The Air Raid Book Club(31)
“I love you,” whispered Charles. “I will always love you, and no other will ever come close to you.” He pressed the photograph to his lips before sliding it back into his wallet and picking up the pen again, ready to write. If he died out here, he needed Gertie to know his true feelings.
“Tea, sir.”
Charles looked up from his letter as the weary soldier placed a tin mug before him. “Thank you, Sergeant.”
“Shall I take these letters for you, Captain?”
Charles glanced down at his unfinished letter to Gertie. He paused for a moment before scribbling hastily.
I am in good health and hope for brighter times when Harry, you, and I will be reunited in person. Do send him my very best. You are always in my thoughts.
I am yours ever,
Charles
“Thank you, Sergeant,” he said, placing Gertie’s letter with the others and handing them over.
Part Two
London, 1940
Chapter 8
My Best Friend is a person who will give me a book I have not read.
—Abraham Lincoln
Gerald Travers frowned at the bare brick wall as if expecting Hitler himself to emerge from within before giving it an authoritative tap and cocking his head to listen. He stepped back with a satisfied nod.
“Safe as houses, Mrs. Bingham,” he said, glancing around the dimly lit, shelf-lined room, which up until today had served largely as the storeroom and orders office. “I’m more than happy to rubber-stamp this as a public air-raid shelter.”
“Thank you, Mr. Travers,” said Gertie. “We’ll be glad to offer refuge should the need arise. I’m sure we can make it more welcoming with a few chairs and cushions. At least there’s plenty to entertain us,” she added, nodding toward the book-stacked shelves.
Gerald gave a considered nod. He reminded Gertie a little of Alderman Ptolemy, the tortoise character from the Beatrix Potter stories who moved with slow deliberation and was also partial to the lettuce that grew in his abundant garden. “Hitler’s too busy trampling his way across Europe at the moment, but it won’t be long before he’s knocking on our door. And we’ll be ready for him,” said Gerald, tapping the side of his nose.
Gertie smiled. She had known him for years. Everyone knew Gerald and his wife, Beryl. They had run the local greengrocer’s and they’d taken a special shine to Gertie one day when she admired their homegrown cauliflowers and confessed a dream of trying to grow them in her own garden. Beryl immediately took it upon herself to play fairy godmother to Gertie’s horticultural ambitions. She brought her not just cauliflower seedlings but dwarf beans, tomatoes, marrows, and trays of sprouting seed potatoes. Under Beryl and Gerald’s tutelage, Gertie fell in love with gardening, gifting the couple with jars of pickles, jams, and preserved fruits in grateful thanks. Gertie still remembered the day Beryl became too sick to work, because Gerald pulled down the shutters on the greengrocer’s and never raised them again. He would often come into the shop to buy a book to read to Beryl while she lay in bed.
“Something amusing and diverting, please, Mrs. Bingham,” he would say. Gertie had sent him home with a steady stream of Wodehouse and Three Men in a Boat of course too. He returned them all to Gertie after Beryl died. “You can sell them from your secondhand selection with my blessing, Mrs. Bingham. I don’t have any need for them now.”
Gertie considered Gerald to be a gentleman in every sense of the word. She remembered him coming to visit her at home shortly after Harry died. He stood on her doorstep, clutching a paper bag and gazing at her with the look of someone who had also lost their life’s love.
“Cox’s Orange Pippins,” he said, pressing the bag into her hands. “Mr. Bingham’s favorite, if I’m not mistaken.”
It was no surprise to Gertie that this pillar of their community, who also acted as caretaker for the village hall, had taken on the role of senior Air Raid Precautions warden as soon as war was declared.
“I’m grateful to you for taking the time to visit, Mr. Travers,” she said, following him back onto the shop floor. “I know how busy you must be.”
“It’s no bother, Mrs. Bingham,” said Gerald. “No bother at all. I’m glad to be occupied, especially in the evenings. The house can get a bit, well, you know . . .”
“Yes.” She did indeed know. At least she used to. The gaping silence of her house after Harry died had made her breathless at times. She used to take Hemingway on long, rambling walks for hours at a time, desperate to avoid the oppressive quiet.
It was different with Hedy staying. Nothing like when Harry was alive, of course, but Gertie had realized that she slept a little easier at night. Waking to an empty house had given her scant impetus to get out of bed, but now, Hedy needed to be roused and coaxed to get ready for school. It was often a challenge, as fifteen-year-old girls apparently relished their sleep, but it gave Gertie a reason to be up and on, and she was grateful for it.
After war was declared and the numbing realization that her family was to remain in Germany at the mercy of the Nazis sank in, Hedy retreated like a wounded bird. She left her room only for meals or to go to school, and Hemingway rarely left her side. Worst of all was the fact that there were no letters now. As soon as the war began, communication from Germany was only possible via Red Cross telegrams of just twenty-five words. The first arrived a few days after the Fischers’ failed attempt to leave Germany.