“The books?”
“See for yourself,” he said, gesturing like a magician about to reveal a trick.
Gertie stepped forward and pushed open the soot-cloaked door. “They’re still here,” she whispered. It was like walking into a room of old friends. She spied Jane Eyre, Bertie Wooster, David Copperfield, Monsieur Poirot, the March daughters. They’d been there all the time, waiting for her. It didn’t even matter that the stocks were low. The books were enough. She picked up a copy of Winnie-the-Pooh and flicked through the pages. She could smell the ash and sulfur, but behind them was the comfortingly fusty scent of books.
“I think with a bit of elbow grease, we should be able to get you up and running in no time,” said Mr. Travers.
Gertie reached out to grasp his hands as she blinked back tears. “I’m very grateful to you.”
He patted her hand. “And I was grateful to you for all your kindness when my Beryl was laid low, Mrs. Bingham. It’s the Beechwood way.”
The Beechwood way. Gertie smiled as she made her way back into the shop. “Thank you,” she said to the gathered helpers. “Thank you all. I had no idea people cared so deeply about the bookshop.”
“It is so much more than a bookshop, Mrs. Bingham,” said Miss Snipp reproachfully. “It is a precious treasure trove of knowledge and imagination. Books have the power to change the very course of history, and they will help us win this war, you mark my words.”
“Hear, hear,” said Mrs. Wise, looking up from her sweeping. “My Ted wouldn’t have the first clue about hanging a picture if it weren’t for that book you recommended to him, Mrs. Bingham. By the way, he said he’ll come after work and help repair the shelves whenever you need him to.”
“Yes, and Mr. Reynolds said he had some old paint he could donate,” said Mrs. Constantine. “Didn’t you, Wally? Wally!”
Mr. Reynolds woke with a start. “What? Who’s there? Try that again, Adolf, and I’ll knock your block off!” He blinked at them in astonishment as he realized where he was. “Sorry, I must have dropped off.”
“And I can repaint the Bingham Books sign,” said Elizabeth. “I was thinking of a little gold phoenix to mark a new beginning.”
“I don’t know what to say,” said Gertie, looking ’round at them all. “I can’t thank you enough. Truly.”
“You don’t need to say anything,” said Miss Crow, “but I do hope those aren’t your best clothes.” She held out a broom. “Your bookshop needs you.”
Over the course of the next few weeks, Gertie watched with pride and gratitude as Bingham Books began to reemerge, reminding her of one of Harry’s dormant magnolia buds and his assertion that “the world always begins anew.” How right he’d been and how glad she was that she’d been persuaded not to give up and to accept help. This assistance came in many forms, some more useful than others. The Finch sisters turned up one morning to help with the painting but were soon sent away by their aunt when they proved to be nothing but a distraction for some of the younger male volunteers. Miss Crow surprised everyone with her eagle eye when it came to aligning shelves, and of course Mr. Travers was always on hand, bringing a handful of new ARP colleagues every day to fix, rebuild, paint, and varnish until all that remained to do was restock the shelves. A few days before the grand reopening, Gerald arrived early with a fellow warden, Evan Williams, a giant of a man who had impressed everyone by managing to move the large oak counter into place without breaking a sweat and whose wife made the best Welsh cakes this side of the River Severn.
“Thought we’d help you with the finishing touches, Mrs. Bingham,” said Gerald. “And Evan and I are keen to know what your next book club title will be.”
“Oh gosh, I hadn’t given it much thought. Any suggestions?”
“Well, you know I’ll always plump for Mr. Steinbeck,” said Gerald.
Evan reached a great paw-like hand into his pocket and pulled out a book. “May I humbly suggest this, Mrs. Bingham? It feels very appropriate. My wife and I both enjoyed it a great deal.”
Gertie accepted the book with a smile. “Thank you, Mr. Williams. I look forward to reading it.”
It was no surprise to Gertie that on the day they reopened, Mrs. Constantine was the first over the threshold. Hemingway greeted his old friend with tail-wagging delight before coming to sit before her like the most obedient dog in the world.
“I have missed you, my dears,” she said, reaching into her bag and rewarding him with half a mutton chop.
“Are you talking to us or the books?” asked Gertie.
“Both,” said Mrs. Constantine with a fond smile. “And now to business, Gertie. I am in need of a new detective if you have one. I couldn’t get on with Sherlock Holmes. Far too arrogant. Reminded me of an uncle I particularly disliked.”
“I think I may have just the thing,” said Gertie, retrieving a copy of a Dorothy L. Sayers novel. “Lord Peter Wimsey. The author claims he’s a mixture of Fred Astaire and Bertie Wooster.”
“Sounds divine. I’ll take it.” She turned to Hedy. “And how are you, my dear? Any news?”
Hedy looked up from the orders book. “I had a letter from Sam last week. He’s been promoted to corporal. He’s also seen Betty since she joined the WAAF. He says she’s as annoying as ever, but it was good to be able to keep an eye on her.”
Mrs. Constantine chuckled. “He’s a good boy. Anything from home?”
“Not since the telegram from Mother last month. Everyone was fine then.”
Mrs. Constantine took her hand and squeezed it. “That’s as good as it can be, my dear,” she said. “And what is this?” She picked up a copy of How Green Was My Valley from a pile on the counter.
“It’s our new book club title, recommended to me by one of the ARP wardens,” said Gertie. “It’s about a Welsh community helping one another through difficult times. The characters are wonderful.”
“How apt,” said Mrs. Constantine, placing it on top of her other book. “I’ll take it.”
Chapter 15
1943
Who so loves believes the impossible.
—Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Archibald Sparrow was a tall, shy man who had trained as a vicar at his mother’s behest but left the calling when he stopped believing in the God who “allowed my two brothers to perish during the Great War.” He had been exempt from conscription himself owing to astonishingly poor eyesight, which meant he was forced to read his beloved poetry through thick-lensed tortoiseshell spectacles that gave him an expression of constant surprise. He would spend hours at a time browsing the shelves of Bingham Books, usually when the shop was at its quietest. As soon as it became busy, he would either make a hurried purchase or scuttle away without buying anything. Gertie was rather fond of this slightly awkward fellow. He reminded her of Harry when they first met.
“Good morning, Mr. Sparrow. Are you after anything in particular today?” she asked as he appeared one day.
“G-G-Good morning, Mrs. B-B-Bingham,” he answered in hushed tones. He had a soft, gentle way of speaking. Gertie noticed that instead of a barked greeting, Hemingway would always approach him with a benign tail wag. Archibald would lay his hand upon the dog’s head in reply as if offering a blessing. “I am just b-b-browsing, thank you.”