Gertie had always relished a challenge, particularly when she knew there was an opinion that needed to be changed. In her youth, she would have very likely strode right up to Margery Fortescue and set her straight. However, Gertie knew that sometimes people needed to be coaxed, and in her heart of hearts, she sensed that she and Margery might even share common ground in the wasteland of widowhood. Gertie also admired the way she went about her business. She organized her troops, as she called them, with the military precision of a field marshal. On Mondays, her volunteer knitters would arrive, the click-clacking of their needles filling the air with industry as they produced endless quantities of socks and scarves. Wednesdays were “Make Do and Mend” days, when her army of expert seamstresses would repair bag loads of uniforms sent from all over the country. On Fridays, they welcomed anyone who needed help as a result of the bombings. They would try to find them new homes if needed, offer bags of clothes or other essentials, and generally provide much-needed tea and sympathy. All the while, Mrs. Fortescue produced countless cups of refreshment from the “Old General,” as she called the water boiler, which hissed in the corner of the room like a permanently deflating tire.
Gertie particularly enjoyed Fridays. The shop next door came alive with noisy children, weary mothers carrying babies, bewildered elderly people in need of help or just a good cup of tea. Margery was in her element on these days. Gertie noticed how she doled out bags of clothes, toys, and kindness with a gentle touch. Gone was the bossiness of Mondays and Wednesdays, and out came the simple care of a woman trying to help others.
One Friday, Gertie dared to step next door with a box under her arm. “I wondered if these might be of any use?” she said. “They’re secondhand picture books. I thought the children might like them.”
Margery regarded the offering with pursed lips, ready to refuse.
“Mama, look,” said Cynthia, uncharacteristically bold as she lifted a copy of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland from the box. “You used to read this to me when I was a child. We loved looking at the pictures together. The white rabbit reminded us of Father.”
Margery’s face seemed to crumple as a maelstrom of emotions flitted across it. “Yes,” she whispered. “I do remember.” She straightened her uniform and picked up the box. “Thank you, Mrs. Bingham. Most generous. How are things at your bookshop?” She delivered the word “bookshop” as if inquiring after an illness.
Gertie refused to be deterred. “Oh yes. Jolly good, thank you.”
“I’m so glad,” she said, taking a seat and beginning to sort through a basket of clothes. “Well. We’re rather busy, so if that’s all?”
“How does one go about volunteering?” The words leapt from Gertie’s mouth before she had time to stop them. “I’m asking for myself and Hedy as well.”
Mrs. Fortescue rose, regarding her with a critical eye. She was taller than most men Gertie knew. She was certainly taller than Gertie. “Can you sew?”
Gertie pulled a face. “Not really. Miss Deeble, my sewing teacher at school, said I produced the worst blanket stitch she’d ever seen.”
“Oh dear.”
“Quite. But Hedy has inherited her mother’s skills as a seamstress.”
“Very good. Tell her to come and see me. If you can’t sew, can you knit?”
“A little. Although I made my father a pair of socks once and he said he would only wear them on Sundays because they were so holey.” One of the volunteers snorted with laughter.
“Miss Farthing. Please,” said Mrs. Fortescue, who was clearly not a fan of idle humor. “Well, are you any good at making tea?”
“Oh yes. Olympic standard.”
“Very well. We run mobile canteens for the civil defense operations every night. Shall I put you down for some shifts?”
“Absolutely.”
Mrs. Fortescue held out her hand. “Welcome to the Women’s Voluntary Service, Mrs. Bingham.”
Chapter 16
We must go on, because we can’t turn back.
—Robert Louis Stevenson, Treasure Island
Gertie heaved the Old General onto the counter of the mobile canteen and set about filling it with copious jugs of water. She checked her watch and frowned. It wasn’t like Margery Fortescue to be late. Over the past few months they had served more than a dozen shifts together, and Margery was always there before she arrived, a bustling storm of efficiency. Gertie didn’t find her the easiest person to be with. She was curt yet polite in their interactions, but whenever a weary member of the civilian defense service appeared in desperate need of a little cheer and a cup of sustenance, she was transformed.
Gertie recalled one particular night when a young ARP warden, who was around the same age as Hedy, appeared. He was returning from an incident at a pub around the corner—a direct hit where the whole building had crumpled like a tin can. They had spent hours searching for survivors, digging in vain through the wreckage. The boy’s eyes were as wide as dinner plates as he approached the canteen. Gertie couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen anyone look as pale or afraid. He was muttering under his breath. Gertie turned to point him out to Margery, but she was already out of the truck, wrapping a blanket around the young boy.
“We couldn’t save them,” he told her. “There was nothing left. Just arms and legs. And . . .”
“I know,” said Margery in soothing tones. “It’s ghastly, but there’s nothing you could have done. You must rest now.”
“Here, Mrs. Fortescue,” said Gertie, holding out a mug of tea. “I’ve put three sugars in it for the shock.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Bingham.” She held the mug to the boy’s lips. “You must drink this. It will make you feel a little better.”
“Legs and arms,” he said to her, voicing it like a question, stupefied with horror.
“Hush now, dear. Come with me. You can rest now. You need to rest,” she said, leading him away.
Gertie watched them go. It was clear that beneath Margery Fortescue’s robust, tweed-clad exterior lay a large, soft heart.
Despite Margery’s brusque ways, Gertie enjoyed her night shifts at the canteen. She had expected it to be a fairly rudimentary operation, rather like going on a camping expedition, but in fact, Margery always seemed to have the very best of provisions. Along with sufficient tea to quench the thirst of half of London and cigarettes, there were sandwiches, pies, sausages, Cornish pasties, cake, biscuits, and, on one occasion, a bread pudding.
“An army runs on its stomach,” Margery would say with authority as she poured mug after mug of tea. “And this army needs us to feed it.”
When Gertie saw the grateful ash-and-grease-stained faces of the men and women after a shift fighting fires or dealing with the mangled ruins of buildings and bodies, she knew Margery was right. A mug of tea, a slice of malt loaf, and a kind word didn’t seem like much, but Gertie had lived long enough to know what a difference they could make, especially in dark times.
She had nearly finished laying out the tea mugs when Margery arrived red-faced and out of breath.
“Manifold apologies, Mrs. Bingham,” she said, climbing into the truck. “I was sidetracked by a domestic issue.”