The Air Raid Book Club(10)
Gertie gave Betty an encouraging smile before taking her leave. She knew she was being cowardly by retreating, but she felt she had no choice. Gertie couldn’t allow herself to invest in the book club, and indeed the bookshop, if she was planning to step away from it. She gathered her belongings and gave Betty a cheery wave before creeping out the door, leading the dog along the high street and up the hill toward the cemetery.
She caught sight of the Beechwood town sign with its galloping white horse and beech tree insignia and wondered how it might feel to leave a place that had been her home for so long. It was a charming little town. The shopkeepers took pride in keeping their shop fronts gleaming, shining out beneath brightly colored canvas awnings.
Two small boys were standing with their noses pressed up to the window of Stevens the Chemist’s, with its intriguing rainbow display of liquid-filled conical bottles, waiting for their mother to reappear. They turned as Gertie passed.
“Hullo, Mrs. Bingham. Hullo, Hemingway the dog,” said the larger of the two boys. “Please may we pat him?”
Gertie was used to these interactions. Hemingway’s dignitary status in their little town meant that she often had to stop so that both children and adults could stroke him.
“Of course,” said Gertie, watching as the boys showered love and affection on the appreciative dog.
“Look. He’s smiling,” squeaked the smaller of the two boys before kissing the top of Hemingway’s head. “You’re the best dog in the world.”
Gertie glanced up at the large square clock hanging outside Robinson the Cobbler’s. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, young gentlemen. Hemingway and I have a prior engagement.”
She felt weary to her bones as she climbed the hill to the cemetery. When she reached the gates, Gertie paused to catch her breath and take in the view. As a final resting place, it was rather splendid, lined with carefully tended gardens and enveloped on all sides by towering beech and horse chestnut trees. Their branches were mostly bare, but a few stray leaves clung resolutely to the trees, fluttering like orange-and-red flags against a sapphire sky. Gertie closed her eyes and turned her face upward to feel the precious warmth of the sun on her face. She’d always disliked autumn, much preferring the fierce hope of summer when the world seemed so alive, gardens bursting with color, parks and beaches crowded with joyful humanity. The world began to disappear underground in autumn, decaying and decomposing before her eyes. It had been Harry’s favorite time of year, of course.
“But everything’s dying,” Gertie would complain.
Harry would hold out his hand and lead her into the garden. “No, my darling,” he would say, pointing to a tightly furled bud on the magnolia tree. “Everything’s sleeping. Resting until the spring when the world begins anew.”
Gertie opened her eyes and picked her way to his grave. “The trouble is,” she said as they reached it, “you died in autumn, but you’ll never begin anew, my love.” She pulled out her handkerchief and gave the letters on his headstone a clean while Hemingway sat in obedient silence.
harry bingham,
devoted husband to gertie and
beloved son of wilberforce and veronica,
at rest 25 october 1936
Gertie had been very certain about the wording, much to the surprise of Mr. Wagstaff the undertaker, a thin man with an even thinner mustache.
“May I suggest a more formal approach?” he had said. “It is usual to at least use full given names to add a sense of gravitas.”
“You may, but I shall reject your suggestion,” said Gertie firmly. “My husband was Harry to everyone who knew him. His death has provided me with all the gravitas I require. And given that I shall be the only one to tend and visit his grave, I think I should be able to choose the words which will greet me, don’t you?”
Mr. Wagstaff had stared at Gertie appalled, as if expecting her to apologize for such an outburst. He was to be sorely disappointed when Gertie stood up and fixed him with a determined look. “I am assuming this is all you require. Good day.”
“I certainly gave him what for,” she said, as she extracted the old flowers from the vase on Harry’s grave, replacing them with the roses she’d cut from the garden that morning. “There you are, my darling. A surprise bunch for you, thanks to the mild weather.”
Hemingway moved forward to sniff at the arrangement before nuzzling Gertie with his nose. She stroked his ears and put her arms around his head, cuddling him to her as tears formed in her eyes. The dog leaned instinctively toward her.
“What are we going to do, eh, boy?” she whispered into his fur.
A dancing breeze whipped up around them, so that Gertie had to clutch her hat as some of the last leaves scattered across the graveyard like confetti. A couple of pages of old newspaper caught by the wind whipped and dived in the air, causing Hemingway to bark in excitement. He leapt up with surprising enthusiasm, scampering after them as if they were giant versions of the butterflies he liked to chase with little success. This time, however, he caught one of the large sheets in his teeth and paused in astonishment at his surprise victory, before growling and shaking it in his jaws as though it were prey that needed to be tamed.
“What have you got there, you silly dog?” said Gertie in amusement, reaching down to wrest it from him. Hemingway gave a reluctant growl. “Hemingway,” warned Gertie.