Thomas turned to her. “You must do what’s best for you, my dear. And if that’s retirement, then so be it.”
Gertie sighed. “Part of me feels as if I’m giving up. I never thought I’d end up like this. I used to have so much more fight in my youth.”
Thomas chuckled. “You certainly were a spirited youngster. It was a job for your mother and father to keep up with you. You had so many ideas and opinions. Enough to change the world.”
“You know as well as I do how life knocks that out of a person.”
“My darling Gertrude, you are fifty-nine, not eighty-nine.”
“So you think I should stay?”
“All I would say is don’t make any rash decisions you might regret. There’s a storm coming. I’m sure of it. We might just need the likes of Gertie Bingham to stand up and fight.”
“I’m not sure I can do it on my own.”
“I’m here, Gertie.”
“I know. And I’m grateful.” She leaned over to kiss him on the cheek before linking an arm through his. “Now. Tell me your book trade gossip.”
Thomas’s eyes glittered. “Well, let’s just say there’s a certain female author whose husband is filing for divorce after she was discovered in a compromising situation with a famous Shakespearean actor.”
The rain was beginning to fall as Gertie let herself back in through the front door later that afternoon. She shook off her umbrella and left it in the porch. “It’s coming down in stair rods,” she told Hemingway, who trundled out to greet her. She planted a kiss on the top of his great furry head. “Have you had a good day, my darling?” People would think her daft, but she knew that this gentle giant was one of the few beings who kept her going these days. The thought of moving to that cottage idyll with him, sitting out their days by the coast, taking slow walks together, and gazing out to sea was very appealing.
“I could take up writing,” she said as she lit a fire in the living room. Hemingway cocked his head to one side as if hanging on her every word. “Give Georgette Heyer a run for her money.”
Gertie smiled at the idea. It was a romantic notion in every sense of the word, but what was the alternative? Stay here in the oppressive silence of a house that was far too big for her, or move somewhere more tranquil, where she could gather her thoughts and not be reminded of Harry’s absence all the time?
She set about making tea, putting the kettle to boil on the stove and retrieving a cup and saucer from the dresser.
“Here you are, my boy,” she said to the dog, tipping food into his bowl. Hemingway sniffed at it before gazing up at her with a heavy sigh. “I know exactly how you feel,” she said, scratching the top of his head. “I’m not the slightest bit hungry either.”
She was about to make her tea when there was a knock at the door. Hemingway gave a half-hearted growl. “I think you may need to brush up on your guard dog skills,” she told him, glancing at the clock. It was nearly six and pitch-black outside. Gertie made her way to the living room and peered through the net curtain. Her face relaxed as she recognized the caller.
“Now, Mr. Ashford, I’ve told you before. I don’t entertain gentleman callers after dark,” she said as she opened the front door. Charles Ashford was her husband’s oldest friend. They had met at school, and when Harry began his book career, Charles had entered the world of banking. His time as an officer in the Great War had altered his opinion of humanity, and he returned a changed man. He left the world of finance to take up a post with the International Committee of the Red Cross, before continuing to work for a number of other humanitarian organizations. Harry always maintained that Charles was one of the truest, kindest people you could ever hope to meet.
Gertie’s heart lifted when she saw this affable man standing on her doorstep. His hair was thinning at the temples, but his face was as open and kind as it had always been. He made her think of Harry in the best possible way, reminding Gertie of the treasured times when they’d formed a happy band of three in their youth. They spent many joyful evenings at the theater or out for dinner together. Charles was always vastly amused at Gertie’s attempts to pair him off with any woman who batted her eyelids his way.
“I prefer my own company,” he would always say. “Or yours or Harry’s. I’m too selfish to be a good husband.”
Charles’s usual genial demeanor was serious tonight, though. “Sorry to call so late, Gertie. May I come in? I need to talk to you.”
“Of course,” she said leading him toward the living room. “Is everything all right?”
“Not really,” he said as Hemingway lumbered in, his tail wagging as soon as he saw their visitor. Charles patted his head. “Hello, old chap.”
“I’m just making some tea. Would you like a cup?”
“I don’t suppose you’ve got any whisky, have you?” In the half-light of the living room, Charles looked gaunt and drawn.
“I think I’ve still got a bottle of Harry’s somewhere,” said Gertie. She opened the drinks cabinet and poured two glasses. “Come and sit down. You look as if you’ve had a fright. Whatever is it?”
They sat side by side on the sofa. Gertie took a sip of her drink, welcoming its sharp heat.
Charles swirled the amber liquid around his glass before taking a large gulp. “I daresay you’ve heard about what’s happening to the Jews in Germany?”
Gertie shivered. “Yes, of course. Terrible business.”
“I’m going over to help them.”
Gertie stared at him. “Help them. But how?”
Charles took another sip of whisky. “There’s a delegation going to speak to Chamberlain and the home secretary next week. They want to rescue as many children as possible. The British government is almost certainly going to allow them to come here.”
“Goodness, Charles. But won’t it be dangerous for you to go out there?” Gertie couldn’t bear the thought of losing another person she loved.
Charles was stone-faced. “Not as dangerous as it will be for the poor blighters if we leave them in the clutches of Hitler and his henchmen.”
Gertie nodded. “Of course. Will you be gone long?”
“As long as it takes.”
She laid a hand on his arm. “Thank heavens for people like you, Charles. How will you find homes for them?”
He shot her a sideward glance. “I’m asking everyone I know to take in a child.”
Gertie stared at him for a moment, unsure of what to say. “But, Charles, I’m about to retire.” She knew this sounded hollow, selfish even. Here was this man, about to risk his life for a group of strangers, and here she was, fixated on her own fanciful needs.
Charles’s eyes didn’t leave her face for a second. “Do you know what I thought when Harry introduced you to me all those years ago?”
“‘Does this woman ever stop talking?’” suggested Gertie with eyebrows raised.
Charles laughed. “Well yes, but above all, I thought how lucky he was to have found someone with such fire in her belly and fight in her soul.”
Gertie stared into her whisky glass. “I’m too old to fight, Charles.”