The Air Raid Book Club(76)

Gertie always rested easier on the nights when Hedy was at home. It wasn’t only the company; it was the reassurance that she knew where she was. If I keep her close, I can keep her safe, she would tell herself. Gertie knew that sometimes her fussing irritated Hedy. Five years of war had taken its toll and it was hard not to lose patience. One night, the siren wailed at a little past midnight and Gertie hurried from her bed.

“Come along, Hedy. Let’s get down to the shelter,” she called, knocking on her door. There was a groan from inside. “Come along, dear. We must hurry.”

“Not tonight, Gertie. Let me stay in my bed. Please.”

Gertie pushed open the door, her mind whirling with panic. She yanked back the covers of Hedy’s bed. “You must come at once. It’s too dangerous to stay inside.”

Hedy snatched the covers back and pulled the pillow over her head. “Go away, Gertie. I don’t have to do what you say. You’re not my mother.”

Gertie took a step back as if she’d been stung. “No, I’m not your mother, but I’m sure she wouldn’t want you to stay in your bed while Hitler’s bombs rain down around your head.”

There was a moment’s silence before Hedy gave a resigned groan. “All right. I’m coming.”

The atmosphere was tense as they settled into the shelter. Gertie lit the candle while Hedy curled herself onto one of the bunks and took out her notebook. “How are you getting on with your story?” Gertie asked.

“Fine,” said Hedy, scribbling away.

“I’m sorry if you think I make a fuss, but I have to keep you safe for your mother, you see.”

“I know.” Hedy continued to write, so Gertie took out her book and began to read. “Gertie?” said Hedy after a while.

“Yes, dear?”

Hedy looked up from her notebook. “I’m sorry for what I said.”

“It’s all right.”

“I get grumpy when I’m tired.”

Gertie smiled. “So do I. You carry on with your writing. Hemingway and I are used to—” She froze. “Oh no.” Gertie cast ’round in a panic. “He must not have heard the siren. He’s a little deaf these days. I’m so used to him following me out here.”

“I can go and get him,” said Hedy.

Gertie shook her head. “You stay here. I’ll only be a moment. Perhaps you could read me some of what you’ve written when I come back. I want to know if Arno and Gertie escape the shellycoat.”

“Yes please,” said Hedy. “I need some advice about the next part of the story.”

The sky was a clear canopy of blue silk peppered with silver stars as Gertie made her way back to the house, the moon illuminating her path. On nights like these, it was easy to forget there was a war on. Gertie let herself in through the back door.

“Hemingway? Hemingway?” she called. She padded through the kitchen to the hall, peering into the living room, but he was nowhere to be seen. “Hemingway?” she cried with increasing alarm as she climbed the stairs.

The moon threw a shard of milky light onto the landing where Hemingway lay, his great hearthrug body spread between the two open doors of Gertie’s and Hedy’s bedrooms. A chill of terror spread through Gertie’s veins as she peered at his fur, unable to detect the rise and fall of his breathing.

“Hemingway?” she whispered, tears springing to her eyes. She reached out a tentative hand toward his large, soft head. “My dear sweet boy. Not you as well. Not my darling Hemingway.” As soon as she made contact with his fur, the dog opened one eye and gazed up at her quizzically. Gertie clutched her chest. “Oh thank goodness,” she cried, burying her face in his neck. “Thank goodness. Come along, my boy. We must get back to Hedy. She’ll be worried about you.”

They were descending the stairs when Gertie heard the pulsing buzz. It seemed to come from nowhere, but all at once it was as if a thousand wasps were swarming above the house. And then silence. Gertie glanced toward the kitchen. There was no time to reach the shelter. No time to run. No time to do anything but pray. She threw her body over Hemingway’s and held her breath. The world exploded. Darkness fell.





Chapter 21




Do the wise thing and the kind thing too, and make the best of us and not the worst.

—Charles Dickens, Hard Times



Gertie wouldn’t leave. She couldn’t. As long as Hedy was trapped under the mountain of rubble from the house that had backed on to her garden, she would stay and she would search. The firemen tried to reason with her (“It ain’t safe, missus”) and then Gerald did his best to persuade her (“I beg you, Mrs. Bingham. Why don’t we wait for the rescue team?”). Finally, they sent for Margery Travers.

“If you’ve come to tell me it’s too dangerous for a woman like me, you can save your breath to cool your porridge,” said Gertie, lifting another brick from the vast pile covering the shelter.

“I wouldn’t dare,” said Margery. “I’ve brought some tea and an extra pair of hands if you’ll have me.”

Gertie blinked into the face of this ferociously kind woman and felt her lip tremble. “I told her to stay in the shelter, Margery,” she whispered. “I thought she’d be safe there. I went back for Hemingway.” She glanced over at the dog, who was lying close by, watching the drama unfold with forlorn eyes.