“How do you react to the story that the prime minister ordered the police to, and I quote, ‘collar the lot’？”
“I would ask if the prime minister has ever had cause to flee his home due to the tyranny of the government,” said Gertie without missing a beat.
The journalist raised her eyebrows. “May I quote you, Mrs. Bingham?”
Gertie looked her in the eye. “Yes, dear. You may.”
This wasn’t the first time Gertie had found herself challenging the political might of Winston Churchill. In 1905, encouraged by her mother and Mrs. Pankhurst’s rallying “Deeds Not Words” cry, Gertie had been mobilized into action. Her first act of rebellion was not entirely successful.
“Gertrude. Could you come here for a moment please?”
Gertie glanced up from the orders ledger to see her father standing uncomfortably beside a small, elderly woman, dressed in black, who was dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. As Gertie approached, she could hear the woman’s plaintive moan. “The great Alfred, Lord Tennyson! How could they? It sullies his very name.”
“Father?” said Gertie.
Arthur Arnold’s face was grave. “Do you know the meaning of this?” he asked, holding out the book.
Gertie took it and gazed down at the “Votes for Women” inscription on the front page. She looked up at him with a bright, innocent smile. “I think it has something to do with the campaign for women to gain the vote.”
The diminutive customer was incensed. “It is an abomination!” she cried. “These women are monsters without a shred of decency in their bones. They should be horsewhipped, I tell you. Horsewhipped!”
Gertie and her father stared at the woman in astonishment as she jabbed a gloved finger to emphasize her point.
“We have managed quite well enough with our fathers, husbands, and brothers representing our views. We do not need this to change. I’m sure as a devoted father you agree?” she said, turning to Arthur.
He glanced at his daughter before giving a polite cough. “Dear lady, I am afraid I do not. It has long been my assertion that my wife and daughter share a fearsome intellect that far outweighs my own. They are not only equals but betters to my mind. Now, I apologize that the book you purchased has been defaced in this way and am prepared to offer you a replacement copy or a full refund.”
“Well,” huffed the woman, preparing to begin a fresh rant.
“A replacement or a refund,” repeated Arthur. “Which would you prefer?”
The woman jutted out her chin and glared at Gertie. “A refund, and I shall never darken the door of this establishment again.”
Later that evening over dinner, Arthur turned to his wife and daughter with a sigh. “Dear hearts, I would never ask you to diminish your ardent beliefs for what is right, but please, I beg you, give me a little warning before you drive us out of business.”
Gertie planted a kiss on his cheek. “Sorry, Father.”
Lilian slid a copy of The Tenant of Wildfell Hall toward her daughter. “It won’t be easy,” she said. “Seismic change never is. But it will be worth it in the end. Never lose that indignant spark, Gertie.”
Lilian’s words had helped to heighten Gertie’s courage. Her next act of political insurrection took place at the public meeting she attended, clutching the book her mother had given her. As Winston Churchill began to speak, Gertie had risen to her feet, her body tingling with purpose as she heard the tuts and mutterings of “Not another one.” She took a deep breath and looked the speaker in the eye.
“Mr. Churchill,” she said as he turned to regard her with one eyebrow raised. “Mr. Churchill. I ask not if but when you and your Liberal Party will support women’s right to vote?”
Charles telephoned Gertie a few days later. “Did you know you’re quoted in The Times?”
“Am I, by Jove?” said Gertie mildly. “Well, fancy that.”
“Criticizing the prime minister no less.”
“We are still allowed to do that even though there’s a war on, aren’t we? A democracy is a democracy even in times of conflict surely.”
“I couldn’t agree more. I telephoned to congratulate you in fact.” He paused. “Harry would be proud of you.”
“He used to scold me when I got angry.”
“Ah, but when you channel that anger into something important, you can change the world.”
She asked Charles to accompany them to the tribunal hearing. She was emboldened by the public support for Hedy and the other internees but still needed a friend by her side. She glanced at him as they sat in the courtroom waiting for the magistrate. Dear Charles. There was so much about him that reminded her of treasured times with Harry. The way his mouth drew upward as if a smile were never far from his lips, the laughter lines at the corners of his eyes, the kindness in his gaze. It transported her back to suppers with just the three of them or, on occasion, with Jack. Gertie was starting to realize that the weight of longing was lifting slightly. She could look back without that familiar twist of sorrow.
“All rise for the Honorable Geoffrey Barkly Hurr.”
As the magistrate took his place underneath the royal coat of arms, Gertie took heart from the fact that he reminded her a little of Uncle Thomas. He peered at the documents in front of him before clearing his throat and addressing the court. “This is a tribunal hearing regarding one Hedy Fischer, aged sixteen years old. Our task today is to determine whether we should reclassify her as a Class C alien, which would mean internment is not required. She is currently categorized as a Class B alien, which demands internment as an emergency measure following the escalation of the war in Europe. Is that correct, Mr. Baxter?”
A man sitting at a table to the right of Gertie and Charles, whom she hadn’t noticed until now, rose to his feet. “It is, sir.”
“And could you tell me why the government feels it necessary to have Miss Fischer interned. She is a Jewish refugee, isn’t she?”
“Yes, sir. The issue for the government is one of national security.”
Gertie let out an indignant grunt.
The magistrate raised an eyebrow. “Could I have silence.”
Gertie felt Charles’s eyes boring into her. She kept her gaze fixed on the coat of arms. The lion glared at her wild-eyed. She glared back.
“As I was saying,” continued Mr. Baxter. “Since the escalation of the war in Europe there are concerns that Miss Fischer could potentially be involved in espionage.”
“Poppycock!” cried Gertie.
The magistrate fixed her with a grave look. “Madam, I will not have interruptions in this court. You will either be silent or be removed.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” said Gertie. “But I know Hedy Fischer and I know she’s not a spy.”
Mr. Barkly Hurr turned to Mr. Baxter. “Do you have testimonies for this young woman?”
Mr. Baxter sifted through his file. “Yes, sir. There’s quite a few. From a Mrs. Constantine, Miss Snipp, Mr. Travers and Mrs. Huffingham, the headmistress of the local girls’ school Miss Fischer attended for a while. And then there’s the small matter of the newspaper article and public outcry which followed it . . .” His voice trailed off as he slid a copy of The Times toward the magistrate.