The Air Raid Book Club(84)

“I’ll get changed,” said Gertie, wiping her hands on her apron.

It seemed to Gertie as if the whole town had turned out for the party. Miss Snipp was looking positively radiant, dressed as Britannia, with Mr. Higgins beside her, cast as a very convincing Churchill, offering victory signs to all and sundry. Elizabeth and Billy had come back for the celebration too, along with Lady Mary.

“I couldn’t think of a better place to celebrate than here,” she told Gertie.

Billy was delighted to be reunited with Hedy, although it soon became clear that he was a little peeved with Sam. “I was going to ask Hedy Fischer to marry me before you came along,” he told him with a scowl.

“Billy!” scolded his mother.

Sam put a hand on Billy’s shoulder. “Then I’m just glad I asked her before you, as I can see I wouldn’t have stood a chance.”

Billy scrutinized Sam’s face for a moment as if assessing his rival before nodding with satisfaction. “Would you like to see a coin trick?”

“Very much,” said Sam.

Billy stayed close to his new friend and Hedy for most of the day. Gertie smiled as she watched them together, thinking what fine parents Sam and Hedy might make one day.

As darkness fell, a bonfire was lit in the gardens surrounding the hall, and everyone trooped outside to continue the party, baking potatoes in the flames, dancing and singing. Some of the children had made effigies of Hitler to throw onto the fire. As soon as Hedy saw the burning pyre, she turned to Sam. “I think I’d like to go now,” she said.

“Of course. Shall we see you at home, Mrs. B?”

Gertie saw the horror in Hedy’s eyes and understood. “No. I’ll come too,” she said, linking an arm through Hedy’s as they walked into the night, leaving the whoops and cheers far behind them.



The world emerged blinking into the postwar sunlight, and Gertie followed, unsure of what to expect. After six years it was difficult to remember what peacetime looked like. Life without nightly blackouts, sirens, and air raids was cause for great celebration, but rations remained and continued to be the bane of people’s lives.

“What have we been fighting for if not to finally say goodbye to these infernal queues and coupons?” complained Miss Crow as she arrived for the book club meeting. If Gertie needed confirmation that the world really had turned on its head, she need look no further than Miss Crow, who under Miss Snipp’s tutelage had discovered a newfound love of reading.

“Oh, hush now, Philomena. The war is over. Can’t you at least be grateful for that?” said Miss Snipp. Gertie had noticed that she’d recently developed a more positive outlook on life and put it down to the influence of a certain Mr. Higgins.

“Hmph,” said Miss Crow, uncharacteristically chastened. “I suppose you’re right.” She retrieved a book from her shopping basket. “Now, this Animal Farm. I liked it as I greatly admire the pig—very intelligent animal by all accounts. My mother used to keep them when I was a child. However, I haven’t got the foggiest clue what this is all about.”

“I hope you’re not starting without me,” said Mrs. Constantine, sweeping in through the door. “I am deeply enamored by this novel. Such a clever satire of the Russian Revolution and that monster, Stalin. I do declare Mr. Orwell to be a genius.”

“Oh,” said Miss Crow, agog. “So Napoleon?”

“Is Stalin,” confirmed Miss Snipp.

“Well, I never.”

Mr. Reynolds appeared a short while later, along with Miss Snipp’s nieces and Emily Farthing. Gertie sat on the sidelines, listening. Emily Farthing was greatly impressed when Mr. Reynolds told her that he had once met Karl Marx, while Sylvie and Rosaline confessed that they hadn’t actually read the book but that their mother had sent them along as they were getting under her feet. It was a lively and engaging discussion, but Gertie found her mind wandering to thoughts of the future.

Bingham Books was managing to tick along as it had always done. Her regular customers still frequented the shop, and there were enough postal orders and the book club to keep Miss Snipp busy for the time being.

For Gertie, however, it felt as if something was missing. Every day she would pass the now empty shop where Margery and her WVS army had held fort and gaze inside with a pang of longing. They hadn’t fought on the front line, but their work felt important. This was borne out by the letters they now received from grateful POWs. There was one in particular that struck a chord with Gertie.

I don’t think I’m overstating it when I say that the books you sent saved me. I was in a pretty dark spot, and reading these comical stories of Jeeves and Wooster made me forget where I was. To be able to escape the grim reality and spend a few hours chuckling to myself was a balm to my soul.





Gertie had carefully refolded the letter and stored it between the pages of her own treasured Wodehouse volume.

“MRS. BINGHAM!”

Gertie flicked her gaze back to Miss Snipp, who was frowning at her over the top of her spectacles. “Sorry, Miss Snipp. What did you say?”

“Our discussion is over and people want to know what the next book club title will be.”

Gertie glanced around the assembled company, unsure of what to say, unsure if she was the right one to answer.

“If you haven’t selected anything, I’d be delighted to lead a discussion on Jude the Obscure,” Miss Snipp offered.