that replaced a medieval structure a few years before. Dreadful, wasn’t it, but necessary.
She was trying to distract Aleida, but it didn’t work.
Theo.
Her heart fluttered. How much had he grown? Would he recognize her? If she’d known she might find him today, she would have brought Oli and the little wooden lorry she’d bought for his birthday.
Tap, tap. Aleida grimaced and shoved her hand under her thigh.
Still Mrs. Owen talked, now about the Welsh language and how evacuees struggled to understand some of the foster parents at first, and how the foster families struggled with Cockney accents and such.
Even though trapped, Aleida’s fingers jiggled on the seat.
It seemed a month until they reached the hostel, a three-story brick home surrounded by gardens and lawns.
“I resist sending children here.” Mrs. Owen parked the car. “I believe there’s a home for every child, but sometimes we have no choice.”
“I understand.” Aleida’s voice quivered.
Mrs. Owen rang the bell, and a woman admitted them and led them to the matron’s office. Miss Lloyd, a heavyset woman in her sixties, greeted them.
After introductions were made, Mrs. Owen nodded to Aleida. “Mrs. Martens is searching for her son, a little boy of four with a hand deformity.”
“Like Charlie?” Miss Lloyd’s small eyes lit up. “The nursery class is playing outside. Come with me.”
As she followed, Aleida’s stomach tumbled, and she prayed incoherent pleas.
Mrs. Owen entered a sitting room with a bank of windows overlooking a grassy slope. “They’re playing caterpillar. Charlie’s at the end.”
Small children in light blue play smocks held hands and snaked across the lawn. The boy at the end of the queue . . .
Aleida’s heart plunged into her tumbling stomach. Charlie was missing far more than his fingers—his arm ended above the elbow. And he had sandy curls, not Theo’s straight, white-blond hair. “He isn’t Theo. He isn’t my son.”
If she ever needed confirmation that looking to numbers for signs and answers didn’t work . . .
Of course, it didn’t. It couldn’t. Turning a knob twelve times didn’t cause God to release the desires of one’s heart. God wasn’t an automaton to manipulate.
She’d always known that. But now she believed it.
Aleida slammed her eyes shut and prayed to the only one who knew where Theo was, the one who could lead her to him—or not—in his timing and his way.
“I’m sorry,” Mrs. Owen said in a gentle voice.
A wave of sorrow broke inside her. It was Theo’s birthday, and no one knew. No one would celebrate with him.
“Let’s return to town.” Mrs. Owen threaded her arm through Aleida’s.
Aleida thanked her with a glance and went with her out to the car.
Verdant countryside rolled past on the drive back. She had two more days to visit towns in Wales, but all she wanted was to return to London and tell Hugh.
Those eyes of his—how soft they were when he hurt for her. Those arms of his—how he’d hold her and comfort her.
Was it fair to lean on him for comfort when she hesitated at any sign of romance?
He never pressed. He never touched her other than gentlemanly gestures. He took her to lunch and for walks in the park, more friendly than romantic. He was all kindness and humor and chivalry . . . and veiled longing.
She groaned and massaged her squirming belly. He deserved a woman who could give generously, not one preoccupied with troubles.
Hugh had enough troubles of his own. François Jouveau had been missing for over a month, and the police believed him to be an air raid victim. Guy Gilbert had mentioned a rumor that Jouveau had parachuted into France as a spy. MacLeod remembered Jouveau talking about French refugees in America—had he crossed the Atlantic for a story?
Hugh believed none of it. The connection to his uncle’s murder loomed in his thoughts. In vain, the poor man had turned his study inside out searching for Jouveau’s notebook, for any clues it might contain.
Aleida sighed out another prayer. Only the Lord knew where Theo and Jouveau and the notebook were. Only the Lord knew who had killed Elliott Hastings. If only the Lord would show them.
Back at the guildhall, Aleida asked Mrs. Owen to use the telephone and she left money to cover the charge.
In a few minutes, the operator connected her to the Ministry of Health. Nilima Sharma transferred her to Miss Granville, and Aleida told her about the hostel.
“Oh yes.” No surprise colored Miss Granville’s voice. “There are fifty hostels and camps throughout the country.”
“Fifty?” Aleida clapped her hand to her chest. Now she had forty-nine new locations to search. “We can’t find homes for that many children?”
“Must you always sound outraged? We’ve removed these children from squalor and given them proper food and clothing and a sanitary home. They ought to be grateful.”
Aleida mashed her lips together. Yes, the children received care. But they didn’t receive love.
“Please, Mrs. Martens.” Miss Granville’s tone softened. “This is for the best. I persuaded you to abandon your last crusade. Please don’t take up a new one. Now, I must—oh, do you—” A voice murmured in the background. “Mrs. Martens, Miss Sharma would like to speak to you.”
The phone clicked in transfer. “Mrs. Martens?” Nilima whispered into the phone.
“Yes?” Why was she whispering?
“I heard everything. Take up that crusade. Write your report. I’ll help as best I can.”
“Thank you.” A light chuckle escaped. Her fellow foreigner, eager to upset the status quo. But if they spoke up, would anyone listen?