For Fans of Kristin Hannah and Kate Quinn - a Blog Tour and Book Excerpt for "The Making of Marigold McGrath"

BOOK EXCERPT

“Mr. Murrow?”

“Yes Marigold.”

“Before I came here, I worked for a relief agency at Woburn House. Uh, in light of the news last week, I was hoping sir, you might give me this Friday.”

Ed Murrow leant forward and put out his cigarette. “What do you have in mind?”

“I’d like to photograph the children’s arrival, sir. I could photograph it, sir.”

He studied her for a moment and then smiled. “We work in radio, Marigold. Radio.”

Marigold straightened her back. “Well, this arrival is only the first. I don’t know if people understand how dire things are for those kids.”

Murrow nodded. “Go on, you’re doing great.”

She realized he was waiting for her to make her case.

Marigold added, “I’ve been given the chance to work with a proper photographer who’s covering it, and um—”

“Yes?”

Her hands started sweating something fierce. She wiped them on her skirt.

“If I can photograph it, then the next time, we can figure out how you can describe it, easily, on the broadcast. You know, because,” She swallowed, “this is history, sir.”

There were two photographers, Kurt and Gertie, who had worked with Picture Post before. Like Marek, they had been refugees and now they were British. Marigold’s job was to assist them both. There were flash bulbs, tripods, countless rolls of film and various lenses. The children’s ferry would arrive at Harwich, two hours from London. From Harwich they’d make their way to Dovercourt Bay Holiday Camp.

The day was bitterly cold. Marigold looked out the window. The landscape was covered in frost. “I thought holiday camps were only used in summer.”

“They are,” Kurt answered.

“Does that mean they don’t have heating?”

Gertie said, “Apparently, it’s the best the authorities can do. One can only hope they’ll be hosted before the taps start freezing.” Mindful of the others around them, Kurt and Gertie spoke in English. Marigold, for fear of getting in their way, preferred not to speak at all.

Harwich was mobbed by the press. As the children disembarked, cameras began clicking and reporters shouted questions.

Kurt worked with two Leicas, which were just like Marigold’s. “Stay close, stay close, Marigold,” he said.

Obediently, she loaded one camera, and handed it to him, when the other ran out of film.

Gertie, for her part, had planted herself in the arrivals lounge, her camera on a tripod, near some seats by a cloak room. After a while, Kurt said, “Go check on Gertie, see if she needs anything.”

Marigold worked her way through the crowd. Some of the girls had gathered outside the toilets. They glanced at her. They were all nearly her age. She might have seen them ice skating at Central Park. Her heart beating, she said, “Hallo! Willkommen in England!”

This was met with silence. Then suddenly, the girls spoke at once, some in English that was much better than her German as well as some who didn’t speak English at all. But a fatigued adrenalin washed over them, and the girls nattered about the trip, about boys, about fears and hopes.

One said, “I hope my family will speak some German.”

Another girl said, “The one I’m going to doesn’t have any other children.”

“Do you think English boys are good looking?” Yet another posed this question as she studied the journalists and photographers.

“My parents will come for me as soon as this is over.” The first one said. “We were supposed to go to America, but we couldn’t get visas. My father will bring my grandparents next month, I think.”

Marigold answered as many questions as she could and glanced over her shoulder. Gertie’s camera was trained onto a little girl with long braids, who sat on a step holding a doll. Marigold watched Gertie say something to the girl. Whatever it was, it caused the faintest traces of a smile to appear and Gertie took the shot.

At Dovercourt Holiday Camp, those who had families ready to host them were quickly identified and the others watched them leave. By teatime, the excitement began to wind down and the press had thinned out.

As Gertie and Kurt began putting away their equipment, Marigold gave her address to a pair of the older girls. “Write to me. When you come to London, we’ll get together.”

Someone took Marigold’s arm and led her away. “How could you say that?” It was Miss Breen.

Marigold blushed. “Oh! Hello, I didn’t know you were here.”

“These girls have nothing.” Miss Breen hissed, “They have no resources. How do you think anyone’s going to be getting to London?”

“I was just—”

“You give them false hopes that everything will be, as you Americans so like to say, Hunky Dory, and it’s not. For some of them the nightmare’s just beginning.”

Kurt caught Marigold’s eye and waved her over, “Shall we?”

On the train ride back, she felt a pain as if she’d actually hurt those girls, injuring them with her ignorance. Gertie and Kurt were whispering in German. Marigold couldn’t understand what they were saying, but Miss Breen was right. One could only imagine what would happen to those children. She pretended to sleep to keep any tears from escaping. So many more were still abroad and desperately needed to leave.