“But surely this means that they need our help.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. . . . ?”
“Bingham. Gertie Bingham.”
“Yes. Mrs. Bingham. I’m sorry, but we can’t give carte blanche to everyone.”
Gertie cast her eyes behind Mr. Wiggins to the portrait of King George VI gazing benevolently at her. She remembered a photograph she’d seen of him laughing with the little princesses. “Do you have a family, Mr. Wiggins?”
A flicker of irritation darted across the man’s face. “Yes, of course, but I’m not sure what that has to do with—”
It was Gertie’s turn to cut him off. “I am asking because I wonder how you would feel if you were sent away with no hope of seeing them again.”
Mr. Wiggins frowned. “The British government has and is still offering refuge to thousands of Jewish children.”
Gertie sat bolt upright in her chair. “But what about their parents? What about their siblings? Do they not have a right to live free from persecution too?”
“Please do not raise your voice in this office, Mrs. Bingham.”
Gertie was on her feet now. “When should I raise my voice then, Mr. Wiggins? When people start to be killed because of their race or religion? Because I can guarantee that this is already happening.”
“I am going to have to ask you to leave.”
An adjoining door toward the back of Mr. Wiggins’s office opened. A pristine man appeared, wearing an Egyptian-blue suit and mauve silk tie with matching handkerchief tucked in his breast pocket. He exuded the air of private school and privilege. “Is everything all right, Mr. Wiggins? Miss Meredith said there had been something of a kerfuffle.” He flashed a brilliant smile at Gertie. It gave her the courage to speak before Mr. Wiggins could deliver his version of events.
“I apologize if I have caused a scene,” she said. “But I am trying to help a young Jewish girl’s family escape Nazi Germany. They have visas and offers of work in this country.”
The man held her gaze. “Could I see the application please, Mr. Wiggins?”
Mr. Wiggins’s face tensed. “Of course.” He turned to Gertie. “What are the names, madam?”
She held out the letter for him to take.
“Fischer,” he said, approaching a filing cabinet and searching through before pulling out a buff-colored folder. He handed it to the other man.
His superior’s face lit up as he read through the papers. “Well, this family has Dicky Rose as a guarantor.”
“Yes, sir,” said Mr. Wiggins. “But the present government policy states—”
“Oh, Wiggins, for heaven’s sake. Have some compassion. This fine woman . . .” He raised his eyebrows at Gertie.
“Gertie Bingham,” she confirmed.
“Mrs. Bingham,” he continued, “has come to us with visas from Germany and a guarantee from the Richard Rose. I think we can make an exception.”
“Oh, thank you,” said Gertie. “I’m so very grateful.”
The man gave a polite bow. “Not at all. I was at Oxford with Dicky. Splendid chap. See to the paperwork for Mrs. Bingham, will you, Mr. Wiggins?”
“Of course, sir,” said the man with a tight expression.
“A pleasure to meet you,” said his superior before disappearing.
“Thank you,” cried Gertie after him.
“Well,” said Mr. Wiggins after he’d gone. “Let me sort that out for you.” He paused to glance at the towering pile of papers waiting to be processed. “What a shame none of these are as well connected, eh?”
Gertie left the offices a while later with Mr. Wiggins’s words echoing in her ears. She was delighted that Hedy’s family would be saved but knew he was right. His superior had rubber-stamped the application only because of a connection with the Rose family. It didn’t have anything to do with the Fischer family’s situation. As she glanced back at the Union Jack flag flying over the government building, Gertie’s cheeks burned with shame.
Within a fortnight, Hedy’s mother wrote to confirm that they had booked their tickets. They would leave Germany in three weeks, at the beginning of September, and arrive at Croydon Aerodrome a few days later.
“Thank you, Gertie,” said Hedy, placing a hand on her heart. “I will wash dishes until my parents arrive.”
“I’m just happy you’re going to be reunited.” Deep down, of course, Gertie’s overriding feeling was one of relief, and she sensed that Hedy felt the same. Gertie was too old to navigate the choppy waters of a fifteen-year-old’s whims, and Hedy certainly needed a livelier living companion. Once the Fischers arrived, she would be happy to return Hedy to the familial fold safe in the knowledge that she had done her best for the child.
“Oh, Mrs. B,” said Betty one afternoon while Barnaby was visiting the shop. “We’re taking a trip to the seaside this weekend with Sam and Hedy, if it’s all right with you?”
“I think that’s a splendid idea,” said Gertie, her mind already conjuring up a peaceful house and a morning spent hoeing her vegetable patch before relaxing in the garden with a copy of The Good Earth, which was Betty’s latest book club choice. Gertie had picked up a copy on a whim and was very much admiring Pearl S. Buck’s writing. “It’s supposed to be warm this weekend. It’ll be lovely by the sea.”
“You should come, shouldn’t she, Barnaby?”
Barnaby glanced up from his orders book. “Oh yes, Mrs. Bingham. It would be delightful if you could join us.”
“I’m not sure . . .” said Gertie, alarmed at the thought of her tranquil Sunday disappearing into the distance.
“Oh, go on, Mrs. B. It’ll be too hot in London, and Hedy’s parents will be whisking her away soon. It’ll be a last hoorah.”
Gertie wavered. Betty could be very persuasive, and the idea of a cooling sea breeze was tempting. It felt like a lifetime since she’d even seen the sea. She recalled Sunday trips with Harry, the way he would roll up his trousers and wade into the ocean, invariably returning soaked as a wave surprised him. Then they would spread out their red-and-blue-checked picnic rug and feast on the lunch inside the wicker hamper, which had been a wedding gift from Charles. Treasured times. Distant memories now. Perhaps it was the time to revisit them. “In that case, I accept, but only if you let me make the picnic.”
Whenever Gertie thought back to that trip, it truly felt like the last day of summer. Everything about it was golden. Gertie rose early to prepare their picnic: ham sandwiches, boiled eggs, a homemade Victoria sponge cake filled with her own plum jam, and apples from the tree in the garden. She packed it all in the wicker hamper along with a flask of tea and bottles of ginger beer.
At ten o’clock on the dot, Sam knocked at the door and Hedy flew to answer it.
“Well, gosh, don’t you look lovely,” she heard him say as she carried the picnic basket from the kitchen. “Good morning, Mrs. B. Let me take that from you.”
“Thank you, Sam.” Gertie caught sight of Hedy as they walked to the car. She was wearing a beautiful yellow polka-dot tea dress that gathered at her bust and flared out from the waist. “You do look pretty, my dear. Your parents will be amazed at how grown up you are.”