“Of course. So to what do I owe the pleasure?”
He adopted a thoughtful expression. “I was very sad to hear about the fire at the bookshop. I am sorry.”
“Thank you, Billy.”
“And I wanted to give you this.” He reached into his pocket. “Close your eyes and hold out your hand.”
Gertie did as she was told. There was a jolt of warmth as he placed a small soft bag in her palm.
“You can open them now.”
She stared at the red velvet pouch. “What is it?”
“Tip them out. You’ll see.”
Gertie upended the bag, and out scattered a collection of pennies, shillings, and a couple of shiny sixpence.
“I’ve saved it up. You can have it all so that you can buy a new bookshop.”
Tears pricked Gertie’s eyes. “Oh, Billy.”
“And I collect stamps too. We could sell my collection if this isn’t enough.”
Gertie reached out and held him by the shoulders. “You are the kindest boy I have ever met. Thank you.”
“Billy Chambers. Come down here at once!” cried his mother from the bottom of the stairs. He froze.
“It’s all right, Elizabeth,” called Gertie. “I said he could come in.”
Billy recoiled at the sound of his mother marching up the stairs. “Gertie, I’m so sorry Billy disturbed you.” She turned to her son. “Young man, you will go to bed without a story tonight.”
“Oh but, Mama.”
“William Chambers. You will not talk back to your mother.”
William Chambers knitted his brow together in an indignant scowl.
Elizabeth caught sight of the money bag on the bed. “Is that yours, Billy?” He gave a slow nod.
“He offered it to me so that I could buy a new bookshop,” said Gertie.
Elizabeth blinked in surprise. “Oh. Well.”
“It’s the most delightful thing I’ve ever heard,” said Gertie.
Elizabeth’s face softened. “You shouldn’t have come up here, but it was nice of you to offer it to Mrs. Bingham.”
“Does that mean I can still have my story please, Mama? I want to know what happens to Peter Rabbit and whether he ever gets out of the watering can.”
“We’ll see,” said Elizabeth. “Now come along. Let’s leave Mrs. Bingham in peace.”
“Goodbye, Billy. Thank you for coming to visit me.” Gertie put the coins back in the bag and held it out to him. “I think you should keep the money safe at home for now.”
Billy gave her a sage nod. “All right, Gertie Bingham. You let me know when you need it.”
“I will.”
Elizabeth ushered Billy from the room and paused in the doorway. “You were so kind to us when we first moved here. Please let me know if I can return the favor.”
“Thank you, dear,” said Gertie. “Is Hedy all right?”
Elizabeth’s eyes misted. “I think she’s the bravest woman I’ve ever met. I may not be on the best of terms with my family, but I couldn’t bear not knowing where they are or what’s happening to them.”
“Thank you for comforting her.”
Elizabeth smiled. “As I said, Gertie, you’ve both always been so kind. Now it’s our turn.”
Gertie nodded, but her heart told her otherwise. Everyone was trying so hard to help, but she knew deep down that there was nothing to be done.
Only Charles seemed to understand how Gertie felt. “I wish I could tell you to pull yourself together, but I’d be a dreadful hypocrite if I did. I barely left the house for a year after returning from the last war,” he told her as they took tea in the living room during one of her rare excursions downstairs.
“I remember.” She recalled visits to his house with Harry as they desperately tried to coax him from his torpor. When he eventually emerged, something within him had changed. He was the same dear man, but there was a steeliness about him, an almost devil-may-care attitude.
“However, I have to tell you that I don’t think this war is going to end anytime soon.”
“So I need to keep on fighting?”
Charles shrugged. “What else can you do?”
Gertie stared at the collection of family photographs on the end table, the smiling, hopeful faces of the ones she’d lost. “I don’t know, Charles. I’m not sure I have the strength to keep fighting. It would be different if Harry were still here, or Jack or Mama and Papa.”
Charles nodded. He moved to the mantelpiece, plucking a small pewter frame from the shelf. “Wasn’t this taken at the party when you opened the bookshop?” he said, taking his place beside her once more.
Gertie smiled as she took the picture from him. They were all there: her parents, Uncle Thomas, Jack, Charles, Harry, and her. Her mother was standing at her elbow, glowing with pride, while Gertie stared out with a look of wistful determination. “I insisted we have the party because we had virtually no customers, except Miss Crow, who visited in her official capacity as town busybody. I remember Harry asking if he could help her find something to read, and she looked at him as if he’d suggested they tango naked along the street.”
Charles laughed. “Treasured memories, eh, Gertie?”
She nodded. “Although that was the night I heard Father arguing with Jack. They never saw eye to eye after that.”
Charles stayed silent.
“Jack always had a boiling temper. Harry seemed to think it was about gambling, but I never did get to the bottom of it.”
“Is that what Harry said?” asked Charles, his eyes fixed on her face.
Gertie nodded. “I don’t suppose Jack ever told you what happened, did he? I know you spent quite a bit of time at his club back then.”
Charles turned his gaze toward the fireplace. “I’m not sure. It was a long time ago.”
“Indeed. It feels like a different life somehow. Anyway, it’s all in the past, isn’t it? These silly spats we have. They don’t matter in the end, do they?”
“No,” said Charles. “They don’t matter a jot.”
Gertie rested her head on his shoulder as they sat side by side staring at the photograph. Two careworn friends wrung out by life and loss but comforted by these shared recollections.
“I’m going away in a few days,” said Charles after a while.
Gertie turned to look at him. “Is this for work?”
He nodded. “I should be back in a week.”
Gertie noticed he didn’t meet her eye. “It’s nothing dangerous, is it, Charles?”
“Gertie. We’re living through a war. Walking down the street is dangerous, as well you know.”
She grasped his hand. “Be careful. I couldn’t bear to lose you too.”
He leaned forward to kiss her cheek. “We’re survivors, you and me. Never forget that.”
“Clinging to the wreckage of life.”
Charles smiled. “No one I’d rather cling to it with.”
Chapter 14
The beginning is always today.
—Mary Shelley, Short Stories, Vol. 2
During her sixty-odd years, Gertie had come to realize that fate’s messengers appeared in many guises. Sometimes it was obvious, as when she first met Harry in her father’s bookshop. On other occasions fate needed a little nudge, as during the events leading up to Hedy’s arrival. This time, it arrived unexpectedly on her doorstep at approximately quarter past three on a wet afternoon in February.