The Air Raid Book Club(57)
Only the thrum and drone of the overhead planes could be heard as everyone turned in amazement toward Cynthia Fortescue, whose cheeks were burning scarlet and who was a little out of breath after this plot summation. “Gosh,” said Archibald.
“Bravo,” said Gertie, exchanging a smile with Hedy.
“Put me down for a copy, Mrs. Bingham,” said Emily. “You’ll have one too, won’t you, Mrs. Wise? You love a caper.”
The woman next to her nodded. “I do, dearie. This Bertie Wooster sounds like a good lad.”
“He’s a bit of a dolt,” said Cynthia, sitting up taller in her seat. “But the real hero is Jeeves. He’s jolly clever and makes sure Bertie doesn’t get into too many scrapes.”
“What about Roderick Spode?” asked Hedy. “What did you think of him?”
“It’s a b-b-brilliant piece of p-p-political satire by Wodehouse,” said Archibald, directing his comment to the far wall. “To p-p-pillory fascism makes it less frightening somehow.”
“And gives one courage to fight it too,” said Cynthia, nodding.
Archibald risked a glance in Cynthia’s direction. “I couldn’t agree more.”
Only Margery remained tight-lipped during this entire conversation, occasionally huffing with impatience like an old steam engine. When the all clear sounded, she leapt to her feet. “Right, come along, ladies. That’s enough time wasted. Thank you for your shelter, Mrs. Bingham.” She marched back out through the shop, throwing one final comment over her shoulder before she left. “Remember, we fight for victory, we save for victory, we dig for victory. We do not read for victory.”
Gertie had always relished a challenge, particularly when she knew there was an opinion that needed to be changed. In her youth, she would have very likely strode right up to Margery Fortescue and set her straight. However, Gertie knew that sometimes people needed to be coaxed, and in her heart of hearts, she sensed that she and Margery might even share common ground in the wasteland of widowhood. Gertie also admired the way she went about her business. She organized her troops, as she called them, with the military precision of a field marshal. On Mondays, her volunteer knitters would arrive, the click-clacking of their needles filling the air with industry as they produced endless quantities of socks and scarves. Wednesdays were “Make Do and Mend” days, when her army of expert seamstresses would repair bag loads of uniforms sent from all over the country. On Fridays, they welcomed anyone who needed help as a result of the bombings. They would try to find them new homes if needed, offer bags of clothes or other essentials, and generally provide much-needed tea and sympathy. All the while, Mrs. Fortescue produced countless cups of refreshment from the “Old General,” as she called the water boiler, which hissed in the corner of the room like a permanently deflating tire.
Gertie particularly enjoyed Fridays. The shop next door came alive with noisy children, weary mothers carrying babies, bewildered elderly people in need of help or just a good cup of tea. Margery was in her element on these days. Gertie noticed how she doled out bags of clothes, toys, and kindness with a gentle touch. Gone was the bossiness of Mondays and Wednesdays, and out came the simple care of a woman trying to help others.
One Friday, Gertie dared to step next door with a box under her arm. “I wondered if these might be of any use?” she said. “They’re secondhand picture books. I thought the children might like them.”
Margery regarded the offering with pursed lips, ready to refuse.
“Mama, look,” said Cynthia, uncharacteristically bold as she lifted a copy of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland from the box. “You used to read this to me when I was a child. We loved looking at the pictures together. The white rabbit reminded us of Father.”
Margery’s face seemed to crumple as a maelstrom of emotions flitted across it. “Yes,” she whispered. “I do remember.” She straightened her uniform and picked up the box. “Thank you, Mrs. Bingham. Most generous. How are things at your bookshop?” She delivered the word “bookshop” as if inquiring after an illness.
Gertie refused to be deterred. “Oh yes. Jolly good, thank you.”
“I’m so glad,” she said, taking a seat and beginning to sort through a basket of clothes. “Well. We’re rather busy, so if that’s all?”
“How does one go about volunteering?” The words leapt from Gertie’s mouth before she had time to stop them. “I’m asking for myself and Hedy as well.”
Mrs. Fortescue rose, regarding her with a critical eye. She was taller than most men Gertie knew. She was certainly taller than Gertie. “Can you sew?”
Gertie pulled a face. “Not really. Miss Deeble, my sewing teacher at school, said I produced the worst blanket stitch she’d ever seen.”
“Oh dear.”
“Quite. But Hedy has inherited her mother’s skills as a seamstress.”
“Very good. Tell her to come and see me. If you can’t sew, can you knit?”
“A little. Although I made my father a pair of socks once and he said he would only wear them on Sundays because they were so holey.” One of the volunteers snorted with laughter.
“Miss Farthing. Please,” said Mrs. Fortescue, who was clearly not a fan of idle humor. “Well, are you any good at making tea?”