“I understand,” said Gertie. “It’s not always straightforward in families.”
Lady Mary fixed her with a steady look. “Would you talk to Elizabeth, please, try to reason with her to let the boy come and stay with us? It’s not safe in London, and I sense she might listen to you.”
Gertie hesitated. She could see the desperation in her eyes, and yet Elizabeth was a grown woman who made her own choices regarding the welfare of her son. “I’m sorry, but I’m not sure that’s my place, Lady Mary.”
The woman nodded. “No. No, of course not. Well, goodbye, Mrs. Bingham.”
“Goodbye.”
As Christmas inched toward the new year, the cease-fire seemed to be holding and the world felt lighter somehow. Even Miss Snipp was in a good mood, having enjoyed Christmas with her sister, who not only managed to acquire a rabbit for dinner but who had gifted another to her to take home. Gertie was cautiously optimistic. The war still raged, but for the time being Hitler seemed to be leaving them be.
“I’ve heard he’s turning his attention to Russia,” said Mr. Reynolds, who was browsing a copy of Martin Chuzzlewit.
“I’m sure he’ll receive the warmest of welcomes from Comrade Stalin,” said Mrs. Constantine, handing a copy of The Hound of the Baskervilles to Gertie. She had exhausted Agatha Christie’s oeuvre and was now turning her attention to Arthur Conan Doyle. “I must say, I do approve of your new book club choice, Mrs. Bingham,” she said, nodding toward the window display for Appointment with Death. “I shall do my best to be here for the next air raid, although let’s pray that the worst has passed.”
“We can but hope,” said Gertie, wrapping the book and handing it to her.
Gertie was preparing supper that evening when the siren screeched. Her first thought was of Hedy. She was at the cinema with her friend Audrey. Gertie had gifted her tickets to see the new Charlie Chaplin film for Christmas.
Hemingway stood waiting at the back door, as was his habit when he heard the siren.
“Hedy will be all right,” she told him, picking up the basket containing her gas mask, ration book, and cake tin filled with the last remaining mince pies. “They’ll either stay put or send them to the public shelter.” Her heart was pounding in her ears as she hurried into the garden just as Elizabeth and Billy appeared through the side gate.
“Where’s Hedy Fischer?” asked Billy. Gertie noticed he was wearing his tin hat and carrying his wooden rifle.
“She’s at the cinema with her friend, but she’ll go to the shelter. Don’t worry, Billy,” said Gertie, realizing she was saying this more for her own benefit.
“Should I go and escort her home?” he asked.
“No, you must stay here and protect us,” said Elizabeth. “Hedy will be back soon.”
“Good, because I want to hear the next chapter of Gertie and Arno’s story.”
They bundled into the shelter, and Gertie lit a candle. It felt strange to be here without Hedy. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have let her go,” said Gertie, staring at the flame.
“She’s a sensible girl,” said Elizabeth. “She’ll be all right. The wardens will take care of them.”
Gertie nodded, but her stomach was churning. It didn’t matter how sensible you were or how kind or clever. Fate didn’t care a jot about that. You could still be unlucky. All you could do was pray and hope that someone was listening.
They heard the familiar hum of aircraft increasing in volume on their path toward London and the thud of shells exploding in the distance. “That’s our antiaircraft guns,” said Billy with authority. “They stop the bad men from getting through.”
It soon became clear that the bad men hadn’t been stopped, as the far-off buzz quickly became a constant drone, which quickly grew into a petrifying cacophony above their heads. Gertie and Elizabeth exchanged glances as they were each hit by the realization that this raid was different. The sheer number of aircraft loaded with explosives was vast and terrifying. Elizabeth put an arm around her son and pulled him close.
A fizzing hiss followed by a flash of hot white light crackled somewhere nearby. Then there was another. And another.
“They sound like fireworks,” said Billy.
“Then let’s pretend that’s what they are,” said Gertie. “Nothing but great big fireworks.”
They could hear them raining down all over London, some very close, some far away. “Actually, they are incen-dee-aries,” said Billy carefully. “The bad men use them to light up their targets.”
Gertie jumped as she heard one land nearby. Through a tiny gap in the shelter, she could see a green flame spitting into life. Before she had a chance to reconsider, she was on her feet and out of the shelter.
“Gertie Bingham!” cried Billy. Hemingway barked a similar protest.
Gertie grabbed one of her bigger flowerpots and dashed forward to empty the contents, daffodil bulbs and all, onto the flames, snuffing them out. Another incendiary landed three feet away, and she did the same again. “Not on my watch,” she shouted at the sky.
“Stay there with Hemingway, Billy,” called Elizabeth as she ran out to help her. Together they snuffed out three more before the droning stopped and the planes evaporated into the distance.
“Do you think that’s it?” asked Elizabeth, staring across the horizon toward the center of London. The sky was incandescent with hundreds of fires.
“No,” said Gertie, as she caught the distant threatening murmur of yet more planes. “I think it’s just the beginning. Come on. Let’s get back inside.”
“You were both so brave,” said Billy in the earthy glow of the shelter. “I’m going to make you medals tomorrow.”
Gertie stared at her trembling hands. A perfect storm of fear and anger pulsed in her chest. As they heard the first whistle and scream of bombs, Gertie’s whole body twitched with rage. How dare they? This was her home. Her city. She had to do something.
“I need to look for Hedy,” she told Elizabeth. “You stay here with Billy and Hemingway.”
Elizabeth clutched her arm. “Be careful, Gertie.”
Billy held out his tin hat. “You can borrow this, Gertie Bingham.”
She plonked it on her head before grabbing a flashlight and hurrying out through the side gate. The road was pitch-black and silent, as if the street were holding its breath. Gertie kept to the shadows, taking care to shine her light downward so as not to attract attention. She coughed as the bitter tang of smoke caught in her throat and did her best to ignore the drama unfolding in the skies. Gertie had no idea where she was headed but knew she had to keep going. Keep moving. She heard the hiss and crackle of a fire and turned to see its flames leaping into the air. For some reason she made a move toward it.
“Trust Gertie. Out of the frying pan and into the fire,” Jack would say as his sister received another telling-off from their father, usually for upsetting the governess with her smart remarks.
“Never miss a chance to stand up and fight, Gertie,” Lilian told her time and again. “People will always give you a reason not to, which is precisely why you should.”