Ever yours,
Your brother, Arno
Gertie’s eyes were streaming with tears as she finished. She and Hedy clung to each other for a long time, weeping for the ones they couldn’t protect. After a while, Gertie reached into her pocket and pulled out a handkerchief. Very gently, she wiped Hedy’s eyes and kissed her on the forehead. “He’s alive, Hedy. Your brother is alive,” she said, folding her into a tight embrace.
Uncle Thomas did not like to travel south of the river. In fact, he didn’t really like to travel beyond the confines of Cecil Court, but he made an exception for his niece’s sixty-fourth birthday. The dinner had been Hedy’s idea. She suggested that guests each bring a dish to make their rations stretch further.
“My parents used to have these supper parties at our apartment in Munich. I loved it when I was a child. The place was full of artists and musicians all drinking, smoking, and discussing art and literature,” she told Gertie as they laid the table, decorating it with a vase of freshly cut roses and a silver candelabra.
Gertie smiled, setting down the bowls of salad made with homegrown produce. She had noticed a new confidence in Hedy over the past few weeks. Gerald declared her to be “more competent than any fellow I’ve ever trained,” and her engagement to Sam and letter from Arno seemed to be giving her a renewed zest for life. She devoured every piece of news from the papers and radio and spent any spare hours scribbling furiously in notebooks. She hadn’t shared her stories with Gertie yet. However, Billy had stuck his head over the fence one day for a chat and reliably informed her that “they’re stories for children, so not really for you, Gertie Bingham. I’ve seen them when she showed Mama and me. They’re very good.”
Uncle Thomas was the first to arrive for the party. Gertie was intrigued to see what he’d bring. “Bacon and egg pie,” he said proudly, handing over a cloth-covered dish.
“Gosh,” said Gertie. “Did you make it yourself?”
He snorted with laughter. “Very good, Gertie. Yes. Highly amusing. Couldn’t boil an egg to save my life. No, Mrs. Havers rustled it up for me. Potato pastry and dried egg, unfortunately, but needs must.” He retrieved a brown paper parcel from his pocket. “Happy birthday, my dear old thing.”
She unwrapped the package to reveal a small blue cloth poetry book with silver lettering. “George Eliot,” she said, kissing his cheek. “Thank you, Uncle dearest.”
“Just a token of my esteemed affection,” he said. “Oh, and I found this for you, young lady,” he added, pulling a book from his other pocket and holding it out to Hedy.
“Emil and the Detectives,” she cried. “Arno and I used to love this book. Thank you.”
Uncle Thomas nodded his approval. “I don’t suppose you’ve got any of Harry’s whisky squirreled away, have you, dear heart? You know how journeying this far south affects my constitution.”
Gertie smiled. “I may be able to pour you a nip for medicinal purposes.”
“Much obliged, Gertie. Much obliged.”
Charles was the next to arrive with a tray of salmon fish cakes. “Made by my own fair hand,” he said, passing them to Hedy.
“I had no idea you harbored such talents,” said Gertie, kissing him on the cheek, catching the reassuring scent of cedar and spice.
“When you’ve lived alone for as long as I have and spent time in the army, you learn a thing or two,” he said. “Happy birthday, dear Gertie.” He held out a small red velvet box with a gold clasp.
“This isn’t a proposal of marriage, is it, Charles?”
He laughed. “Not today. Open it.”
Gertie pressed the button clasp to reveal a gold heart-shaped necklace decorated with a tiny ruby. “It’s beautiful,” she said, lifting it from the box.
“I’m glad you like it. Here, let me help you.” As he fastened the chain behind her neck, Gertie’s skin tingled at his touch. “Perfect,” he said, standing back to admire her.
The last guests to arrive were Billy and his mother. “Happy birthday, Gertie Bingham,” cried Billy, marching into the room. “Here is your present.” He handed over a flat rectangular package, loosely wrapped in brown paper.
“Thank you, Billy. And what do we have here?” She unfurled it and slid out a framed watercolor drawing.
“Mama did it,” he said with glee. “Isn’t she clever?”
“With apologies to Mr. E. H. Shepard,” said Elizabeth.
Gertie stared at the picture. Elizabeth had drawn Gertie, Hedy, and Hemingway along with Billy and her sitting in their air-raid shelter with Winnie-the-Pooh and Piglet. “I adore it. Thank you,” Gertie said, kissing her on the cheek.
Elizabeth gave a shy smile. “And this is our food contribution,” she said, handing over a cloth-tied basin. “I made a summer pudding.”
“My favorite,” said Uncle Thomas with a satisfied grin.
After the meal, Gertie stood and raised her glass to them all. “Thank you, everyone, for making my birthday so special. Thank you, Hedy, for arranging this. It’s been wonderful.”
“I have one more surprise for you,” said Hedy. She disappeared from the room and returned moments later carrying a sheaf of folded papers. “This is the first chapter. I’ve been working on it for a while. Elizabeth has done some wonderful illustrations too.”
Gertie took the papers and held them to her heart. “I’ll save it for bedtime,” she said. “Thank you. Both of you.”
“And may I be the first to offer you representation,” said Uncle Thomas, reaching into his pocket for a business card and sliding it across the table. Elizabeth and Hedy exchanged grins.
“What’s your story about, Hedy?” asked Charles.
Hedy’s eyes glittered as she spoke. “It’s about a brother and sister who have many adventures and always beat the villains.”
“Could the boy be called Billy?” asked Billy.
“Perhaps. Although I did think that Billy might be a good name for their little black-and-white dog, who is excellent at sniffing out clues.”
Billy considered this for a moment. “I wouldn’t mind being a dog,” he said, reaching out a hand to stroke Hemingway, who was asleep by his feet.
“Is the boy called Arno by any chance?” asked Gertie.
Hedy nodded. “And the girl is called Gertie.”
Charles laughed. “Gertie Bingham. In print at last! What on earth will Miss Snipp say?”
“She’s too busy complaining about all the extra work she has to do for the prisoner of war book club,” said Gertie. “Apparently, The Thirty-Nine Steps is to blame for her sciatica flaring up again.”
“John Buchan should be ashamed of himself,” said Uncle Thomas with a twinkle in his eye.
“Well, it’s a good effort, Gertie,” said Charles. “I bet those chaps are grateful to have anything to help them pass the time.”
“Sam says they’re a godsend,” said Hedy. “Apparently the copies of Maugham and Hemingway that we sent him have been shared ’round so much they’re falling to pieces.”