The Air Raid Book Club(54)

“Thought we’d help you with the finishing touches, Mrs. Bingham,” said Gerald. “And Evan and I are keen to know what your next book club title will be.”

“Oh gosh, I hadn’t given it much thought. Any suggestions?”

“Well, you know I’ll always plump for Mr. Steinbeck,” said Gerald.

Evan reached a great paw-like hand into his pocket and pulled out a book. “May I humbly suggest this, Mrs. Bingham? It feels very appropriate. My wife and I both enjoyed it a great deal.”

Gertie accepted the book with a smile. “Thank you, Mr. Williams. I look forward to reading it.”



It was no surprise to Gertie that on the day they reopened, Mrs. Constantine was the first over the threshold. Hemingway greeted his old friend with tail-wagging delight before coming to sit before her like the most obedient dog in the world.

“I have missed you, my dears,” she said, reaching into her bag and rewarding him with half a mutton chop.

“Are you talking to us or the books?” asked Gertie.

“Both,” said Mrs. Constantine with a fond smile. “And now to business, Gertie. I am in need of a new detective if you have one. I couldn’t get on with Sherlock Holmes. Far too arrogant. Reminded me of an uncle I particularly disliked.”

“I think I may have just the thing,” said Gertie, retrieving a copy of a Dorothy L. Sayers novel. “Lord Peter Wimsey. The author claims he’s a mixture of Fred Astaire and Bertie Wooster.”

“Sounds divine. I’ll take it.” She turned to Hedy. “And how are you, my dear? Any news?”

Hedy looked up from the orders book. “I had a letter from Sam last week. He’s been promoted to corporal. He’s also seen Betty since she joined the WAAF. He says she’s as annoying as ever, but it was good to be able to keep an eye on her.”

Mrs. Constantine chuckled. “He’s a good boy. Anything from home?”

“Not since the telegram from Mother last month. Everyone was fine then.”

Mrs. Constantine took her hand and squeezed it. “That’s as good as it can be, my dear,” she said. “And what is this?” She picked up a copy of How Green Was My Valley from a pile on the counter.

“It’s our new book club title, recommended to me by one of the ARP wardens,” said Gertie. “It’s about a Welsh community helping one another through difficult times. The characters are wonderful.”

“How apt,” said Mrs. Constantine, placing it on top of her other book. “I’ll take it.”





Chapter 15





1943



Who so loves believes the impossible.

—Elizabeth Barrett Browning



Archibald Sparrow was a tall, shy man who had trained as a vicar at his mother’s behest but left the calling when he stopped believing in the God who “allowed my two brothers to perish during the Great War.” He had been exempt from conscription himself owing to astonishingly poor eyesight, which meant he was forced to read his beloved poetry through thick-lensed tortoiseshell spectacles that gave him an expression of constant surprise. He would spend hours at a time browsing the shelves of Bingham Books, usually when the shop was at its quietest. As soon as it became busy, he would either make a hurried purchase or scuttle away without buying anything. Gertie was rather fond of this slightly awkward fellow. He reminded her of Harry when they first met.

“Good morning, Mr. Sparrow. Are you after anything in particular today?” she asked as he appeared one day.

“G-G-Good morning, Mrs. B-B-Bingham,” he answered in hushed tones. He had a soft, gentle way of speaking. Gertie noticed that instead of a barked greeting, Hemingway would always approach him with a benign tail wag. Archibald would lay his hand upon the dog’s head in reply as if offering a blessing. “I am just b-b-browsing, thank you.”

“Of course. Do let me know if there’s anything you need.”

He touched the brim of his hat in reply and made a beeline for the poetry shelves. The bell above the door to the bookshop rang and Gerald Travers crossed the threshold.

“War and Peace, Mrs. Bingham,” he said by way of a greeting. “Do you have it, please?”

Gertie fetched three red cloth volumes from the shelf. Since his rekindled love of reading, Mr. Travers had become one of her best customers. “It’s our most popular book at the moment, so you’re lucky I have stock,” she said. “It will keep you entertained for a good while.”

“Gosh,” said Gerald, eyeing the books as one might view the summit of Everest. “Well, this war seems to be never-ending, so I may as well choose something to keep me occupied.”

“Ah, my dear Mr. Travers,” called a voice so booming it nearly caused Mr. Sparrow to drop the volume of Keats’s poetry he was perusing. They turned to see Margery Fortescue sweep in through the doorway, seeming to fill every nook and cranny with her personality as she did. She wore a bottle-green Harris Tweed uniform finished with a porkpie hat that barely clung to her immaculate cloud of dark gray hair. Cynthia followed in her wake, similarly dressed, carrying a clipboard.

Mr. Travers’s eyes sparkled as he turned to introduce them. “Have you met Mrs. Fortescue?” he asked Gertie.

“Not formally,” she said, offering her hand. “Gertie Bingham.”