Gertie was trembling but elated. They were alive. They were safe. They had survived another night. This was all that counted. They were fighting and would continue to fight. Gertie, Hedy, Bingham Books, and the people of Beechwood. This was her world. It was where she was meant to be, and she would defend it with all her might.
They had just reached the front door when a shout went up. Gertie turned to see Betty running along the road toward them.
“Perhaps she heard about our near miss with the bomb and wants to check we’re okay,” said Gertie.
As Betty reached them, she stopped in her tracks, shaking her head, her face drained of color.
“Whatever is it, Betty?” asked Gertie, with rising panic.
“I’m not sure how to tell you.”
“Has something happened to Sam?” whispered Hedy.
Betty gave a vigorous shake of her head. “No. It’s not that.”
“Then what is it, dear? What on earth has happened?” asked Gertie.
Betty fought back tears as she spoke. “It’s the bookshop, Mrs. B. It was an incendiary. The fire brigade was too late. I’m so sorry.”
Hedy and Betty caught Gertie’s arms as she sank to the ground. The world had pulled the rug out from beneath her yet again. After every pitfall of her life—losing Jack, her father, her mother, and then Harry—Gertie had tried to rise again, less like a phoenix and more like a wounded bird with patched-up wings. With Hedy’s arrival and the reality of another war, Gertie had found new strength to fight on, to build something that helped others when they needed it most. But now that was gone forever. It was the end. Betty and Hedy tried their best to comfort her, but after years of stifling the nagging pain and sorrow, she gave in. Hedy pulled her close as Gertie buried her face in her hands and sobbed.
Chapter 13
1941
Sweet are the uses of adversity,
Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous,
Wears yet a precious jewel in his head.
—William Shakespeare, As You Like It
Appointment with Death. Gertie had to squint to make out the book’s title from the scorched scrap of cover as she and Hedy cast around the empty charcoal shell, desperate for some grain of hope.
Gertie had seen photographs of a badly damaged bookshop not long ago with a boy sitting in the midst of the chaos reading. There was no front or back to the premises, but all the books remained intact. The thought of this photograph had persuaded Gertie to come today. Perhaps their stock would be salvageable. They could sweep up the glass, repair the damage, and carry on as before. However, she had not fully comprehended the destructive power of an incendiary, nor its impact on a room lined with kindling in book form. The fire service had been overstretched to its breaking point that night. It arrived too late to preserve the books, and any that remained were then ruined by the jets of water that eventually quelled the fire.
“At least the sign isn’t too damaged,” said Hedy from outside the shop, gazing up at its singed edges and peeled gold lettering. “A little charred, but you can still read the words.”
The gilt letters spelling “Bingham Books” no longer shone down at Gertie. They were as battered and bruised as she felt. The red background, which once seemed so warm and welcoming, was blackened as if the darkness of war had finally arrived in Beechwood. Gertie’s eyes brimmed with tears as she cast her gaze up and down the high street. The clock that once hung proudly outside Robinson the Cobbler’s had been blown clean from its fittings and smashed through the windows of Perkins’s Confectioners. It was a blessing that the timing of the raid meant that no one was killed. The street was a mangled wreck of broken glass and scattered detritus. The shopkeepers were doing their best to clean up, sweeping and clearing, but it was a mammoth task. Only the Beechwood town sign remained untouched, its white horse galloping onward. Normally, Gertie would have found some crumb of hope in this, but today felt different. There was an air of resignation as young Mr. Piddock gave her a weary wave before returning to his sweeping. No one could offer comfort or optimism today. “I can’t do this,” she whispered.
Hedy clutched her arm. “You can, Gertie. You’re strong.”
Gertie shook her head. “No. I’m not strong. Not really. I have kept going all these years because I had to, but I don’t want to keep going anymore.”
Hedy squeezed her hand. “You’re tired. We shouldn’t have come here today. It was too much for you seeing the shop like this. Come on. Let’s go home.”
Gertie stayed in bed for a month. She left her room only for meals and air raids and accepted the latter under sufferance. What on earth was the point? She had lost everything she loved from her parents to her brother to her husband and now her beloved bookshop. If the Germans wanted her life as well, then they jolly well better come and take it. She knew what she was doing. She was stubborn enough to know when her mind was made up. Gertie Bingham had officially given up.
Hedy did all she could to coax her from this inertia. She took charge of the day-to-day management of the household, lighting a fire, preparing meals, and baking ginger biscuits, which she knew were Gertie’s favorite. She plied Gertie with tea and sympathy and would read amusing extracts from Sam’s letters to cheer her up.
“He said that he really enjoyed the P. G. Wodehouse book we sent him for Christmas. Apparently, there’s a man in his squadron who reminds him of Gussie Fink-Nottle because he keeps newts.”
“That’s nice, dear,” said Gertie, staring into the distance. She appreciated Hedy’s efforts and knew she was being a terrible bore, but the simple fact was that Gertie had neither the desire nor the ability to rouse herself from this stupor.
In desperation, Hedy called on everyone they knew to try to lift Gertie’s spirits. Mrs. Constantine visited, bringing a bottle of French brandy and the assertion that the dark clouds would dissolve because they always did. Uncle Thomas telephoned to commiserate and make the well-intentioned suggestion that Gertie was in good company, as twenty-seven publishers had similarly lost five million books on the same night thanks to “that mustachioed lunatic.”
Gertie was grateful for their kindness but had no real desire to do anything except stay in bed and reread Jane Eyre. It was the only thing that seemed to console her, allowing her mind to bask in earlier, happier times when Harry was alive and the world shimmered with hope.
One day she was doing just this when there was a knock at her bedroom door. “Come in,” she said, expecting Hedy. It was a surprise, therefore, when the door opened and Billy’s small round face peered in. “Hello, young man. What are you doing here?”
He cast a furtive glance over his shoulder before inching into the room. “Mama is having tea downstairs with Hedy Fischer. She got a telegram from her mama today and is happy but also a bit sad.”
Gertie felt a pang of guilt that she wasn’t downstairs comforting Hedy as well. She turned to Billy. “Did your mother ask you to come up?”
“Not exactly,” said Billy, toeing the carpet. “But she didn’t say I couldn’t either.”
“Well, in that case, you better come in.”
Billy marched around the bed and came to stand very close in front of Gertie, regarding her with bright eyes. “I’ve never been in a lady’s bedroom before,” he told her. “Except Mama’s, of course.”