The Air Raid Book Club(41)

“Call me Gertie,” she said, touching her on the arm. “And you’re both welcome here or in the shelter at home anytime. I’ll make sure I leave the side gate open for you.”

Elizabeth nodded with gratitude.

“Mama, it looks like the sky is on fire,” called Billy, pressing his nose up against the shop window.

Acrid smoke filled their nostrils as Gertie opened the door and they spilled out onto the street. She glanced up and down the high street. Thankfully, this little corner of London remained untouched, the closed-up shops all defiantly intact, the clock above Robinson’s still ticking. Her eyes were drawn toward the horizon above the center of London. “Oh my goodness.” The others followed her gaze in silence. The entire sky over London was a glowing furnace.

“It’s started,” murmured Elizabeth.

“You should get home,” said Gertie.

“Goodbye, Gertie Bingham and Hedy Fischer,” called Billy over his shoulder as Elizabeth took his hand. “Remember, don’t be afraid of the Woozles. I’ll come and help you with the book club soon.”

Hedy and Gertie stood for a moment staring back toward London and the horror left by the first raid. “I’m scared, Gertie,” whispered Hedy.

Gertie rested an arm against hers. “So am I, dear.”

“I worry about Sam and Barnaby.”

“I know.” Gertie glanced back toward the bookshop. “All we can do is offer an escape to ourselves and one another.”

Hedy nodded.

“Come on. Let’s find Betty and go home.”

Hedy and Gertie squinted in the half-light of the bookshop as they walked back inside. Betty was standing stock-still in the doorway to the shelter, her face pale and expressionless as if carved from alabaster. She seemed to be in a trance, staring straight past them. Hedy shot Gertie a worried look.

“Betty,” said Gertie, “are you all right?”

Betty turned her gaze on Gertie as if seeing her for the first time. “I spoke to Mother,” she said.

Gertie’s first thought was that something had happened to Sam. Hedy clearly thought the same, as she gave a shuddering gasp. “What is it?” she whispered.

Betty’s eyes were wide with disbelief. “He’s dead.”

“No,” cried Hedy, clutching a hand to her mouth.

“Who’s dead, Betty?” asked Gertie, resting a hand on Hedy’s arm.

“Barnaby,” said Betty, blinking at them both as tears formed in her eyes. “His father telephoned this afternoon. He was killed on Sunday. Barnaby is dead.”

“Oh, my dear,” said Gertie as she and Hedy rushed forward to fold her into a sobbing embrace.

And so it begins, thought Gertie as she held the girls tight in a fruitless attempt to comfort and console. The next round of senseless deaths. Another generation who will mourn endlessly for the ones who never came home, who never got to live the lives they yearned for. How can this be happening again, and when will it end?





Chapter 11




Reflect upon your present blessings—of which every man has many—not on your past misfortunes, of which all men have some.

—Charles Dickens, Sketches by Boz



“May I speak with Miss Godwin, please?”

Gertie glanced up from the counter to see Miss Pettigrew standing before her, a twist of worry creasing her elderly brow. She was a tiny lady with a delicate frame and an aroma of lavender that followed wherever she went. “I’m afraid that Miss Godwin doesn’t work here anymore, Miss Pettigrew.”

“Oh dear,” said Miss Pettigrew, wringing her hands together. “That is sad.”

“It is. Very sad,” said Gertie, recalling the conversation when Betty had visited her at home a month after Barnaby’s death.



“I’m sorry, Mrs. B, but I’ve decided not to come back to the bookshop,” she said. “I’m taking a permanent ARP post, you see.”

“That’s brave of you, dear,” said Gertie.

Betty shrugged. “I don’t know what else to do, to be honest. I just know I can’t be in the bookshop. It reminds me too much of . . .” She clutched a hand to her mouth. “Sorry.”

Gertie took her hand. “I felt the same after Harry died,” she said. “I shut up the shop for a month. I could barely put one foot in front of another, and I stopped reading for a good while.”

Betty gazed at her. “How do you feel now?”

Gertie considered the question. So much had changed over the past four years. “I miss him every day,” she said. “But the pain becomes bearable somehow. You will feel wretched for a while and always miss Barnaby, but you will find a way to go on. I promise.” They sat in silence for a while, listening to the tick of the hall clock, Hemingway snoring on the rug, Hedy humming to herself in the kitchen as she prepared tea for them. Life going on, carrying them with it. Onward. Ever onward.



“But whatever am I to do?” asked Miss Pettigrew, pulling Gertie back to the present.

“I can help you,” offered Gertie.

The woman shook her head. “It has to be Miss Godwin,” she said, her voice trembling as she spoke. “She’s the only one who knows, you see.”