The Air Raid Book Club(22)

“Golly. I bet Mama’s as angry as a hornet.”

“Gertrude,” said her mother, appearing in the doorway.

Gertie jumped. Her mother never called her Gertrude. Her father used her full name on a semiregular basis, usually when she brought a book to the dinner table or fed Gladstone, their ancient overweight spaniel, tidbits from her plate. Gertie could tell that Lilian had heard her daughter’s words. She seemed to glow with incandescent rage. “Yes, Mama?” asked Gertie, trying to look as cheerful and innocent as possible.

Lilian’s voice was brisk and clipped. “As you no longer have a governess, I have telephoned St. Margaret’s School for Girls. You will start there tomorrow.”

“St. Margaret’s? Oh, Mama, please no!”

Lilian held up her hand. “It is decided, Gertie. You have a magnificent curiosity, my child, and it is time for you to be schooled with your peers so that you may develop that curiosity.”

“But I like learning at home.”

Lilian’s face softened slightly. “You’ve outgrown the nest, Gertie. You need to be challenged, and the teachers and girls there will challenge you. It won’t be easy, but it will transform you. I promise.”

Jack whispered behind his hand. “Bet you wish you’d been nicer to Old Gibface now.”



They stopped outside a door marked “5B.”

“Here we are. This is your form, Hedy.” Mrs. Huffingham pushed open the door.

The twenty or so girls rose from behind their desks as one. “Good morning, Mrs. Huffingham,” they chorused.

“Good morning, girls. Good morning, Miss Peacock,” she said to the teacher. “This is Hedy Fischer, who will be joining your form.”

Miss Peacock, a slight young woman with a gentle expression and the daintiest nose Gertie had ever seen, moved forward to greet her. “Welcome, Hedy. Come in. I’ve asked Audrey to look after you.”

Audrey wore round gold spectacles and two neat plaits and was several inches taller than her diminutive teacher. She stepped toward them with a friendly wave. Hedy joined her new friend without a backward glance, while Gertie did her best to dismiss her bruised pride. What did you expect? she told herself. You’re not her mother. Besides, she’s exactly where she needs to be.

“Don’t worry, Mrs. Bingham,” said Mrs. Huffingham, as they walked back along the corridor. “We’ll take good care of Hedy.”

“Thank you,” said Gertie. “She hasn’t been to school for a good while. Her mother was too afraid to send her.”

The headmistress shook her head. “A terrible business. We will do all we can to make her feel welcome for the time she’s with us. Girls generally leave education at sixteen, so she’ll need to find some employment when the time comes.”

“I’m hoping that her family will have joined her by then,” said Gertie, trying not to look too eager at the prospect.

Mrs. Huffingham nodded. “In the meantime we will follow your lead and do our very best for her.”

“Thank you,” said Gertie, unsure if she was worthy of such praise.



If Hedy was enjoying school, she certainly didn’t share her feelings. On the first evening, Gertie had tried to engage her in conversation about her day, to quiz her a little on what she was learning and how she was getting along with the other girls.

“Audrey seems like a nice girl,” said Gertie over a supper of pork chops and boiled potatoes.

“Yes. She is,” said Hedy, pushing a cube of meat around her plate with a fork.

“And your form tutor? Miss Peacock?”

“She is nice.”

“That’s good. What about your subjects?”

“I am best in class at German,” said Hedy.

“I daresay you could teach the class if you wanted to.”

“Yes,” said Hedy. “The German teacher is not very good.”

“Hedy!” cried Gertie scandalized.

Hedy shrugged. “I am German. She is not.” She put down her knife and fork. “Can I go to my room now?”

Gertie glanced at her half-eaten dinner. “You’ve hardly touched your food.”

“I do not like Schweinekoteletts. Can I give to Hemingway?”

Gertie sighed as both the dog and the girl gazed at her with eager eyes. She couldn’t entertain the idea of a battle. There was too much turbulence in the world at the moment without starting a row about pork chops. “All right then, but if you do not like my food then perhaps you should cook something you like for both of us.”

“I cook all the time in Munich. I like to bake best, so perhaps I make something one day. And now I can go?”

Gertie put down her knife and fork in defeat. “You may.”



A few weeks later, Gertie returned home after a brisk day’s business at the bookshop. Despite an uncertain future and the dreadful weather, people were still planning their fortnight’s holiday to the seaside and seemed to be stocking up on books for this purpose. Margaret Mitchell’s Gone with the Wind and Georgette Heyer’s Regency Buck were both proving particularly popular, while John Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath had been a big hit at that month’s book club, according to Betty. Gertie let herself in through the front door, looking forward to flopping in her armchair with a cup of tea and perhaps an early-evening program on the radio. She was surprised, therefore, to be confronted by the clamorous melody of “The Lambeth Walk” spilling from the living room at some volume accompanied by the singing and laughter of girls’ voices. Gertie froze. It had been an age since the gramophone had last been in use. Harry’s gramophone.