Gertie was laying out the breakfast things when the telegram arrived. Hemingway barked as soon as the boy rang the doorbell, and then she heard Hedy racing down the stairs to answer.
She appeared in the kitchen moments later, clutching the telegram to her heart. “My mother wishes me a happy birthday,” she said, her face a mixture of longing and delight.
Gertie sensed the need to prevent Hedy from brooding. “Well, what jolly good luck it arrived on the day. Happy birthday, dear. I’ve got something for you too.” She nodded toward a brown paper package on the table.
“Villette,” said Hedy, pulling a small blue volume from the paper. “Thank you, Gertie.”
“I know how much you enjoyed Jane Eyre, so I thought you might like to try another by Charlotte Brontë.”
“And these flowers are beautiful,” said Hedy, stroking a finger over the delicate blush petals of the round pink buds.
“Peonies,” said Gertie, satisfied. “They’ve bloomed just in time for your birthday. So do you have any plans for today?”
“Betty is coming later, and we might go to the cinema.”
“Sounds like a super idea,” said Gertie, ticklish with excitement about the surprise that lay ahead. Thanks to Betty’s egg and Mr. Travers’s sugar, she’d managed to bake a passable chocolate cake filled with homemade cherry jam, which she was hiding in a cake tin in the pantry, ready for when Sam arrived.
At a little after two o’clock, there was a knock at the door. “Hedy,” called Gertie. “Will you let Betty in please, dear.”
“All right,” said Hedy.
Gertie emerged from the kitchen and stood to watch as she opened the front door.
“Happy birthday!” cried Betty, throwing her hands into the air before standing to one side as Sam, dressed in RAF uniform, poked his head around the doorframe.
“Surprise!”
“Sam!” cried Hedy, darting forward and throwing her arms around his neck. Gertie and Betty grinned at each other. “You look so smart,” she told him.
“About time someone spruced him up,” said Betty, elbowing her brother in the ribs.
“You do look very dapper, Sam,” said Gertie, a sudden recollection of Jack leaving for war all those years ago catching in her throat. “Shall we go into the living room and celebrate this young lady’s birthday properly?”
After tea and the cake, which everyone declared a success, Sam reached into his pocket and pulled out a small square parcel. Hedy unwrapped it to reveal a ruby-red velvet box containing a silver locket. “I’ve put in the photo from the day at the Hop Farm,” he said with a chuckle. “When Betty sat on that wasp.”
“It wasn’t funny, it was awfully painful,” said his sister.
Hedy unhooked the chain.
“Here. Let me help you with that,” said Sam, moving toward her. He looped it around her neck and secured the clasp.
Hedy’s cheeks flushed a little as she placed a hand on the locket. “Thank you, Sam,” she whispered.
Gertie knew enough to see when two people were falling in love. Her heart stirred in a swirl of joy and sorrow for what lay ahead for them both.
There was another knock at the door. Sam glanced at his sister. “I think this one might be for you, Betty.”
Betty frowned. “What do you mean?”
Gertie approached the window and glanced through the curtains. “He’s right. It’s definitely for you.”
Betty flew to the door. Gertie, Hedy, and Sam eyed one another as they listened.
“Oh!” cried Betty. “Oh, it’s you! Wonderful, wonderful you.” She returned moments later clutching Barnaby’s hand. “This rotter told me he couldn’t get leave,” she cried, her eyes brimming with tears. Barnaby pulled her close and kissed the top of her head.
“Not too late for the party, am I?” he said. “Happy birthday, Hedy.”
“Thank you, Barnaby. I’m so glad you’re here.”
“Well, I don’t know about you, but I think this calls for some music,” said Sam. “All right if we fire up the gramophone, Mrs. B?”
“It’s not a proper party without music,” said Gertie, sharing a smile with Hedy.
“I’m going to teach you the Charleston, Hedy,” said Sam. “Come on you two.” He turned to Barnaby and Betty. “No time to rest.”
Gertie watched in delight as the youngsters swiveled and pivoted their way around the floor, laughing as they went. It felt good to have these moments of joy in times of despair. She noticed the way that Hedy and Sam looked at each other. Hedy seemed too young to be falling in love, and yet she couldn’t think of a better man for her than Sam. It brought to mind joyful reminiscences of when she and Harry first fell in love. Those stolen glances. The dip of longing when you parted. The thrill of the moment when you met again. There was comfort in these memories, but stabs of painful longing too.
Her reverie was interrupted by a knock at the door. “No one is expecting another surprise visitor today, are they?” asked Gertie, moving forward to answer it.
“Perhaps it’s the prime minister,” said Betty, laughing. “He’s heard about that delicious cake and wants a slice.”
The smile on Gertie’s lips disappeared as soon as she saw the policeman. He looked younger than Hedy as he clutched at his notebook with nervous fingers, a sheen of sweat on his upper lip. “Good afternoon, Constable. Is everything all right?”
“Mrs. Bingham?” he said, glancing down at the notebook. “Mrs. Gertrude Bingham?”
“Yes. I am she.”
He took a deep breath. “PC Wilberforce. We understand you have a German national living with you. Is that correct?”
“Yes,” said Gertie, irritated. “She is a young Jewish girl who was forced to flee her homeland because of the Nazis.”
“Oh,” said the officer.
“Look, what is this about, young man?” she demanded, surprising herself with the ferocity of her tone. “What do you want with Hedy?”
He swallowed and stared down at his notebook as if it might offer the answer, before looking back at her ruefully. “I’ve come to arrest her,” he said. “On the orders of Winston Churchill himself.”
Chapter 9
I would rather be a rebel than a slave.
—Emmeline Pankhurst
Gertie stared up at the royal coat of arms emblazoned on the back wall of the magistrates’ court through narrowed eyes as anger pulsed through her veins like electricity. She had been in a perpetual state of fury ever since they’d tried to arrest Hedy. Gertie had escorted her to the police station and told the sergeant on duty in no uncertain terms that Hedy would not be taken away until she had been given a proper hearing. He was a kindly man called Fred Mayfield who had a daughter of around Hedy’s age and who occasionally dropped into the bookshop to buy her a Mills and Boon novel. He made a phone call, arranged for an appeal hearing the following month, and sent Gertie and Hedy home.
Gertie was relieved but remained outraged by this turn of events. Galvanized into action, she persuaded everyone she knew to write to The Times on Hedy’s behalf. A week later, a young female journalist appeared at the bookshop, asking to interview her.