The Air Raid Book Club(61)
“Not at all,” said Gertie, reaching into the cupboard for the ashtray she reserved for Uncle Thomas’s expensive Cuban cigars.
“Our superior is a bit of a curmudgeon, but he likes me. Told me I was better than half the chaps he’d worked with,” said Betty.
“It sounds so interesting,” said Hedy.
“It’s not all beer and skittles. We lost one of the girls during a raid the other night,” Betty said, inhaling on her cigarette. “Every day you hear about someone’s sweetheart being killed. It teaches you to live in the moment, that’s for sure.”
“Dinner is served,” said Gertie, placing plates of chops, homegrown potatoes, cabbage, and carrots in front of them.
“Golly, this is a treat,” said Betty. “Thank you, Mrs. B. Air force rations aren’t bad, but there’s nothing like a home-cooked meal.”
They were poised with knives and forks when the siren wailed. “Supper in the shelter?” said Gertie. Hedy and Betty laughed as they picked up their plates and followed her out the door into the cool night air.
The next morning, Billy came to the bookshop early to help with preparations for the children’s air-raid book club. Although raids had become less prevalent, there were still blackouts to contend with, and local mothers were grateful to Gertie and Hedy for providing any diversion. The children also liked to gather once a month in the bookshop shelter.
“It’s so cozy,” said one little girl called Daisy. “Much nicer than our shelter at home, and I love the smell of the books.”
“I like it because it’s dark and we can tell ghost stories,” said a little boy called Wilfred, who invariably had a smut of soot on the end of his nose.
Today, Billy was helping Hedy fashion a dozen eye patches in readiness for their discussion on Treasure Island. He took his book club assistant role very seriously and had a keen eye for the details of the story. He was consequently very strict with his fellow book club members and sent Wilfred home once when he couldn’t name Tom Sawyer’s aunt.
“I didn’t like the part with the skeleton,” he told Hedy with a shiver. “I’m not sure I’d want to go on a voyage searching for treasure.”
“But imagine if you found gold and could be rich beyond your wildest dreams.”
Billy shrugged. “Grandpapa is rich, but I don’t think he’s very happy.”
Hedy exchanged a look with Gertie.
“Although I don’t see him much, so I can’t ask him.”
“Well, I expect he’s a busy man. At least you see your grandmama sometimes,” said Gertie.
“Yes, but I’d like to see them both more. And Papa. Although Mama says he’s away on important business.” Billy leaned forward to whisper. “I think he might be a spy.”
Gertie was about to answer when the door of the bookshop burst open. Betty appeared looking frantic. As soon as their eyes met, Gertie knew it was bad news. The world seemed to stand still as Hedy moved toward her.
“It’s Sam, isn’t it?” she whispered. Betty nodded. “Oh, Gertie,” cried Hedy, turning to her with imploring eyes.
Gertie rushed forward and placed an arm around Hedy’s shoulders. She could feel her body trembling and sent up a silent prayer. Please. Please let him be alive. Please don’t steal every scrap of hope from this poor girl.
Betty took hold of Hedy’s hands, her voice cracking. “He was on a raid in Europe the other night when his plane was shot down. I’m sorry to have to tell you he’s missing.”
Gertie folded Hedy into her arms as she sobbed, while Billy placed a hand on her shoulder. “There, there, Hedy Fisher,” he said. “Everything will be all right. You’ll see.”
Gertie stroked the cheek of this kind little boy and dearly hoped he was right.
Chapter 17
It is best to love wisely, no doubt: but to love foolishly is better than not to be able to love at all.
—William Makepeace Thackeray, The History of Pendennis
Gertie took in the cozy living room with its blush rose–decorated rug, two plump sage-green armchairs, and the radio nestled in between. Her eyes traveled from the wedding photograph of Gerald and Beryl beaming at them from the dust-flecked mantelpiece, toward the small square dining table with two Windsor chairs facing one another and the pile of Gerald’s gardening books, occupying the space where a couple used to share meals and tales of their day. The ghost of Beryl Travers couldn’t have been more apparent if she’d drifted into the room and stood in the corner waving at them.
Margery sat bolt upright on the edge of the sofa next to Gertie while they waited for Gerald to return with the tea. They could hear him whistling away as he clattered teacups and opened and closed drawers. Gertie glanced at her, ready to make conversation, but Margery kept her eyes fixed forward, breathing deeply, staring grim-faced toward the matching porcelain Staffordshire spaniels perched on the mantelpiece, who stared back at her in astonishment. She had the air of a woman who was enduring a terrible toothache.
“Here we are,” said Gerald, carrying the tray in through the door and placing it on the tea table. “I’ll be Mother, shall I?”
Margery let out a high-pitched, nervous laugh that almost made Gertie leap from her seat. “Oh yes, jolly good.”