“Of course. Do let me know if there’s anything you need.”
He touched the brim of his hat in reply and made a beeline for the poetry shelves. The bell above the door to the bookshop rang and Gerald Travers crossed the threshold.
“War and Peace, Mrs. Bingham,” he said by way of a greeting. “Do you have it, please?”
Gertie fetched three red cloth volumes from the shelf. Since his rekindled love of reading, Mr. Travers had become one of her best customers. “It’s our most popular book at the moment, so you’re lucky I have stock,” she said. “It will keep you entertained for a good while.”
“Gosh,” said Gerald, eyeing the books as one might view the summit of Everest. “Well, this war seems to be never-ending, so I may as well choose something to keep me occupied.”
“Ah, my dear Mr. Travers,” called a voice so booming it nearly caused Mr. Sparrow to drop the volume of Keats’s poetry he was perusing. They turned to see Margery Fortescue sweep in through the doorway, seeming to fill every nook and cranny with her personality as she did. She wore a bottle-green Harris Tweed uniform finished with a porkpie hat that barely clung to her immaculate cloud of dark gray hair. Cynthia followed in her wake, similarly dressed, carrying a clipboard.
Mr. Travers’s eyes sparkled as he turned to introduce them. “Have you met Mrs. Fortescue?” he asked Gertie.
“Not formally,” she said, offering her hand. “Gertie Bingham.”
Mrs. Fortescue issued a beatific smile as she accepted. “Margery Fortescue, head of the local Women’s Voluntary Service. Pleased to make your acquaintance. And this is my daughter and deputy, Cynthia.”
Cynthia flushed beetroot red at the mention of her name.
“So,” said Mrs. Fortescue, casting a critical eye around the shop. “Did Mr. Travers tell you the news?”
“I don’t think so?” said Gertie, glancing at Gerald.
Mr. Travers looked nonplussed. “News?”
Margery frowned slightly. “About the WVS’s need for new premises.”
“Oh yes,” said Gerald. “The Ministry for Food is taking over the village hall—”
Margery cut him off. “They’re not taking over. We are vacating the premises. Our needs are somewhat different,” she said through clenched teeth.
Cynthia gazed up at her mother in confusion. “Wasn’t it because of the kerfuffle after the ‘knitting with dog hair’ demonstration, Mummy? Didn’t it end up contaminating a batch of damson jam?”
“It took hours to sweep up that Pekingese hair,” said Gerald gravely.
Mrs. Fortescue looked thunderous. “It had nothing to do with that. There was merely a clash in the time-tabling of our activities, and as the WVS is a vital cog in the machine of war . . .”
“Vital,” echoed Gerald with a vehement nod.
“。 . . the powers that be deemed it necessary for us to have access to a space exclusively for our use. And as the premises next door have been vacant for some time, we are to be neighbors, Mrs. Bingham. A bookshop and the Women’s Voluntary Service. Rather an incongruous mix, one might say, but I’m sure we won’t get in each other’s way.” She issued this statement like a challenge.
Gertie straightened her shoulders. “I do hope not. Please call on us if you need anything.”
“Oh, I very much doubt that we’ll be calling on you. We’re the ones who offer the help, you see,” said Margery, raising herself to her full, not inconsiderable height.
“Well, perhaps we can offer some respite from your hard work with a reading recommendation,” said Gertie, as Hedy appeared from the back of the shop carrying a pile of books.
Mrs. Fortescue frowned. “I’ve never been a reader myself. I prefer opera. Cynthia here always has her nose in a book, don’t you, dear?”
Her daughter offered a small squeak in reply.
“Yes, I’ve seen you in the shop on occasion,” said Gertie. The woman gave a timid nod. “This is Hedy Fischer, by the way. She works here.”
Cynthia stared at Hedy in wonder as if she’d just been introduced to the Queen.
Hedy smiled. “Hello. This is our latest book club choice if you are interested.”
Cynthia took the book with reverent awe.
“The Code of the Woosters?” said Margery, snorting with derision. “Sounds like some dreadful communist propaganda pamphlet.”
“It’s P. G. Wodehouse, Mummy. He’s very funny,” said Cynthia.
Margery Fortescue folded her arms and fixed her daughter with a long, hard stare. “War is not the time for levity, Cynthia. Now come along, we must show Mr. Travers what needs to be done next door. Good day, Mrs. Bingham, Miss Fischer.” And with that, Margery Fortescue swept out as she had swept in, like a swan, dignified yet not to be crossed.
Gerald looked from Margery’s disappearing form to his unpurchased volumes to Gertie.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Travers, I’ll keep them to one side for you.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Bingham,” he said, hurrying after the formidable woman.
Cynthia wavered, clearly wishing she could stay a little longer. “Cynthia!” called Margery from next door with surprising volume. “Where have you got to?”
“Goodbye,” she said, hurrying toward the door.
“Excuse me?” The voice was so soft that Gertie was surprised Cynthia heard him. She turned to see Archibald Sparrow walking toward her. “You d-d-dropped this,” he said, holding out one of her mustard leather gloves.
“Thank you,” said Cynthia in a similarly hushed tone.
Gertie and Hedy exchanged glances as the pair held each other’s gaze for a heartbeat.
“Archibald Sparrow,” he said.
“Cynthia!” bellowed Margery again.
“I have to go,” said Cynthia. “Sorry.”
Archibald placed a volume of Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s poetry on the counter and sighed. “Just this p-p-please, Mrs. Bingham.”
“Well,” said Gertie after he’d gone. “I feel as if I’ve just watched a Shakespeare play. We’ve had love, drama, intrigue. And Margery Fortescue is certainly a force of nature.”
Hedy laughed. “I wonder if Hitler knows what he’s up against.”
Gertie was certain she could have set her watch by Else Fischer’s telegrams. They arrived every month at almost precisely the same time. Some people might think it was difficult to convey everything you needed to say in just twenty-five words, but Hedy’s mother always managed it. Gertie often mused that when life was cruel, there wasn’t much to say except “I love you.” It was all you needed to hear. Today’s telegram had a different tone, however.
“What do you think she means by ‘traveling to the east’？” asked Hedy, frowning at the words as if willing them to offer the answers she craved.
Gertie could see the desperation in her eyes and longed to offer some nugget of hope, but her telephone conversation with Charles the previous week weighed on her mind. He had recently returned from another trip. Gertie didn’t ask where he’d been. She thought it best not to somehow.
“How is Hedy?” he asked. “Has she heard anything from her family?”