The Air Raid Book Club(3)

“It’s not the same without him, is it?” said Gertie, her voice seeming too loud in this hallowed space, as if she were bellowing in church. Hemingway sighed in agreement as Gertie brushed away a tear. “Well. No use in dwelling on things you can’t change. Come along. We’re down to our last volume of Wodehouse, and Harry wouldn’t like that one jot.”

By the time Betty, the assistant bookseller she’d employed after Harry died, arrived, Gertie had dusted, tidied, and restocked the shelves ready for opening.

“I must say it looks spick-and-span in here, Mrs. B,” said Betty, shouldering off her coat. “Shall I make us some tea?”

“Thank you, dear. I’m absolutely parched.”

Betty reappeared a short while later carrying two mismatched cups and saucers. “Here we are. By the way, I’m still mulling over next month’s book club title and wondered if you had any thoughts.”

Gertie gave a casual wave of her hand. “I’m sure whatever you decide will be splendid.”

“Well, I’m quite keen on Middlemarch.”

“Good idea,” said Gertie. “I can’t remember the last time we chose a George Eliot novel.”

“Unfortunately Miss Snipp isn’t so sure.”

“Is she campaigning for another Thomas Hardy book by any chance?”

Betty nodded. “I don’t mean to speak out of turn, Mrs. Bingham, because he’s a wonderful writer, but we only read Tess of the d’Urbervilles two months ago, and forgive me for saying this, but some of the members didn’t care for the way Miss Snipp conducted the meeting.”

This didn’t surprise Gertie. Miss Snipp’s communication style could most accurately be described as abrupt bordering on downright rude. When they first met, Gertie had assumed that Miss Snipp simply didn’t like her. However, she soon came to realize that she disliked almost everybody, apart from Harry, but then, everyone had loved Harry. “I see. And what is she proposing you read next?”

“Jude the Obscure.”

Gertie winced. “Heaven help us all.”

“Mr. Reynolds was so upset by what happened to Tess, I’m not sure he could take it.”

“I’ll speak to Miss Snipp.”

Betty exhaled. “I would be grateful, Mrs. Bingham. I’m already concerned about our membership. I know we have our postal members, but last month’s meeting was very poorly attended. Mr. Reynolds said that it used to be standing room only when you and Mr. Bingham were in charge. I don’t want to let you down.”

Gertie gave her a reassuring smile. “Oh, Betty. You’re not letting me down. The world has changed and people are all rather distracted at the moment. I’ll speak to Miss Snipp, but please, don’t give it a second thought. Bingham’s Book Club is the least of our worries.” Gertie couldn’t say what she really felt: that her world had changed and she was rather distracted, and the book club was the least of her worries because she couldn’t bring herself to think about it. She hadn’t attended a single meeting since Harry died. In fact, Gertie had intentionally absented herself because of the simple fact that she couldn’t bear to attend without him.

They had set up Bingham’s Book Club together and run it as a partnership, relishing the monthly challenge of selecting the perfect book and chairing the most stimulating discussions. Mr. Reynolds had been right. People had traveled from the surrounding towns to take part. They had even attracted authors who were willing to come and discuss their works, achieving something of a literary coup when Dorothy L. Sayers agreed to attend what turned out to be a particularly lively meeting.

That seemed like a distant memory to Gertie now. Gone was the spark of excitement that used to fizz in her brain as she and Harry carefully chose the book club title. She could barely conjure up the impetus to read these days and certainly lacked enthusiasm for anything new or original. This was the reason she had delegated the role to Betty. She was an avid reader with far more youthful zest than Gertie could muster.

Not only was Betty a welcome addition to Bingham Books’s staff, but she also served as a pleasant antidote to Miss Snipp, who had spent her life forging a successful career in both books and complaining. It had been Harry, naturally, who insisted they employ her after she retired from the library.

“Her bibliographic knowledge is encyclopedic, Gertie,” he said. “There is no one better qualified to source books for our customers.” He had been right of course, but still, Gertie was relieved that she worked only two mornings these days and was largely confined to the makeshift office in the corner of the stockroom.

Her heart sank as Miss Snipp appeared at the door, her face as sour as if she were sucking a sherbet lemon. Gertie decided to try to adopt Harry’s amiable attitude while also feeling decidedly queasy at the conversation that lay ahead.

“Good morning, Miss Snipp,” said Gertie with as much cheer as she could muster. “I trust you are well?”

“Not especially,” she replied with a frown. “My gippy hip has been playing me up dreadfully.”

“I’m terribly sorry to hear that,” said Gertie. “Have you tried Epsom salts?”

“Of course. It’s this wretched damp weather,” she said accusingly, as if Gertie were somehow to blame.

“Ah yes, well, there’s not much we can do about that.”