France, 1917
Captain Charles Ashford signed his name at the bottom of the handwritten note to Mrs. Percy Rose, blotted it, and placed it on top of the pile of forty other letters he had written to forty other new widows that day. He stared at the flickering candle, which illuminated the bare brick walls of the bomb-damaged farmhouse where he and his men had sought refuge. Most of them were asleep, exhausted after days of attacks and counterattacks. His commanding officer had declared the operation to be a success: “It marks a new phase, Ashford. We now know how to break quickly and deeply into enemy lines with minimal casualties. We just need better communication to crack it next time. With a fair wind, we’ll be home by Christmas.”
“Yes, sir,” Charles had said, although he begged to differ and felt sure that the families of the thousands of dead or missing soldiers would agree with him. He couldn’t imagine being home by Christmas. He couldn’t even remember what Christmas was like. All Charles could see stretching before him was an endless conflict, more young men senselessly losing their lives, more new widows, more children being raised without fathers. When he signed up, he had done so out of duty for King and country. These were the rallying cries. But after years of watching young men—boys, really—crying for their mothers as they lay dying, of soldiers who had become close friends blown to pieces before his eyes, Charles struggled to imagine a world beyond the daily horror of war.
He contemplated his own death every day. In many ways, he was ready for it. In dark moments, he even longed for it. An end to all this. The blessed kiss of death. He wasn’t superstitious, wasn’t one of those chaps who carried ’round a rabbit’s foot or a lump of coal for luck. He knew that if your time was up, your time was up. It had happened to Jack Arnold. Gertie wrote to tell him the news only last month. Dear Gertie. He could imagine her distress and the way she would try to console her parents. Such a close family. And of course she had Harry. Good old Harry. Charles pulled out his leather wallet and gazed at the photograph of Harry and Gertie on their wedding day, with Charles and Jack standing proudly on either side of them. Such precious times. He felt tears stab behind his eyes. He couldn’t fathom what it would be like to go back. Perhaps that told its own story. Maybe his time was nearly up. He took another sheet of paper and dipped his pen in the ink.
5 December 1917
My dear Gertie,
Thank you for your letter. I had to write as soon as I could to tell you how sorry I was to hear about Jack.
Charles paused as he fumbled for the right words.
He was such a fine man and a good brother to you. I remember with fondness those happy afternoons we all spent together, punting in Oxford. It still makes me laugh when I recall the time he tried to jump from one boat into another and ended up in the Cherwell!
Charles wiped at the corner of his eye. Even though most of the men were asleep, it would not do to allow emotion into this world.
I hope treasured memories of days like these will offer you some comfort in the weeks and months ahead.
I am in good health and
Charles broke off, frustrated by his hollow platitudes. These memories wouldn’t bring back Jack. Those were the facts. The plain truth. Perhaps it was time for Charles to tell a truth of his own.
He dipped his pen again and paused before replacing it in the inkwell and rubbing at his temples. How to express this? How to tell Gertie what he really wanted her to hear? What would she think? What would Harry think? His oldest, dearest friends. His racing mind wrestled for clarity: I have to tell you something in case, by some misfortune, I do not return. I think it’s only fair that you know the truth.
The truth. There was that word again. So easy to write and yet so difficult to express. What is the truth, Charles? He looked at the wedding photograph again, stroking it with his thumb.
“I love you,” whispered Charles. “I will always love you, and no other will ever come close to you.” He pressed the photograph to his lips before sliding it back into his wallet and picking up the pen again, ready to write. If he died out here, he needed Gertie to know his true feelings.
“Tea, sir.”
Charles looked up from his letter as the weary soldier placed a tin mug before him. “Thank you, Sergeant.”
“Shall I take these letters for you, Captain?”
Charles glanced down at his unfinished letter to Gertie. He paused for a moment before scribbling hastily.
I am in good health and hope for brighter times when Harry, you, and I will be reunited in person. Do send him my very best. You are always in my thoughts.
I am yours ever,
Charles
“Thank you, Sergeant,” he said, placing Gertie’s letter with the others and handing them over.
Part Two
London, 1940
Chapter 8
My Best Friend is a person who will give me a book I have not read.
—Abraham Lincoln
Gerald Travers frowned at the bare brick wall as if expecting Hitler himself to emerge from within before giving it an authoritative tap and cocking his head to listen. He stepped back with a satisfied nod.
“Safe as houses, Mrs. Bingham,” he said, glancing around the dimly lit, shelf-lined room, which up until today had served largely as the storeroom and orders office. “I’m more than happy to rubber-stamp this as a public air-raid shelter.”
“Thank you, Mr. Travers,” said Gertie. “We’ll be glad to offer refuge should the need arise. I’m sure we can make it more welcoming with a few chairs and cushions. At least there’s plenty to entertain us,” she added, nodding toward the book-stacked shelves.
Gerald gave a considered nod. He reminded Gertie a little of Alderman Ptolemy, the tortoise character from the Beatrix Potter stories who moved with slow deliberation and was also partial to the lettuce that grew in his abundant garden. “Hitler’s too busy trampling his way across Europe at the moment, but it won’t be long before he’s knocking on our door. And we’ll be ready for him,” said Gerald, tapping the side of his nose.
Gertie smiled. She had known him for years. Everyone knew Gerald and his wife, Beryl. They had run the local greengrocer’s and they’d taken a special shine to Gertie one day when she admired their homegrown cauliflowers and confessed a dream of trying to grow them in her own garden. Beryl immediately took it upon herself to play fairy godmother to Gertie’s horticultural ambitions. She brought her not just cauliflower seedlings but dwarf beans, tomatoes, marrows, and trays of sprouting seed potatoes. Under Beryl and Gerald’s tutelage, Gertie fell in love with gardening, gifting the couple with jars of pickles, jams, and preserved fruits in grateful thanks. Gertie still remembered the day Beryl became too sick to work, because Gerald pulled down the shutters on the greengrocer’s and never raised them again. He would often come into the shop to buy a book to read to Beryl while she lay in bed.
“Something amusing and diverting, please, Mrs. Bingham,” he would say. Gertie had sent him home with a steady stream of Wodehouse and Three Men in a Boat of course too. He returned them all to Gertie after Beryl died. “You can sell them from your secondhand selection with my blessing, Mrs. Bingham. I don’t have any need for them now.”
Gertie considered Gerald to be a gentleman in every sense of the word. She remembered him coming to visit her at home shortly after Harry died. He stood on her doorstep, clutching a paper bag and gazing at her with the look of someone who had also lost their life’s love.