“Perhaps it’s better for you if I speak in English. It will help you learn.”
Hedy stared as Gertie embarked on a strange, one-sided conversation.
“I run a bookshop. Do you like books?” Hedy gave a small nod. “Good. That’s good. I bought some books for your room that I thought you might like. Betty, she’s my assistant bookseller, helped me choose them. You’ll like Betty. She’s very friendly and not much older than you.” Hedy blinked at her. “And then there’s Hemingway. He’s my dog. We live in a small house, but we have a lovely garden. Do you like gardens? I do. I like to grow lots of flowers. Dahlias are my favorites. Do you like dahlias? In the summer, I’ll cut some for your room. I also grow vegetables. Potatoes, onions, runner beans, that sort of thing. I used to grow carrots, but they were always getting ravaged by carrot fly. They’re such a nuisance. And I like to grow brassicas, but you have to cover them, otherwise the pigeons strip them bare. They’re terrors.”
Gertie noticed Hedy mouth the word “brassica” and recalled the earlier confusion from their conversation with Charles. “Oh, sorry, brassicas are cabbages really. And cauliflowers. Also brussels sprouts, broccoli, spring greens . . .” The furrow in Hedy’s brow deepened as she tried to comprehend why this strange woman was listing vegetables. Gertie knew she was talking absolute codswallop but couldn’t seem to stop. Had she actually just told this girl about dahlias and carrot fly? She heard the man behind the Telegraph tut and clamped her mouth shut until they arrived at their stop.
Gertie ushered Hedy through the crowds to the overground station, where they would catch their connecting train. The concourse was a sea of men in bowler hats returning from their day’s work. Gertie had to fight the urge to plonk herself down in the middle of them for a rest. She could see that Hedy was struggling too, her face a picture of fretting weariness.
“Come along,” said Gertie. “Take my arm. Our train is ready on platform one.” Hedy looked reluctant but did as she was told. Gertie experienced a small thrill of victory on discovering two empty seats and flopped down into the one nearest the aisle after managing to lift Hedy’s suitcase onto the shelf above their heads.
“You must sit by the window,” said Gertie. “So you can see London in all its glory.”
When the train pulled out of the station, Hedy sat up taller in her seat, transfixed by the River Thames, glittering in the early-evening sunshine with St. Paul’s Cathedral a beacon in the distance, as Gertie pointed out the sights. Hedy remained silent, keeping her eyes fixed on the images flashing by as London’s industry gave way to residential brick terraces with neat gardens. Gertie was grateful to slide into a peaceful daydream, closing her eyes for a moment, wondering and worrying what the future might hold. She couldn’t quite believe this girl was now in her charge. She squinted through half-closed eyes and noticed Hedy staring out the window, biting at her lip as if she couldn’t quite believe it either.
As they emerged from the station a while later and made the short walk home, Gertie felt a tingle of pride for her neighborhood. She caught sight of Mr. Travers, Beechwood’s retired greengrocer, who tipped his hat to them both. Gertie offered a cheery wave in reply.
“I think you’ll like Beechwood. Everyone is very friendly,” she said, dismissing thoughts of Miss Snipp’s antagonism and Miss Crow’s petty gossiping for the time being. She glanced at Hedy, but the girl’s eyes remained fixed forward as if she were in a trance. Hardly surprising, thought Gertie. The poor child must be exhausted.
As they rounded the corner onto her street and walked up the garden path to the front door, Gertie’s body flooded with relief. She had always loved her little house, with its bottle-green door and roses in the garden. She hoped Hedy would find it as inviting as she did. Gertie stood back to usher her inside. “Welcome to your new home,” she said, trying to read her expression as Hedy gazed around in bewilderment.
They were interrupted by Hemingway bounding out from the living room to greet them. Gertie grabbed his collar as Hedy took a step back.
“Now, Hemingway. That is not how we greet guests.” She reached out a hand to Hedy. “Don’t worry, dear. He’s just a big bear really.”
Hedy stared at the dog for a moment before dropping to her knees and wrapping her arms around his furry body, receiving a frantic tail wag in reply. “I love dogs,” she murmured into his fur.
“I think you may have a new friend, Hemingway,” said Gertie, buoyed by their meeting. “Would you like to see your new room before I make us some tea?”
“Please,” said Hedy.
Gertie told herself that Hedy’s monosyllabic responses were only to be expected. The child had left her home and arrived in a strange land after the most arduous of journeys. Press on, Gertie, she thought, echoing her mother’s words whenever life threw up a challenge. You’ll find a way.
“Follow me,” she said, leading Hedy up the stairs to the freshly painted bedroom. She switched on the bedside lamp, delighted at how cozy and inviting it looked, bathed in a warm apricot glow. “Here we are,” she said, placing Hedy’s suitcase on the bed.
Hedy gazed around the room without comment, so Gertie pressed on.
“I hope you’ll be very comfortable. Betty and I tried to choose nice colors. Oh, and these are the books I told you about,” she added, gesturing toward the mantelpiece. When there was still no reply, Gertie made an attempt at levity. “We bashed the rug to within an inch of its life.”
Hedy frowned in confusion.
“To get rid of the dust,” she explained, feeling the color rise in her cheeks. For heaven’s sake, Gertie. Stop talking.
“Ah,” said Hedy finally. “Thank you.”
Gertie hadn’t expected Hedy to dance the cancan in gratitude, but she had hoped for something a little more effusive. She told herself that a thank-you would suffice for now. “I’ll go and make us that tea,” she said. “Why don’t you unpack your things and come downstairs when you’re ready.” Gertie moved toward the door.
“Excuse me?” said Hedy.
“Yes?”
“I am very tired. I think I sleep now.”
It was posed as a statement rather than a question. “Of course,” said Gertie. “But what about supper? I was going to toast us some crumpets.”
Either Hedy didn’t care for crumpets or she didn’t know what they were, as she answered without hesitation. “I am not hungry.”
“Oh,” said Gertie. “Well, if you’re sure.”
Hedy nodded. “But please wait,” she said, reaching into her backpack. Hedy pulled out an envelope and a small brown paper-wrapped parcel tied with red string. She handed both to Gertie. “My mother send a letter and ein Geschenk—a gift for you.”
Gertie unwrapped the parcel and pulled out a plum-colored hardback book. “Kinder und Haus Märchen?” she read, looking to Hedy for help with her pronunciation.
“Maer-chen,” corrected Hedy. “Gesammelt durch die Brüder Grimm.”
“Oh. It’s a book of Grimm’s folktales. How wonderful.”