As he began to recuperate, Gertie and Harry had agreed that daily visits were unnecessary and started to write letters to each other instead. Gertie wrote long tales of that day’s events at the bookshop: Of Miss Snipp informing their publisher’s representative, Mr. Barnaby Salmon, that it was a travesty that his publisher had let Florence L. Barclay’s titles go out of stock. Of how sad Mr. Travers was now that his wife had died. Of how cross she’d been when Hemingway had chewed through a first edition of Thomas Hardy poems. In return, Harry wrote with tales of hospital life: of a patient who argued with his wife before she picked up his wooden crutch and hit him over the head with it, and of the kerfuffle when the police had to be called. He told her that the nurse called Winnie was his favorite because she reminded him of a kind aunt who had always given him biscuits. His least favorite was called Enid. She had a sharp tongue and made him think of a storybook witch on account of the hairy mole on her chin. Gertie’s heart had danced with joy whenever the post arrived.
The letter she held in her hands now had been the last one she received. It had arrived on the day Harry was due to come home from the hospital. Gertie stared at the words through a blur of tears.
My dearest love,
Another night is over and all I can think is that I’m another night closer to being with you again. The doctors think I should be well enough by Thursday. I can’t wait to be safe with you and Hemingway in our dear little house. Being stuck in hospital for too long makes a man realize how lucky he is, and I am desperately lucky to have you, my darling Gertie. The day I walked into Arnold’s all those years ago was the happiest of my life. There isn’t a single moment that goes by when I don’t thank the god of fate for bringing us together. I’ve been thinking that we should take a little trip. Perhaps Paris to see the Bouquinistes? All I know is that we must live for the day, my darling. Life is fragile, and I want to relish every moment of mine with you.
Ever your loving husband,
Harry
“We still had so much life to live,” she told Charles and Hedy with an anguished sob.
They came to sit on either side of her, offering murmured comfort as Gertie’s grief surrounded her like a dense London fog.
“It was all my fault,” she said, ignoring their gentle protestations. “I should have insisted he go to the doctor sooner. I could have prevented his death.” She glanced at each of them in turn as she finally uttered the secret she had buried for so long. “Harry would still be alive today if it weren’t for me.”
Chapter 19
Time brought resignation, and a melancholy sweeter than common joy.
—Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights
The Christmas revue was Gertie’s idea. “I think it’s just the ticket to lift the spirits,” she told Margery one day as they gathered to parcel up the Red Cross packages. “We could invite local residents to take part, deck the village hall with boughs of holly, fire up the Old General for tea. What do you think?”
Margery regarded Gertie in astonishment. “I think . . .” she began. The room held its breath. “。 . . that I wish I’d thought of it first. Gerald?”
“Yes, my dear?” He glanced up from his newspaper. Following many weekend dances and country walks, Gerald and Margery had now reached the dizzying heights of first-name terms.
“Were you listening to Gertie’s idea?”
Gerald narrowed his eyes with concentration. “Christmas revue. Village hall,” he said. “I think it’s a splendid idea. But only if you sing, Margery.”
She looked a little coy. “Well, I don’t know.”
“Come along, Margery. Don’t be shy,” said Gertie, placing a pile of books at one end of the packing table.
“Oh please, Mrs. Fortescue,” said Hedy. “It would be wonderful if you could.”
“I’ll give it some thought,” said Margery, her eyes twinkling. “Now then. What have we got on the packing list today, Mrs. Chambers?”
Elizabeth cleared her throat and pointed to each item in turn. “One tin of service ration biscuits, one tin of cheese, one packet of chocolate, one tin of creamed rice, one tin of marmalade, one tin of margarine, one tin of pressed beef, one tin of milk, one tablet of soap, one tin of sugar, one packet of tea, one tin of peas, one packet of cigarettes, and one Christmas pudding.”
“And one copy of A Christmas Carol,” said Gertie, pointing at the books.
“Very good,” said Margery. “Let’s get to it.”
There was a spirit of cheerful optimism in the air as they worked. People were starting to believe that the war would end next year. The idea of this being the last Christmas they would have to endure murkey for dinner and embargoes on bell ringing, alongside the ceaseless struggle of rations, air raids, and blackouts, was giving everyone quiet reassurance.
Despite Miss Snipp’s initial misgivings and the logistical challenges, Gertie was convinced that they were making a difference to the war effort, and she knew the people in this room agreed with her. Many of them had personal reasons for wanting to ensure that the lives of the POWs were eased in any way possible. Emily Farthing’s brother was in a camp in Italy, while Ethel Wise’s grandson, like Sam, was a prisoner in Poland. As well as packaging the Red Cross parcels, they also served as a sorting point for the next-of-kin parcel. Today, Emily was repacking one for Gertie’s neighbor Mrs. Herbert, whose husband, Bill, was a POW in Berlin. The woman stood before her as Emily checked the items one by one.
“Right, Mrs. Herbert. I’m going to separate the soap from the chocolate. We don’t want Mr. Herbert having a taste of Sunlight when he’s enjoying his treat, do we? Oh, aren’t these hand-knitted socks lovely?” she added turning them inside out. “Just the ticket to keep him warm through the winter.” She pulled out a paperback copy of The Invisible Man, by H. G. Wells, and gave it a shake.
“Here, you’re not checking for contraband, are you?” said Mrs. Herbert, looking offended.
“I’m sorry, but it’s the rules,” said Emily. “We have to check for forbidden items to stop the Jerries from confiscating the whole lot. I just want to make sure this gets to Mr. Herbert.”
Mrs. Herbert’s cheeks seemed to flush slightly under the scrutiny. “What would be forbidden exactly?”
“Someone tried to send a jar of homemade cherry jam the other day,” said Emily, checking the seal on a tin of boot blacking. “Only chocolate is allowed in next-of-kin parcels.”
“Oh, well, that’s all right then. I can’t make jam for love or money.”
It was Emily’s turn to blush as she pulled out a pair of large woolen underpants.
“Thermals,” said Mrs. Herbert. “They say the German winters are bitter.”
“Hang on a minute,” said Emily, holding up the underwear. “What’s this writing?”
Elizabeth, Hedy, and Gertie glanced over in amusement.
“V for victory,” said Mrs. Herbert, jutting out her chin. “Our boys are going to win the war any day, and I want to send that message to the Jerries loud and clear.”
The assembled company all laughed and cheered except for Margery. “Mrs. Herbert, you know as well as I do that written messages of any kind are not allowed in these parcels,” she said with a disapproving look.