“Cox’s Orange Pippins,” he said, pressing the bag into her hands. “Mr. Bingham’s favorite, if I’m not mistaken.”
It was no surprise to Gertie that this pillar of their community, who also acted as caretaker for the village hall, had taken on the role of senior Air Raid Precautions warden as soon as war was declared.
“I’m grateful to you for taking the time to visit, Mr. Travers,” she said, following him back onto the shop floor. “I know how busy you must be.”
“It’s no bother, Mrs. Bingham,” said Gerald. “No bother at all. I’m glad to be occupied, especially in the evenings. The house can get a bit, well, you know . . .”
“Yes.” She did indeed know. At least she used to. The gaping silence of her house after Harry died had made her breathless at times. She used to take Hemingway on long, rambling walks for hours at a time, desperate to avoid the oppressive quiet.
It was different with Hedy staying. Nothing like when Harry was alive, of course, but Gertie had realized that she slept a little easier at night. Waking to an empty house had given her scant impetus to get out of bed, but now, Hedy needed to be roused and coaxed to get ready for school. It was often a challenge, as fifteen-year-old girls apparently relished their sleep, but it gave Gertie a reason to be up and on, and she was grateful for it.
After war was declared and the numbing realization that her family was to remain in Germany at the mercy of the Nazis sank in, Hedy retreated like a wounded bird. She left her room only for meals or to go to school, and Hemingway rarely left her side. Worst of all was the fact that there were no letters now. As soon as the war began, communication from Germany was only possible via Red Cross telegrams of just twenty-five words. The first arrived a few days after the Fischers’ failed attempt to leave Germany.
We are in good health. Do not worry. You are a dear daughter. Papa, Arno, and I send our love. Stay cheerful. Mama.
With this final confirmation that her family would not be coming to England, Hedy withdrew, ghostlike, as if she couldn’t believe the reality of her life now. Gertie was reminded of herself during the weeks and months following Harry’s death, when she had been gripped with fear by his absence and yet unable to believe he was gone. Desperate to rouse Hedy from the doldrums, she tried to offer solace in the only way she knew.
“Jane Eyre,” she said, sliding her own treasured volume across the kitchen table toward Hedy one evening. “It brought me comfort when I needed it most. It still does, in truth.”
Hedy lifted her gaze toward Gertie and then looked back to the slim green book. She opened the cover and read the inscription. “This was from your husband?”
Gertie swallowed. “It was. He gave it to me the day we were married.” Her eyes sparkled as she was drawn back to the memory. “I remember it was a hot day. I wore this heavy ivory gown with scratchy lace sleeves and a long train, and I had a headdress decorated with orange blossom which made my head itch.” She shook her head with amusement, almost forgetting that Hedy was listening. “All I wanted to do was marry Harry so that we could get on with our lives together. The photographer was a jolly fellow called Mr. Archibald who had this splendid handlebar mustache which made him look like a cheerful walrus. I was desperately trying to smile for the portrait but couldn’t think what to do with my face. My brother, Jack, was behaving like a dolt, pulling faces behind him. Mother scolded him but only gently, as was her way.” She chuckled. “He said that I looked as if I was posing for a death portrait.”
“This sounds like something Arno would say to me,” said Hedy. “Always teasing.”
Gertie smiled. “And then Charles appeared. He was Harry’s best friend, you see. I was so pleased and relieved to see him that my face was transformed. Then Mr. Archibald took the perfect photo, and forever afterward Harry would joke that his blushing bride was grinning from ear to ear not because her mind was filled with thoughts of her beloved but because she’d just spotted her husband’s best friend in the distance.”
Hedy laughed.
“And so he was the one who delivered this book from Harry,” said Gertie, gesturing toward the volume.
Hedy read the inscription out loud. “Reader, she married me and made me the happiest man alive. Ever yours, Harry, June 1906.” She closed the cover, running a tender hand across the gilt type. “Thank you for letting me borrow it.”
Gertie nodded, a sudden swell of longing sweeping through her body. She could see them all posing for a portrait after the ceremony: Harry smiling down at her, Charles and Jack joking behind them, Gertie’s maiden aunt scolding her father and Uncle Thomas for being too raucous, and her mother seizing her hand and kissing it. It had been the happiest day, and she dearly wished she could go back. To bask in that moment again. To feel that love and joy around her once more. She rose to her feet, keen to escape the melancholy. “I hope you enjoy it, dear,” she said. “Now if you’ll excuse me. It’s high time I pruned my roses.”
A few days later, Gertie returned from the bookshop to find Hedy in the kitchen, the teacups and saucers laid out, kettle boiled.
Her face lit up when she saw Gertie. “I finished Jane Eyre,” she said. “She is the best heroine I have ever read. She even learns to speak German.” Hedy cast her eyes toward the table. “I have made tea and . . .” She lifted a tea towel to reveal a tray of caramel-colored biscuits. “They are like Lebkuchen we have at home. I hope they taste good. I thought we could have tea and talk about the book, if you would like?”
Gertie shouldered off her coat with a smile. “I would like.”
Harry had always said that the best things in life invariably start with a book, and as Gertie and Hedy shared their love of stories over tea and biscuits during the following weeks and months, she was reminded how wise her husband had been. Gertie offered Brontë and Wodehouse, while Hedy brought Droste-Hülshoff and Hesse. Once they had shared their favorites, they moved on to new authors. Together, they discovered Edna Ferber, Winifred Holtby, Aldous Huxley, and plenty more besides. Gertie noted with satisfaction that they not only had similar tastes but that Hedy discussed stories, characters, and literature with a passion that Gertie recognized but hadn’t felt for a good few years. Since Harry’s death, to be precise. She had fallen out of love with reading for a time, and now Hedy was helping to reignite that joy.
When she wasn’t at school or reading, Hedy would write. Sam had enlisted with the RAF, and she would compose long letters to him, her face coming alive whenever she received a reply. Gertie also noticed the scribbled stories, penned on scraps of paper, some fragments in German and some in English. It made her smile. There was comfort in words. A world of much-needed strength and hope too. Gertie bought Hedy a midnight-blue leather notebook and gifted her Harry’s bright red Parker Duofold pen.
“If it’s good enough for Arthur Conan Doyle, it’s good enough for me,” he’d always say.
Hedy accepted both with a look of grateful wonder. “I promise I will take care of Harry’s pen.”
“I know you will,” said Gertie with satisfaction. “You can be Bingham Books’s first writer in residence.”