“I’ll leave you to it then, Betty,” called Gertie, gathering her belongings. “Come along, Hemingway.”
The dog glanced at Gertie from his position at Hedy’s feet before returning to his afternoon snooze.
“He can stay with me,” said Hedy.
“Oh,” said Gertie, caught off guard. “Are you sure?”
Hedy nodded.
“And I can walk them home, Mrs. B. Don’t worry. We’ll be fine,” said Betty.
“Right,” said Gertie. “Thank you. See you later then.” Gertie took her leave with the sound of their chatter and laughter echoing in her ears.
“I just feel rather surplus to requirements,” she told Harry later as she placed the delicate posy of pale lemon primroses on his grave. “Hedy seems to engage with everyone but me. I don’t know how to talk to her. Oh, Harry, all this would be so much easier if you were here. You’d know exactly what to say, you’d jolly us all along, and . . .” Her voice trailed off as the pain of the past rose up to meet her. “It makes me think I wouldn’t have been much of a mother after all.” The tears sprung from nowhere as she recalled the endless failed pregnancies, and the last one in particular.
She had kept it secret from everyone including Harry. It had frightened her a little, this secret, and she wanted to be sure that everything was all right before she told him. Gertie had become well-versed in recognizing the signs that she was expecting. She always seemed to develop a voracious appetite, while exhaustion would roll over her in a great wave. During one pregnancy she’d experienced an uncontrollable craving for hot buttered crumpets. Another time, she had developed an inexplicable urge to sniff the bindings of hardback books.
On this occasion, Gertie was experiencing mild nausea and seemed to have developed a penchant for licorice, so it wasn’t immediately obvious, but she knew. She recognized the sensation of her body changing in readiness for the new life growing inside her like a seed in warm earth. She pictured the miniature being in exactly this way too. A tiny seed germinating into budding life. All she had to do was provide the nutrients and shelter for it to do just that. Of course, this was where the problem lay.
“It’s nature at its cruelest,” Harry would say as they mourned another lost child. “You would make the most wonderful mother. But as long as we have each other, I have all I need.”
Dear Harry. He made Gertie so happy, but despite his soft words and gentle kindness, she blamed herself. So this time, she was taking extra special care, treating herself like a mother hen on her nest, staying close to the coop. One day, she went to the shops as usual and, after lunch, took her habitual afternoon nap. She retrieved the copy of A Room with a View, which Harry had recently brought home for her from the library, and started to read. Quickly her eyelids grew heavy, and she set it to one side, allowing delicious sleep to wash over her. She woke hours later to the sound of the front door opening.
“What ho!” cried Harry.
Gertie sat up abruptly in bed as a sharp cramp stabbed at her abdomen. “Dyspepsia,” she muttered to herself. “It’s just dyspepsia.” She cursed herself for sleeping so long. Gertie had wanted to be waiting for him when he came home, sitting at the kitchen table, ready to share her precious secret. She swung her feet onto the floor, wincing against the pain as she stood up. “I’ll be down in a moment,” she called.
“Right ho.”
Gertie made her way to the bathroom. The pain intensified along with her sorrow. She knew what this meant before she even saw the blood. Gertie had failed again. She had failed Harry, and she had failed herself. She would never be a mother, never rejoice as their house echoed with the peals of children’s laughter, never delight in watching as their faces lit up when Harry read them stories. It was this that wounded her the most. The idea of these phantom children who would never know their love.
Gertie palmed away her tears and rested a hand on Harry’s headstone. “It just wasn’t meant to be, was it, my darling?”
Gertie had been home a good while before Hedy and Betty returned with Hemingway. She heard them laughing as they walked up the garden path and went to the hall to meet them. Hemingway, perhaps feeling guilty at abandoning his mistress earlier, hurried forward to greet her, his tail whirling with excitement.
“How was the meeting?” asked Gertie.
“Oh, Mrs. B, we had the most marvelous discussion—didn’t we, Hedy?” said Betty.
Hedy nodded. “I would like to go again.”
“Wonderful,” said Gertie. “I’ve just made some tea. Would you both like a cup?”
“Thank you, but I better not,” said Betty. “Mother will be expecting me.” She made her way back down the path with a wave. “Toodle pip both.”
“Bye, Betty. And thank you,” said Gertie, closing the door and turning to Hedy. “Would you like some tea?” she added hopefully.
“No,” said Hedy. “Thank you. I think I go to my room now.”
“Wait.” Gertie touched Hedy on the shoulder. The girl froze and Gertie drew back. “I just wanted to tell you that I telephoned the local girls’ school this afternoon and spoke to the headmistress. They have a place if you’d like to go?”
Hedy spun around, her eyes wild and bright. “Wirklich?”
Gertie nodded. “Really. You can start next week.”
Hedy blinked at her. “Thank you,” she said, her voice almost a whisper. “I miss school. My mother forbid me from going because a girl who was my friend spat at me.” Hedy stared at the floor. “It is hard to understand.”
“Yes. It is,” said Gertie, encouraged by her shared confidence. “That must have been very upsetting for you and your family.”
Hedy studied her face for a moment as if searching for an answer. “Would you like to see a photograph of them?”
“I would like that very much,” said Gertie. “Perhaps we could have that cup of tea and you could show me.”
Hedy gave a brief nod before disappearing upstairs. By the time she returned, Gertie had made the tea and carried the tray into the living room. Hedy held out the photograph with tender pride, and Gertie accepted it with care. It was a sepia family portrait much like any other, except there was a joyful informality about this one that reminded Gertie of the times she and Harry had posed for photographs. Hedy and her family smiled out at Gertie from where they sat on a long velvet sofa, elbows touching companionably. A sleek black Labrador stood beside them.
Hedy sat next to Gertie, her face animated as she spoke. “This is my mother, Else. She is musician. She played for the Munich orchestra.” Gertie was saddened by Hedy’s use of the past tense. “She is also very good at sewing. She make all my clothes.” Hedy smoothed down the fabric of her bottle-green skirt as she said this.
“She sounds very talented,” said Gertie. “And this is your father?”
Hedy nodded. “Johann. He was music teacher and is excellent singer. And this is my brother, Arno. He was studying to be . . .” Her voice trailed off as she searched for the right word. “Architekt?”
“Architect?” said Gertie. “A person who does the drawings for buildings?”