“Don’t worry, Mrs. Bingham,” said Mrs. Huffingham, as they walked back along the corridor. “We’ll take good care of Hedy.”
“Thank you,” said Gertie. “She hasn’t been to school for a good while. Her mother was too afraid to send her.”
The headmistress shook her head. “A terrible business. We will do all we can to make her feel welcome for the time she’s with us. Girls generally leave education at sixteen, so she’ll need to find some employment when the time comes.”
“I’m hoping that her family will have joined her by then,” said Gertie, trying not to look too eager at the prospect.
Mrs. Huffingham nodded. “In the meantime we will follow your lead and do our very best for her.”
“Thank you,” said Gertie, unsure if she was worthy of such praise.
If Hedy was enjoying school, she certainly didn’t share her feelings. On the first evening, Gertie had tried to engage her in conversation about her day, to quiz her a little on what she was learning and how she was getting along with the other girls.
“Audrey seems like a nice girl,” said Gertie over a supper of pork chops and boiled potatoes.
“Yes. She is,” said Hedy, pushing a cube of meat around her plate with a fork.
“And your form tutor? Miss Peacock?”
“She is nice.”
“That’s good. What about your subjects?”
“I am best in class at German,” said Hedy.
“I daresay you could teach the class if you wanted to.”
“Yes,” said Hedy. “The German teacher is not very good.”
“Hedy!” cried Gertie scandalized.
Hedy shrugged. “I am German. She is not.” She put down her knife and fork. “Can I go to my room now?”
Gertie glanced at her half-eaten dinner. “You’ve hardly touched your food.”
“I do not like Schweinekoteletts. Can I give to Hemingway?”
Gertie sighed as both the dog and the girl gazed at her with eager eyes. She couldn’t entertain the idea of a battle. There was too much turbulence in the world at the moment without starting a row about pork chops. “All right then, but if you do not like my food then perhaps you should cook something you like for both of us.”
“I cook all the time in Munich. I like to bake best, so perhaps I make something one day. And now I can go?”
Gertie put down her knife and fork in defeat. “You may.”
A few weeks later, Gertie returned home after a brisk day’s business at the bookshop. Despite an uncertain future and the dreadful weather, people were still planning their fortnight’s holiday to the seaside and seemed to be stocking up on books for this purpose. Margaret Mitchell’s Gone with the Wind and Georgette Heyer’s Regency Buck were both proving particularly popular, while John Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath had been a big hit at that month’s book club, according to Betty. Gertie let herself in through the front door, looking forward to flopping in her armchair with a cup of tea and perhaps an early-evening program on the radio. She was surprised, therefore, to be confronted by the clamorous melody of “The Lambeth Walk” spilling from the living room at some volume accompanied by the singing and laughter of girls’ voices. Gertie froze. It had been an age since the gramophone had last been in use. Harry’s gramophone.
On Friday evenings, if the week had been a good one, she and Harry would treat themselves to a fish supper. Afterward, Harry would wind up the gramophone, place a record on the turntable with care, drop the stylus, and offer her his hand.
“Would madam care to dance?”
They weren’t particularly accomplished dancers. Gertie lacked rhythm and Harry was too clumsy to be able to dance with any skill, but they seemed to fit well together, shuffling around the living room, laughing as they went. Gertie couldn’t recall ever feeling as safe and happy as she did when she was in Harry’s arms.
The sound of careless laughter and raucous singing coming from the living room felt like an affront to this precious memory. Gertie’s body fizzed with indignant anger as she pushed open the living room door. A girl, whom Gertie recognized as Audrey, was teaching Hedy the Lambeth Walk while another girl offered encouragement.
“Any time you Lambeth way, any evening, any day, you find us all, doing the Lambeth Walk, oi!” sang Hedy, pulling her elbow into a triumphant thumbs-up.
“That’s it, Hedy. You’ve got it!” cried Audrey, before they all dissolved into laughter with Hemingway turning delighted barking circles in their midst.
The sight would have gladdened most people’s hearts, but Gertie was not in the mood to have her heart gladdened today. “What is the meaning of this?” she shouted.
The girls turned in alarm. Instinctively Hemingway sank to his haunches in an obedient sit. Hedy frowned but offered no response, so Gertie strode over to the gramophone, wrenched the stylus from the record, and folded her arms.
“I asked you a question,” she said, surprised by her rage.
Hedy mirrored Gertie by folding her arms as Audrey stepped forward. “We’re most dreadfully sorry, Mrs. Bingham. We thought it was all right.” She glanced toward Hedy, who had clearly given this impression.
“Perhaps we should go,” said the other girl, hastily retrieving the record from the player and reaching for her satchel and coat.
“Yes. All right,” said Audrey, following her lead. “Sorry again, Mrs. Bingham. See you tomorrow, Hedy.”
Hedy was still frowning but managed to offer her friends a half-hearted wave in reply. After they’d left, Gertie turned to her. “Well. Do you have anything to say?”
Hedy gave an exasperated sigh. “Sorry. Pardon. Je m’excuse. I did not know that playing records in England was bad. You say I can read any books, so why is music forbidden?”
Gertie was struck dumb. Hedy was right, of course. She knew it was an overreaction, but Harry’s loss was still too sharp and painful. She needed to preserve his memory at all costs. “You should have asked first. It’s presumption of the highest order, young lady.”
“I say sorry. I don’t know what more you want,” cried Hedy, the color rising in her cheeks.
“I would like you to show some respect,” said Gertie. “I have offered you a place to stay and think you should be more grateful.”
“Thank you very, very much,” said Hedy with a mocking curtsy.
“There is no need to be rude,” said Gertie.
“Why not?” said Hedy. “I know you don’t want me here, that I have spoiled your quiet life. Well, don’t worry. I had letter from my mother today, and they will be coming very soon.”
“Well, that sounds like good news for both of us.” Gertie regretted the words as soon as they escaped from her mouth. She thought she’d left that keen anger behind in her youth, but it seemed to have followed her into middle age and beyond.
They stared at each other for a moment as if both aware they had gone too far. Hemingway gave a piteous whine.
Gertie sighed. “Look, Hedy. I should never have said that. I was cross. Let me make us some tea.”
“I don’t want more tea!” cried Hedy. “Why do English people make tea all the time? It doesn’t make things better and it tastes horrible!”