The Air Raid Book Club(35)

Gertie approached the window and glanced through the curtains. “He’s right. It’s definitely for you.”

Betty flew to the door. Gertie, Hedy, and Sam eyed one another as they listened.

“Oh!” cried Betty. “Oh, it’s you! Wonderful, wonderful you.” She returned moments later clutching Barnaby’s hand. “This rotter told me he couldn’t get leave,” she cried, her eyes brimming with tears. Barnaby pulled her close and kissed the top of her head.

“Not too late for the party, am I?” he said. “Happy birthday, Hedy.”

“Thank you, Barnaby. I’m so glad you’re here.”

“Well, I don’t know about you, but I think this calls for some music,” said Sam. “All right if we fire up the gramophone, Mrs. B?”

“It’s not a proper party without music,” said Gertie, sharing a smile with Hedy.

“I’m going to teach you the Charleston, Hedy,” said Sam. “Come on you two.” He turned to Barnaby and Betty. “No time to rest.”

Gertie watched in delight as the youngsters swiveled and pivoted their way around the floor, laughing as they went. It felt good to have these moments of joy in times of despair. She noticed the way that Hedy and Sam looked at each other. Hedy seemed too young to be falling in love, and yet she couldn’t think of a better man for her than Sam. It brought to mind joyful reminiscences of when she and Harry first fell in love. Those stolen glances. The dip of longing when you parted. The thrill of the moment when you met again. There was comfort in these memories, but stabs of painful longing too.

Her reverie was interrupted by a knock at the door. “No one is expecting another surprise visitor today, are they?” asked Gertie, moving forward to answer it.

“Perhaps it’s the prime minister,” said Betty, laughing. “He’s heard about that delicious cake and wants a slice.”

The smile on Gertie’s lips disappeared as soon as she saw the policeman. He looked younger than Hedy as he clutched at his notebook with nervous fingers, a sheen of sweat on his upper lip. “Good afternoon, Constable. Is everything all right?”

“Mrs. Bingham?” he said, glancing down at the notebook. “Mrs. Gertrude Bingham?”

“Yes. I am she.”

He took a deep breath. “PC Wilberforce. We understand you have a German national living with you. Is that correct?”

“Yes,” said Gertie, irritated. “She is a young Jewish girl who was forced to flee her homeland because of the Nazis.”

“Oh,” said the officer.

“Look, what is this about, young man?” she demanded, surprising herself with the ferocity of her tone. “What do you want with Hedy?”

He swallowed and stared down at his notebook as if it might offer the answer, before looking back at her ruefully. “I’ve come to arrest her,” he said. “On the orders of Winston Churchill himself.”





Chapter 9




I would rather be a rebel than a slave.

—Emmeline Pankhurst



Gertie stared up at the royal coat of arms emblazoned on the back wall of the magistrates’ court through narrowed eyes as anger pulsed through her veins like electricity. She had been in a perpetual state of fury ever since they’d tried to arrest Hedy. Gertie had escorted her to the police station and told the sergeant on duty in no uncertain terms that Hedy would not be taken away until she had been given a proper hearing. He was a kindly man called Fred Mayfield who had a daughter of around Hedy’s age and who occasionally dropped into the bookshop to buy her a Mills and Boon novel. He made a phone call, arranged for an appeal hearing the following month, and sent Gertie and Hedy home.

Gertie was relieved but remained outraged by this turn of events. Galvanized into action, she persuaded everyone she knew to write to The Times on Hedy’s behalf. A week later, a young female journalist appeared at the bookshop, asking to interview her.

“How do you react to the story that the prime minister ordered the police to, and I quote, ‘collar the lot’?”

“I would ask if the prime minister has ever had cause to flee his home due to the tyranny of the government,” said Gertie without missing a beat.

The journalist raised her eyebrows. “May I quote you, Mrs. Bingham?”

Gertie looked her in the eye. “Yes, dear. You may.”

This wasn’t the first time Gertie had found herself challenging the political might of Winston Churchill. In 1905, encouraged by her mother and Mrs. Pankhurst’s rallying “Deeds Not Words” cry, Gertie had been mobilized into action. Her first act of rebellion was not entirely successful.

“Gertrude. Could you come here for a moment please?”

Gertie glanced up from the orders ledger to see her father standing uncomfortably beside a small, elderly woman, dressed in black, who was dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. As Gertie approached, she could hear the woman’s plaintive moan. “The great Alfred, Lord Tennyson! How could they? It sullies his very name.”

“Father?” said Gertie.

Arthur Arnold’s face was grave. “Do you know the meaning of this?” he asked, holding out the book.

Gertie took it and gazed down at the “Votes for Women” inscription on the front page. She looked up at him with a bright, innocent smile. “I think it has something to do with the campaign for women to gain the vote.”