“I didn’t like the part with the skeleton,” he told Hedy with a shiver. “I’m not sure I’d want to go on a voyage searching for treasure.”
“But imagine if you found gold and could be rich beyond your wildest dreams.”
Billy shrugged. “Grandpapa is rich, but I don’t think he’s very happy.”
Hedy exchanged a look with Gertie.
“Although I don’t see him much, so I can’t ask him.”
“Well, I expect he’s a busy man. At least you see your grandmama sometimes,” said Gertie.
“Yes, but I’d like to see them both more. And Papa. Although Mama says he’s away on important business.” Billy leaned forward to whisper. “I think he might be a spy.”
Gertie was about to answer when the door of the bookshop burst open. Betty appeared looking frantic. As soon as their eyes met, Gertie knew it was bad news. The world seemed to stand still as Hedy moved toward her.
“It’s Sam, isn’t it?” she whispered. Betty nodded. “Oh, Gertie,” cried Hedy, turning to her with imploring eyes.
Gertie rushed forward and placed an arm around Hedy’s shoulders. She could feel her body trembling and sent up a silent prayer. Please. Please let him be alive. Please don’t steal every scrap of hope from this poor girl.
Betty took hold of Hedy’s hands, her voice cracking. “He was on a raid in Europe the other night when his plane was shot down. I’m sorry to have to tell you he’s missing.”
Gertie folded Hedy into her arms as she sobbed, while Billy placed a hand on her shoulder. “There, there, Hedy Fisher,” he said. “Everything will be all right. You’ll see.”
Gertie stroked the cheek of this kind little boy and dearly hoped he was right.
Chapter 17
It is best to love wisely, no doubt: but to love foolishly is better than not to be able to love at all.
—William Makepeace Thackeray, The History of Pendennis
Gertie took in the cozy living room with its blush rose–decorated rug, two plump sage-green armchairs, and the radio nestled in between. Her eyes traveled from the wedding photograph of Gerald and Beryl beaming at them from the dust-flecked mantelpiece, toward the small square dining table with two Windsor chairs facing one another and the pile of Gerald’s gardening books, occupying the space where a couple used to share meals and tales of their day. The ghost of Beryl Travers couldn’t have been more apparent if she’d drifted into the room and stood in the corner waving at them.
Margery sat bolt upright on the edge of the sofa next to Gertie while they waited for Gerald to return with the tea. They could hear him whistling away as he clattered teacups and opened and closed drawers. Gertie glanced at her, ready to make conversation, but Margery kept her eyes fixed forward, breathing deeply, staring grim-faced toward the matching porcelain Staffordshire spaniels perched on the mantelpiece, who stared back at her in astonishment. She had the air of a woman who was enduring a terrible toothache.
“Here we are,” said Gerald, carrying the tray in through the door and placing it on the tea table. “I’ll be Mother, shall I?”
Margery let out a high-pitched, nervous laugh that almost made Gertie leap from her seat. “Oh yes, jolly good.”
“Milk, sugar, Mrs. Bingham?”
“Just milk, thank you, Mr. Travers.”
“And for you, Mrs. Fortescue?”
“The same please,” said Margery with an alarmingly toothy grin that Gertie couldn’t recall having seen before.
He passed ’round the tea before opening a cake tin and offering it to Margery. “It was ever so good of you to bake these cakes, Mrs. Fortescue. I haven’t had a rock bun since . . .” It was clear from his glazed expression that he was lost in a memory of Beryl. “Well, never mind. Please. Help yourself.”
Margery threw a panicked look toward Gertie. “I don’t suppose you have any small plates, Mr. Travers?” said Gertie, reading her mind.
Gerald put a hand to his head. “I’m dreadfully sorry, ladies. I don’t entertain much these days. Back in a jiffy.”
Margery turned to Gertie. “This is a terrible mistake.”
“But why?”
“I shouldn’t have come. This is all wrong. I can’t stop thinking about dear Edward, and it’s clear that Mr. Travers is still overwhelmed with thoughts of his spouse. Look around you, Gertie. She’s everywhere.”
“Well, you can’t expect him to tidy away his wife. They were married for over forty years.”
Margery grimaced. “Of course I don’t expect that. It’s just . . .”
“Here we are,” said Gerald, returning and handing ’round the plates, napkins, and cakes with a triumphant air. “I had to dig around a bit, but I found them. I haven’t had cause to use them for a while. I’d forgotten we had them, to be honest.”
“Thank you, Mr. Travers,” said Gertie, deciding to steer the conversation toward more neutral territory. “I must say your front garden is looking splendid. How do you get so many roses on one bush?”
“Horse manure.”
“Beg pardon?”
“Horse manure,” he repeated. “I know a farmer. He delivers me bags of the stuff whenever I need it. Works a treat.”
“Gosh,” said Gertie. “How marvelous.”
“I tell you what are marvelous,” said Gerald. “These cakes. Absolutely delicious, Mrs. Fortescue.”
“Thank you, Mr. Travers. And I agree with you about the horse manure, although it does make for a pungent few days after you spread it.”
Gerald chuckled. “Very true. Beryl used to tell me off because she had to shut all the windows. She did like to air the house every day.”
Gertie felt Margery shift in her seat. “Harry was the same,” she told him. “I can’t bear a draft. He’d throw them all open in the morning and then I’d go ’round closing them.”
Gerald nodded. “I remember your Harry helping me find a book for Beryl when she was ill. He always had a kind word when you needed it. I put great store in that.”
Gertie smiled. “Your Beryl was the same. I wouldn’t have had half the success with my runner beans if it hadn’t been for her. Planting nasturtiums alongside them to stop the blackfly made all the difference.”
“Ah, Beryl was an expert when it came to growing fruit and veg. Caulis as big as your head, and her black currants? Well. She made enough pies, jellies, and jams for the whole street.”
“We’ve been lucky, haven’t we?” said Margery quietly. Her face was glowing with gentle happiness. “To have met and married such people.”
“Yes,” said Gerald, catching her eye. “Very lucky indeed.”
The car was waiting for Gertie and Hedy on their return from the bookshop one day. Gertie recognized it immediately from the time Sam drove them all to the beach. It felt like a different life. It wasn’t Sam at the wheel, of course. It was an older version of him with neatly combed charcoal-gray hair. He had fallen asleep, his spectacles teetering on the end of his nose.
Hedy tapped lightly on the window. “Dr. Godwin,” she said, her voice brimming with expectation.