The Air Raid Book Club(78)
Nurse Willoughby smoothed down the covers of her bed. “She’ll be right as rain and driving you potty before you know it, Mrs. Bingham. Girls are made of stern stuff.”
Margery had given Gertie strict instructions not to worry about the bookshop. “We’ll take care of it in your absence. Miss Snipp can show us the ropes, and Cynthia is giddy at the prospect of working there. You just concentrate on getting Hedy better.”
Gertie was grateful. In truth, she hadn’t given the shop a second thought. There was only one thing on her mind, and it took up her every waking hour. Hedy was the last thought before she went to sleep at night and the first to occupy her mind in the morning. When she was at the hospital, her whole focus was Hedy, and whenever she left, all she could think about was the next visit.
By some fortune or miracle, the damage to Gertie’s house had been minimal. The glass from her blown-out windows was soon swept up, the panes replaced by Gerald. When Gertie was home, she would spend hours in Hedy’s room. She sat at the dressing table Hedy had commandeered as a desk, pressing a hand over her notebooks, gazing out the window toward the space beyond the mound of debris in her garden where a row of houses once stood. Hemingway barely left her side. He would meet her by the door when she returned as if eager for news and follow her ’round the house, sleeping at the end of her bed every night.
One day, Gertie caught sight of the pile of books beside Hedy’s bed and one particular volume gave her an idea. For the next week or so, she was transported to 1920s Berlin with Emil, Gustav and his detectives, Pony Hütchen, and the villainous Herr Grundeis. As she read aloud, Gertie would glance over at Hedy from time to time to see if there was any flicker of recognition. She had heard stories where people who were unconscious could hear and decided that this of all books might be the one to rouse Hedy. As she reached the last page of the story, Gertie couldn’t help but feel discouraged. Her eyes misted as they fixed on the final words. It was then that she heard a murmuring sound. She looked over and was amazed to see Hedy’s lips moving.
“What is it?” she cried. “What are you trying to say, my dear?” Gertie leaned toward her, doing her best to pick out the words.
“Money . . .” whispered Hedy.
“Money?”
Hedy nodded. “. . . should always be sent through the post.”
Gertie glanced down at the page. “That’s what Grandma says to Emil,” she cried. “Oh, Hedy, you remembered the line.”
“Three cheers,” whispered Hedy.
Gertie caught sight of the final line of the story. “Yes! That’s right. Three cheers indeed.”
Little by little, Hedy’s health began to improve. Gertie visited every day, bringing more books. They read Jane Austen, John Steinbeck, Emily and Charlotte Brontë, and, at Uncle Thomas’s insistence, Charles Dickens. “First class for rebuilding the constitution is Dickens,” he told Gertie on calling to inquire after Hedy.
Hedy had a steady stream of new visitors now. Mrs. Constantine, Miss Snipp, Margery, and Cynthia all came to spend time with the patient. One day, Charles appeared while Gertie was there. He had been away but still telephoned from time to time. Their exchanges had been overly cheerful, bordering on awkward. Gertie’s neck grew hot with shame now as she recalled their conversation after Margery and Gerald’s wedding.
“Charles,” said Hedy, her eyes lighting up at the sight of him. Her voice was hoarse and she was still weak, but Gertie noticed the color returning to her cheeks with each passing day. “It’s good to see you.”
“It’s good to see you too. You gave us all quite a fright,” said Charles, glancing at Gertie. “But I can see you’re in the best possible hands.”
“Gertie has been reading to me,” said Hedy.
“The healing power of books, eh?” said Charles.
“Indeed,” said Gertie, rising from her chair. “Well. I think it’s time I went home. I don’t want to wear you out, Hedy.”
“Please. Don’t go on my account,” said Charles. There was something imploring about the way he said this that made Gertie sit back down again. After half an hour, Hedy started to cough.
“Here, Hedy. Have some water,” said Gertie, pressing a tin cup to her lips.
“Now then. I think visiting time is over,” said Nurse Willoughby, breezing into the room. “This young lady looks to me as if she needs her rest.”
“Yes, of course,” said Charles, standing up. “Goodbye, Hedy.”
“See you tomorrow,” said Gertie.
“Thank you for coming,” said Hedy in a faltering voice.
“She seems to be doing well,” said Charles as he and Gertie walked along the winding corridor toward the exit.
“It’s a long road to recovery, but she’s making good progress. I only hope the same can be said for these poor fellows,” she said, pointing toward the wards full of recuperating soldiers, their bandaged, war-weary faces staring back at her with vacant expressions. They passed one man limping on crutches and one leg, his other missing at the knee.
“Poor blighter,” said Charles. “And he’s the lucky one. He’ll just have to live with the recurrent horror for the rest of his life.”
Gertie noticed his expression, set hard with bitterness as he said this. “Is that what you’ve done since 1918?”