The Air Raid Book Club(58)



“Oh yes. Olympic standard.”

“Very well. We run mobile canteens for the civil defense operations every night. Shall I put you down for some shifts?”

“Absolutely.”

Mrs. Fortescue held out her hand. “Welcome to the Women’s Voluntary Service, Mrs. Bingham.”





Chapter 16




We must go on, because we can’t turn back.

—Robert Louis Stevenson, Treasure Island



Gertie heaved the Old General onto the counter of the mobile canteen and set about filling it with copious jugs of water. She checked her watch and frowned. It wasn’t like Margery Fortescue to be late. Over the past few months they had served more than a dozen shifts together, and Margery was always there before she arrived, a bustling storm of efficiency. Gertie didn’t find her the easiest person to be with. She was curt yet polite in their interactions, but whenever a weary member of the civilian defense service appeared in desperate need of a little cheer and a cup of sustenance, she was transformed.

Gertie recalled one particular night when a young ARP warden, who was around the same age as Hedy, appeared. He was returning from an incident at a pub around the corner—a direct hit where the whole building had crumpled like a tin can. They had spent hours searching for survivors, digging in vain through the wreckage. The boy’s eyes were as wide as dinner plates as he approached the canteen. Gertie couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen anyone look as pale or afraid. He was muttering under his breath. Gertie turned to point him out to Margery, but she was already out of the truck, wrapping a blanket around the young boy.

“We couldn’t save them,” he told her. “There was nothing left. Just arms and legs. And . . .”

“I know,” said Margery in soothing tones. “It’s ghastly, but there’s nothing you could have done. You must rest now.”

“Here, Mrs. Fortescue,” said Gertie, holding out a mug of tea. “I’ve put three sugars in it for the shock.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Bingham.” She held the mug to the boy’s lips. “You must drink this. It will make you feel a little better.”

“Legs and arms,” he said to her, voicing it like a question, stupefied with horror.

“Hush now, dear. Come with me. You can rest now. You need to rest,” she said, leading him away.

Gertie watched them go. It was clear that beneath Margery Fortescue’s robust, tweed-clad exterior lay a large, soft heart.

Despite Margery’s brusque ways, Gertie enjoyed her night shifts at the canteen. She had expected it to be a fairly rudimentary operation, rather like going on a camping expedition, but in fact, Margery always seemed to have the very best of provisions. Along with sufficient tea to quench the thirst of half of London and cigarettes, there were sandwiches, pies, sausages, Cornish pasties, cake, biscuits, and, on one occasion, a bread pudding.

“An army runs on its stomach,” Margery would say with authority as she poured mug after mug of tea. “And this army needs us to feed it.”

When Gertie saw the grateful ash-and-grease-stained faces of the men and women after a shift fighting fires or dealing with the mangled ruins of buildings and bodies, she knew Margery was right. A mug of tea, a slice of malt loaf, and a kind word didn’t seem like much, but Gertie had lived long enough to know what a difference they could make, especially in dark times.

She had nearly finished laying out the tea mugs when Margery arrived red-faced and out of breath.

“Manifold apologies, Mrs. Bingham,” she said, climbing into the truck. “I was sidetracked by a domestic issue.”

“Not at all,” said Gertie. “Is everything all right?”

“Oh yes. Quite all right, thank you,” said Margery. “How’s the Old General doing?”

“Wheezing into life as usual,” said Gertie.

Margery snorted with uncustomary amusement. “Jolly good.”

Gertie noticed her face was a little pink and there was a far-off expression in her eyes. “Mrs. Fortescue,” she said gently. “Have you been drinking?”

Margery hiccupped and put a hand to her mouth. “Only a small sherry. I do it every year on this day.”

“Oh,” said Gertie. “Is it a special occasion?”

Margery’s shoulders sagged a little. “It’s my dear Edward’s birthday,” she said. “I always toast his memory with a small schooner of sherry, but I must have dropped off afterward, hence my tardiness.”

Gertie lifted one of the tea mugs. “Happy birthday, Edward.”

Margery gave a resigned smile. “He would have been seventy-two this year. I miss him every day.” She stared into the distance for a moment before snapping back to the present. “Sorry, Mrs. Bingham. That’s dreadfully ill-mannered, and after I was late as well. Forgive me.”

“Nothing to forgive. I miss my husband every day.”

Margery regarded her for a moment. “What was his name?”

“Harry.”

Margery held up a tea mug. “To Harry and Edward.”

“Harry and Edward,” said Gertie. “Mrs. Fortescue?”

“Yes?”

“I was wondering if we might address each other by our first names. I do find the formality of Mrs. Bingham rather stifling sometimes. Please call me Gertie.”

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