The Air Raid Book Club(38)

“That’s a splendid idea,” said Betty.

Hedy nodded. “I like this very much, Gertie.”

“Good, because we three are going to choose the books between us, and then Miss Snipp can order a dozen or so to start with. Perhaps we could advertise it to our postal customers in case they’d like to take part?”

“As if we haven’t got enough to do already,” said Miss Snipp with a deep sigh. “You’ll be setting us up as a book wholesaler next.”

“I can help you, Miss Snipp,” said Hedy.

Miss Snipp’s hangdog expression lifted. “Thank you, dear,” she said, before firing a withering glance toward Gertie. “At least someone understands the burden imposed upon me.”

Gertie folded her lips to suppress amusement as she caught Hedy’s eye. She had been working in the bookshop for the past few months and had proved to be a godsend, not least in appeasing the unappeasable Miss Snipp. The customers loved her, and as Hedy was now too old to attend school and needed employment, it was the perfect fit. It also offered her some distraction from fretting about her family and a little normality after what Gertie now dismissed as “that internment nonsense.”

“So what should we choose for our first book?” asked Betty.

“Jane Eyre,” said Hedy, smiling at Gertie. “We have to start with Jane Eyre.”



September proved to be blissfully warm that year as if summer were offering a final burst of glory before the season turned. Gertie’s garden was in its zenith. Plant stems drooped heavy with fat red tomatoes, onion sets nudged their papery bulbs up through the earth, the branches of the trees bowed with russet-and-green apples. She made her way across the dewy grass to gather windfalls and pick any ripe fruit. In light of the fact that oats were unrationed, she and Hedy had become rather partial to porridge with a liberal sprinkling of fresh blackberries. Gertie paused to admire the marrow, snaking its prickly stalks across the Anderson shelter, which now felt like a permanent fixture in the garden. Charles had helped her build it just after the war started. They had spent a happy morning digging deep trenches so that they could bury the corrugated construction before placing makeshift bunk beds inside and covering the whole thing with soil.

“It looks like a mud igloo,” said Gertie, wiping her hands on a cloth as they stood back to admire their handiwork.

“You’ll be safe as houses,” said Charles with satisfaction.

Gertie peered inside. “There’s enough room for six people. Hedy, Hemingway, and I are going to rattle around in there.”

“You could always invite the neighbors,” said Charles, nodding over his shoulder to where the woman who lived next door was pretending to hang out washing while earwigging on their conversation.

“Good morning, Mrs. Gosling,” called Gertie. “Lovely day, isn’t it?”

The woman grunted in reply. “What’s all this then?”

“It’s an air-raid shelter,” said Gertie. “You’d be very welcome to share it when the time comes.”

“Will your gentleman friend be using it too?” she asked, shooting a disapproving glance in Charles’s direction.

“Oh, I should think so,” said Gertie. “We’ll be having raucous soirees. We’d love it if you could join us.”

The woman stared from Gertie to Charles, who had turned away to stifle his laughter. She spun on her heel, bundled her basket under her arm, and fled back inside. “Scandalous!” she muttered before slamming the door.

“Gertie Bingham. You’re dreadful.”

“I know. But I’ve always thought it’s important to feed people’s imaginations,” she said. “It’s why I became a bookseller.”



Gertie’s basket was nearly full with blackberries and loganberries now. She was about to go back inside to prepare breakfast when she heard the sound of a child crying from Mrs. Gosling’s garden. She peered over the fence and was surprised to see a small boy, his mouth a wide O of despair.

“Hello,” said Gertie softly, not wanting to alarm him. “Whatever is the matter?”

The boy stopped crying and stared up at her with huge wet eyes. He glanced back toward the house. “I’m not allowed to talk to strange ladies.”

“Oh dear,” said Gertie. “That is a bind, because I’m a very strange lady indeed.”

“Gertie, are you out there?” called Hedy from the kitchen. “Have we had any post?”

“Yes, dear, I’m in the garden. And no, no post yet.” This was always Hedy’s first question when she woke. They were learning to live with the knife-edge existence of waiting for news of Sam or Hedy’s family. “Come and see who I’ve found in the garden.”

Hedy appeared beside Gertie. “Hello there,” she said. “And what’s your name?”

“He’s not allowed to talk to strange ladies,” said Gertie.

“Billy! Billy, where are you?” cried a furious voice from the boy’s house.

Billy stared at them with fearful eyes. “It’s all right. He’s in the garden,” called Gertie.

Billy’s mother appeared at the back door looking frantic. She was wearing a housecoat with her hair drawn up in a scarf. Her face was pale, and there was a smut of soot on her cheek. She strode across the garden, scowling. “Billy,” she said, seizing him by the shoulders. “What have I told you about wandering off?”