“I’ll write a story that would make you both proud.”
Gertie felt her heart rise and dip all at once, as it sounded exactly like the kind of thing a child would say to her parents. She patted Hedy’s shoulder. “I can’t wait to read it.”
“I’ve got one, Mrs. B!” cried Betty, bursting in through the door, holding up an egg like a trophy. “Oh sorry, Mr. Travers. I didn’t see you there.”
“Don’t mind me, Miss Godwin. Mrs. Bingham and I were just shoring up the old defenses.”
Betty’s eyes lit up. “You’ve signed it off?”
He nodded. “It’ll be a boon on the high street when the Jerries get here.”
“If they get here,” said Betty. “I’m proud as punch to be one of your wardens, Mr. Travers, but I don’t need to do much except hand out gas masks and shout at people to ‘put that light out!’”
“Be careful what you wish for,” said Gerald, exchanging a glance with Gertie. It was the look of a generation who was relieved that there had been little fighting during the first few months of this war. The thought of burying more dead when they were still reeling from the horrors of the last conflict was almost too much to bear. Betty’s generation couldn’t recall this, of course. They were eager to defeat fascism, to stand up and fight. Gertie applauded their spirit, but every time she heard of another young man joining up, dread pooled in her stomach like tar. Hitler was spreading his tentacles of power through Europe, and it wouldn’t be long before his attention turned to Britain. It was as if they were poised, staring into the terrifying darkness, fearful of the moment the monster would strike.
For the time being, life felt like a dress rehearsal for what lay ahead. The government had introduced rationing, which, if you listened to the likes of Miss Crow, was a “travesty of justice,” but to Gertie seemed like a small price to pay to keep the country fed. The nightly blackouts were seen by most as an irksome necessity but, to Gertie’s delight, had fueled a greater thirst for reading. She could barely keep Gone with the Wind in stock, and her sales of Jane Austen and Charles Dickens titles were booming.
“Jolly good work on the egg front, by the way,” she said to Betty. “I’ve saved up my butter ration.”
“What about sugar?”
“I read somewhere that you could use carrots to sweeten a cake.”
Betty pulled a face. “Sounds a bit odd.”
“I have sugar,” said Mr. Travers.
Betty turned to him. “Are you sure? We’re making a birthday cake for Hedy, you see.”
“Of course,” he said. “The young lady must have a cake after everything she’s endured. I’ve got a meeting with the WVS now, but I can bring it to your house later, Mrs. Bingham.”
“Then we must give you something in return,” said Gertie.
“Oh no, there’s really no need,” said Gerald.
“Here,” said Betty, plucking a book from the shelf and handing it to him.
“The Grapes of Wrath,” read Gerald.
“It’s very popular at the moment. We chose it for the book club last year, and Mr. Reynolds said it was one of the best books he’d ever read,” said Betty. “I think you’ll enjoy it.”
Gerald turned it over in his hands. “Might be nice to have something to read on my nights off. Blackout evenings do drag on a bit. Thank you.”
“It’s a shame we’ve had to suspend Bingham’s Book Club for the time being,” said Betty. “Otherwise, you could join.”
Gerald sighed. “Hitler’s got a lot to answer for. Right, I best be off. Don’t want to keep Mrs. Fortescue waiting.”
“Heavens no,” said Gertie. She knew Margery Fortescue by reputation. She had been widowed for a few years and liked to host supper parties and recitals in the drawing room of the mansion house where she lived with her daughter, Cynthia. It was just outside the boundaries of the town, nudging the picturesque Kent countryside.
“Fancies herself as lady of the manor,” Miss Crow had been heard to comment on more than one occasion. “Lady La-Di-Da more like.”
Gertie wasn’t one to believe the idle chitchat of Philomena Crow but had encountered the formidable Margery Fortescue in person on one occasion. It had been a quiet day in the shop, not long after Harry died. Gertie was in the stockroom when she heard the bell above the door ring. She smoothed her dress and made her way to the front. A woman in her thirties with small round glasses, wearing a plum-colored beret, was standing in the middle of the shop holding a copy of The Arabian Nights in her hands. It was a beautiful edition, rich purple cloth with an elaborate gold leaf design laced over the spine. The woman had her eyes closed and was inhaling its scent as if drawing the stories into an embrace. Gertie paused. She didn’t want to intrude. She understood the sanctity of this moment. She enacted it almost daily herself, like a priest practicing some sacred ritual. The poor woman didn’t have long to enjoy this precious peace, however, as the shop door flew open and Margery Fortescue stood before them, frowning with arms folded.
“Cynthia Fortescue! What is the meaning of this?” she thundered. The younger woman’s eyes shot open, but she remained frozen to the spot, clutching the book as if it might save her from the impending onslaught. “Cynthia!”
Cynthia turned ’round, shoulders hunched. “Sorry, Mother,” she said. “I was just browsing.”
“May I be of assistance?” asked Gertie, breezing into their midst as if she had only just encountered them in her shop.
“No,” said Margery. “We are leaving. Cynthia. Put that book down.”
Cynthia’s face fell as if she had been told to part from her beloved forever. She traced a finger over the spine of the volume before offering it to Gertie.
“Keep it,” said Gertie.
Cynthia’s eyes grew wide.
“No,” said her mother, snatching the book from her daughter’s grasp and placing it on the counter. “We do not need your charity, and Cynthia should not be rewarded for sneaking off to this”—she threw a disapproving gaze across the bookshelves—“emporium. Now come along, Cynthia. We have an appointment at the hairdresser’s. Good day.”
Gertie watched them leave, offering a sympathetic smile to Cynthia as she glanced back toward the shop, a look of longing on her small studious face.
“I hope Mr. Travers knows what he’s dealing with. Mrs. Fortescue can be terrifying,” said Gertie after he’d gone.
“What a dear man for offering us his sugar ration, though,” said Betty.
Gertie nodded. “It’ll be a lovely surprise for Hedy. Is Sam still able to get weekend leave?”
“I don’t think Hermann Göring could stop him.”
“And Barnaby?”
“Not this time unfortunately.”
“I’m sorry, dear,” said Gertie.
Betty gave a stoic shrug. “England expects.”
Gertie reached out to squeeze her arm. She wasn’t a religious woman, but every night she prayed that this war would be short, that their young men would be spared. However, as Hitler marched his relentless progress across Europe, this wish felt increasingly unlikely.