The Air Raid Book Club(39)

The little boy began to cry again. “I’m sorry, Mama.”

“It’s entirely my fault,” said Gertie. “I spoke to Billy. He was just being polite.”

The woman looked as if she might start to cry too. She knelt in front of her son and pulled his small body to hers. Hedy and Gertie exchanged glances as Billy reached a hand ’round to pat his mother consolingly on the back. She pulled away from the embrace and wiped his eyes, kissing the top of his head. “It’s all right, Billy. Everything is all right. But we have to be brave, remember? Very, very brave.”

Billy nodded earnestly. “Okay, Mama.”

“Good boy. You run along inside and play. I found your jigsaws and put them in your room.”

“Thank you, Mama.”

She stood up and put a hand to her head. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I must look a fright. We had to move in a bit of a hurry and everything is such a mess. I’m Elizabeth Chambers and that’s my son, Billy, but you probably knew that already.” She offered a weary smile.

“Delighted to meet you. I’m Gertie Bingham, and this is Hedy Fischer. I was wondering who might move in after Mrs. Gosling went to live with her sister in Devon. Please let us know if there’s anything we can do to help.”

Elizabeth Chambers gave a brief nod. “Thank you. That’s very kind. Well, I must be getting on. I seem to have hundreds of boxes still to unpack.”

“Of course,” said Gertie, sensing her need to be away.



Gertie and Hedy had adopted a series of codes for letters and telegrams to help reduce the daily sense of anticipation. A day without correspondence was “no news is good news,” a day with one communication was “tea and biscuits,” and a day with news from both Sam and the Fischers was “champagne cocktails at the Café de Paris.”

“Tea and biscuits today, Gertie,” said Hedy as she carried in a letter from Sam like a hallowed artifact.

“That’s two days in a row after that telegram from your brother yesterday.”

Hedy nodded. Gertie was impressed by her stoicism. The letters from Sam were cheery and full of news, whereas the telegrams from her family were alarmingly sparce. They would never speak about it, of course, but each communication merely served to confirm that the sender was still alive. It was an unbearable but unavoidable fact. If the letters stopped coming, it would be hard to keep up the pretense that “no news is good news” for long. Several families in the area had already lost sons. Old Mr. Harris, a customer with a penchant for Celtic history, had heard that one of his grandsons had been killed at Dunkirk, while Mrs. Herbert across the road had received word that her husband was missing. These horrors seemed remote in some ways: fighting in a faraway land was like a distant rumble of thunder, and yet Gertie felt sure that lightning would strike soon.

Gertie and Hedy were busy restocking the shelves when Betty arrived that morning. She uttered an uncharacteristically muted greeting before shouldering off her coat and muttering that she needed to press on with the orders.

Hedy and Gertie exchanged looks as they heard Betty drop a pile of books with a loud “Blast!”

They approached the storeroom. “Are you all right, dear?” asked Gertie.

Betty brushed away a tear as she turned. “Sorry. I’ll be fine in a jiffy.”

Hedy put her arm around her shoulders. “What is it, Betty? What’s wrong?”

She regarded them both sorrowfully. “I haven’t had a letter from Barnaby for a week.”

“Oh, dear heart,” said Gertie. “He probably hasn’t had time to write.”

Betty considered this. “He had been writing every day, but maybe you’re right. When did you last hear from Sam?” she asked Hedy.

“Oh, not since last week,” said Hedy, throwing Gertie a meaningful look. “Remember, no news is good news.”

“Thank you,” said Betty. “Thank you both. I know you’re right. Sorry for being such a grump.”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” said Gertie.

Business was brisk that morning. “We’re going to need to stock up on Brontë and Dickens,” Gertie told Betty. “And best check our stocks of crime and romances. Hercule Poirot seems to be a particular favorite at the moment. And Sherlock Holmes.”

“Right ho, Mrs. B.”

At a little past eleven the gentle peace of the browsing bookshop customers was interrupted by the arrival of Miss Snipp’s twin nieces, Rosaline and Sylvie Finch. They were as chatty as sparrows and often finished each other’s sentences as if they were sharing the same thoughts. As soon as Miss Snipp saw them enter, she turned abruptly toward the back of the shop.

“Hullo, Aunt Snipp,” cried Rosaline, waving to her hastily retreating back.

“And goodbye, Aunt Snipp,” added Sylvie, nudging her sister, who giggled.

“Good morning, girls,” said Gertie, looking up from the counter. “What did you think of Jane Eyre?”

The pair exchanged glances. “We didn’t really think Jane should have gone back to Mr. Rochester. He was far too cross,” said Sylvie.

“Terribly cross,” agreed Rosaline. “Although that St. John chap was a complete bore, so she couldn’t stay with him either.”

“True,” said Sylvie. “But Jane’s a good egg, and Mother said she’d never seen us so quiet during the blackouts, so she’s sent us in to ask what’s next.”