The Air Raid Book Club(18)
She was working her way around the cornices with her feather duster when she spotted the photograph. As the man staring back at her had the same clear gaze as Hedy, Gertie guessed it had to be her father in his youth. She noticed his thick mustache, strong jaw, and chin tilted forward in a confident pose but also spied a glittering kindness behind his eyes. What disturbed her, however, was the fact that he was wearing an army uniform. A German army uniform.
Gertie sank onto the bed, photograph in hand. She may be a naïve fool, but it had never occurred to her that Hedy’s father would have been a soldier in the Great War. That he may well have fought and killed English soldiers. English soldiers like her brother, Jack. Gertie stared into his eyes. He didn’t look like a murderer. If it weren’t for the Pickelhaube helmet and bayonet by his side, he looked like the kind of man who would offer you a seat on a train or help you with your luggage. An ordinary man. A husband. A father. History liked to cast people as heroes or villains, but Gertie knew from experience that life was less definite. It tossed humans from event to event like pebbles in the sea. All you could do was deal with the world that surrounded you. To fight or flee, to protect the ones you loved and try to survive. It was all anyone could do. She ran her duster over the outer edges of the frame, replaced it on the nightstand, and crept from the room, pulling the door shut behind her.
When Hedy returned later that afternoon, it was Sam who escorted her to the door. Gertie spied the car pulling up outside the house and rose to her feet, nearly tripping over Hemingway, who was in a great hurry to greet their visitors.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Bingham,” said Sam, tipping his hat. Gertie had met Betty’s brother once before when he called in to the bookshop. He had an affable quality and a boyish appearance, which reminded Gertie a little of Jack. “I’m returning Fräulein Fischer to your care.”
He bowed to Hedy. Gertie noticed a rosy flush to her cheeks that hadn’t been there this morning. “Vielen Dank, Herr Godwin,” she said, stepping over the threshold.
“Bitte schön,” he replied with a grin.
“Did you have a good trip?” asked Gertie.
Sam turned to Hedy. “Well, Miss Fischer. What did you think?”
“It was spiffing,” declared Hedy triumphantly.
Sam and Gertie laughed. “We’ve been helping Hedy with her English, not that she needs it really,” he said.
“Come along, Samuel,” called Betty from the car. “Don’t make Mrs. B stand on the doorstep all day.”
Sam grimaced. “She called me Samuel. That means trouble.” He gave a gallant bow. “Schön dich kennenzulernen, Hedy. Good to see you again, Mrs. Bingham.”
“And you, Sam. Thank you for your kindness today. Hedy, did you remember to thank Betty?”
The trace of a frown flitted across Hedy’s face. “Of course.”
“Toodle pip,” said Sam. “Hopefully see you next week at the pictures.”
“Goodbye, Sam,” said Hedy with a smile.
“A trip to the pictures?” asked Gertie as they waved them off.
“Yes,” said Hedy, the smile disappearing from her face. “Betty ask me.”
“Oh. That’s lovely.”
“Yes.” Hedy was already making her way up the stairs.
“I’d love to hear about your day,” said Gertie. “Perhaps over some tea?”
Hedy didn’t turn ’round. “No, thank you. I’m very tired.” She continued up the stairs with Hemingway following close on her heels.
Gertie stood at the bottom of the stairs for a moment, the shadow of loneliness descending. She longed to follow after Hedy, to ask about the trip, to share in her joy, but something prevented her. Gertie knew she wasn’t enough for Hedy. She was a frumpy old woman who cooked kippers and couldn’t remember how to have fun. Why would this young girl want to spend time with her? Charles asserted that it would take time for them to become friends, but Gertie couldn’t imagine this ever happening. Besides, there was a good chance that Hedy’s family would join her in England, and then her role as host would be done. Perhaps it was for the best that their relationship remained fleeting. Like ships that pass in the night.
An atmosphere as closed in as a London smog settled on the house that evening. Gertie sat alone in the living room without even Hemingway for company. Hedy didn’t come down from her room, despite Gertie’s assertions that she needed to eat. The girl was stubborn. Headstrong, as her mother had warned in her letter. Gertie recognized a girl like this from her dim and distant past but couldn’t say she relished sharing a house with her.
Hedy didn’t even wish her a good night, and so Gertie went to bed feeling out of sorts. Not even the emergency Wodehouse volume she kept by the side of her bed for days like these could console her this evening. All tales of Bertie’s capers were shoved out of the way by feverish thoughts that Gertie had made a mistake. She found herself praying that Else Fischer’s efforts to bring her family to England to join their daughter would come to pass sooner rather than later.
Eventually, Gertie fell asleep but was awoken at a little after one by a fearful shriek piercing the darkness. At first she thought it was foxes in the garden, but it was followed by a despairing voice calling out and she realized it was coming from Hedy’s room. Gertie stepped into her slippers and wrapped her dressing gown around herself before emerging onto the landing and peering through the half-open door. The full moon cast a milky light through a gap in the curtains onto Hedy’s anxious face. The girl was mumbling to herself, tossing and turning restlessly in her sleep. Hemingway, who now seemed to have assumed a full-time role as Hedy’s protector, was awake, eyes fixed on her, ready to attack any foe who might spill from her dreams. Hedy’s moans grew louder until she cried out.