The Air Raid Book Club(49)



Gertie opened her eyes and hauled herself to a sitting position as Hedy uncurled beside her. They peered over the wall, blinking toward the large crater with its unexploded bomb poking out from the middle of it. A vast hissing monster.

“Are you all right, dear?” asked Gertie as they helped each other to their feet.

Hedy stared at her. “Yes. And you?”

“We’re alive!” cried Gertie, shaking her gently. “We’re alive, Hedy.” They fell into each other’s arms and wept for fear, for relief, for survival.

They were still clinging on to each other when the police arrived and began to evacuate the street. Shakily, Gertie and Hedy walked arm in arm, following the throng of people along the road back onto their own street. As the all clear sounded, the crowds echoed with a loud cheer.

“Gertie!” called Elizabeth, meeting them by their front gate with Billy and Hemingway in tow. “Are you all right?”

“Gertie Bingham and Hedy Fischer,” cried Billy with wide, excited eyes. “There’s an unexploded bomb on the next street.”

“I know, dear. It missed us by a whisker.”

“Gosh,” said Billy with even wider eyes.

“Thank goodness you’re both all right,” said Elizabeth with a look of relief. She turned to her son. “Come along, Billy. We must let Gertie and Hedy go inside and you need to get to bed. That’s quite enough drama for one night.” She gave a cheerful wave before they disappeared.

Gertie was trembling but elated. They were alive. They were safe. They had survived another night. This was all that counted. They were fighting and would continue to fight. Gertie, Hedy, Bingham Books, and the people of Beechwood. This was her world. It was where she was meant to be, and she would defend it with all her might.

They had just reached the front door when a shout went up. Gertie turned to see Betty running along the road toward them.

“Perhaps she heard about our near miss with the bomb and wants to check we’re okay,” said Gertie.

As Betty reached them, she stopped in her tracks, shaking her head, her face drained of color.

“Whatever is it, Betty?” asked Gertie, with rising panic.

“I’m not sure how to tell you.”

“Has something happened to Sam?” whispered Hedy.

Betty gave a vigorous shake of her head. “No. It’s not that.”

“Then what is it, dear? What on earth has happened?” asked Gertie.

Betty fought back tears as she spoke. “It’s the bookshop, Mrs. B. It was an incendiary. The fire brigade was too late. I’m so sorry.”

Hedy and Betty caught Gertie’s arms as she sank to the ground. The world had pulled the rug out from beneath her yet again. After every pitfall of her life—losing Jack, her father, her mother, and then Harry—Gertie had tried to rise again, less like a phoenix and more like a wounded bird with patched-up wings. With Hedy’s arrival and the reality of another war, Gertie had found new strength to fight on, to build something that helped others when they needed it most. But now that was gone forever. It was the end. Betty and Hedy tried their best to comfort her, but after years of stifling the nagging pain and sorrow, she gave in. Hedy pulled her close as Gertie buried her face in her hands and sobbed.





Chapter 13





1941



Sweet are the uses of adversity,

Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous,

Wears yet a precious jewel in his head.

—William Shakespeare, As You Like It



Appointment with Death. Gertie had to squint to make out the book’s title from the scorched scrap of cover as she and Hedy cast around the empty charcoal shell, desperate for some grain of hope.

Gertie had seen photographs of a badly damaged bookshop not long ago with a boy sitting in the midst of the chaos reading. There was no front or back to the premises, but all the books remained intact. The thought of this photograph had persuaded Gertie to come today. Perhaps their stock would be salvageable. They could sweep up the glass, repair the damage, and carry on as before. However, she had not fully comprehended the destructive power of an incendiary, nor its impact on a room lined with kindling in book form. The fire service had been overstretched to its breaking point that night. It arrived too late to preserve the books, and any that remained were then ruined by the jets of water that eventually quelled the fire.

“At least the sign isn’t too damaged,” said Hedy from outside the shop, gazing up at its singed edges and peeled gold lettering. “A little charred, but you can still read the words.”

The gilt letters spelling “Bingham Books” no longer shone down at Gertie. They were as battered and bruised as she felt. The red background, which once seemed so warm and welcoming, was blackened as if the darkness of war had finally arrived in Beechwood. Gertie’s eyes brimmed with tears as she cast her gaze up and down the high street. The clock that once hung proudly outside Robinson the Cobbler’s had been blown clean from its fittings and smashed through the windows of Perkins’s Confectioners. It was a blessing that the timing of the raid meant that no one was killed. The street was a mangled wreck of broken glass and scattered detritus. The shopkeepers were doing their best to clean up, sweeping and clearing, but it was a mammoth task. Only the Beechwood town sign remained untouched, its white horse galloping onward. Normally, Gertie would have found some crumb of hope in this, but today felt different. There was an air of resignation as young Mr. Piddock gave her a weary wave before returning to his sweeping. No one could offer comfort or optimism today. “I can’t do this,” she whispered.

Annie Lyons's Books