The Air Raid Book Club(53)
Gertie opened her mouth to protest, but much as it pained her, she knew Miss Crow was right. She was giving up. She was hiding. Avoiding the world. Feeling sorry for herself. It had to stop. She owed it to Hedy, to her parents, to Jack, to dear Harry. Most of all, she owed it to herself. She turned to Miss Crow. “You mentioned that Mr. Travers said everything can be repaired?”
The woman gave a brief nod. “Come to the shop at nine a.m. sharp tomorrow. You’ll see.”
Gertie couldn’t have been more surprised if Clark Gable himself had offered his hand in marriage. As she and Hedy stepped through the doorway of the bookshop the next day, it felt as if every person who’d ever been welcomed across the threshold of Bingham Books was there. Miss Snipp’s soot-blotched face was frowning at the wall she was scrubbing as if daring it to remain grubby. Elizabeth Chambers and Mrs. Wise were heaving sacks of rubbish out through the back door. Even Mrs. Constantine was there, adding a touch of glamour to the proceedings, her hair tied in a magenta silk headscarf, sweeping the floor with elegant care. “Good morning, my dears,” she said, glancing up from her industry.
“Good morning,” said Gertie, her voice cracking a little.
“Let me help you with that, Mrs. Constantine,” said Hedy.
“Thank you, my dear. Mr. Reynolds and I were supposed to be taking turns, but he seems rather occupied at present,” she said, nodding toward the old man, who was propped up in the corner on a chair, head nodding against his chest, a copy of Churchill’s Amid These Storms dropped at his feet.
“Ah, Mrs. Bingham. Just the woman,” said Gerald Travers, appearing from the back of the shop. “Now I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve had a mate of mine who knows about these things check everything over to be sure. Belt and braces, if you like. Structurally, it’s tickety-boo. And as luck would have it, the door to the shelter was closed and thick as a cement block, so . . .”
“The books?”
“See for yourself,” he said, gesturing like a magician about to reveal a trick.
Gertie stepped forward and pushed open the soot-cloaked door. “They’re still here,” she whispered. It was like walking into a room of old friends. She spied Jane Eyre, Bertie Wooster, David Copperfield, Monsieur Poirot, the March daughters. They’d been there all the time, waiting for her. It didn’t even matter that the stocks were low. The books were enough. She picked up a copy of Winnie-the-Pooh and flicked through the pages. She could smell the ash and sulfur, but behind them was the comfortingly fusty scent of books.
“I think with a bit of elbow grease, we should be able to get you up and running in no time,” said Mr. Travers.
Gertie reached out to grasp his hands as she blinked back tears. “I’m very grateful to you.”
He patted her hand. “And I was grateful to you for all your kindness when my Beryl was laid low, Mrs. Bingham. It’s the Beechwood way.”
The Beechwood way. Gertie smiled as she made her way back into the shop. “Thank you,” she said to the gathered helpers. “Thank you all. I had no idea people cared so deeply about the bookshop.”
“It is so much more than a bookshop, Mrs. Bingham,” said Miss Snipp reproachfully. “It is a precious treasure trove of knowledge and imagination. Books have the power to change the very course of history, and they will help us win this war, you mark my words.”
“Hear, hear,” said Mrs. Wise, looking up from her sweeping. “My Ted wouldn’t have the first clue about hanging a picture if it weren’t for that book you recommended to him, Mrs. Bingham. By the way, he said he’ll come after work and help repair the shelves whenever you need him to.”
“Yes, and Mr. Reynolds said he had some old paint he could donate,” said Mrs. Constantine. “Didn’t you, Wally? Wally!”
Mr. Reynolds woke with a start. “What? Who’s there? Try that again, Adolf, and I’ll knock your block off!” He blinked at them in astonishment as he realized where he was. “Sorry, I must have dropped off.”
“And I can repaint the Bingham Books sign,” said Elizabeth. “I was thinking of a little gold phoenix to mark a new beginning.”
“I don’t know what to say,” said Gertie, looking ’round at them all. “I can’t thank you enough. Truly.”
“You don’t need to say anything,” said Miss Crow, “but I do hope those aren’t your best clothes.” She held out a broom. “Your bookshop needs you.”
Over the course of the next few weeks, Gertie watched with pride and gratitude as Bingham Books began to reemerge, reminding her of one of Harry’s dormant magnolia buds and his assertion that “the world always begins anew.” How right he’d been and how glad she was that she’d been persuaded not to give up and to accept help. This assistance came in many forms, some more useful than others. The Finch sisters turned up one morning to help with the painting but were soon sent away by their aunt when they proved to be nothing but a distraction for some of the younger male volunteers. Miss Crow surprised everyone with her eagle eye when it came to aligning shelves, and of course Mr. Travers was always on hand, bringing a handful of new ARP colleagues every day to fix, rebuild, paint, and varnish until all that remained to do was restock the shelves. A few days before the grand reopening, Gerald arrived early with a fellow warden, Evan Williams, a giant of a man who had impressed everyone by managing to move the large oak counter into place without breaking a sweat and whose wife made the best Welsh cakes this side of the River Severn.