“Carpe diem, my dear Gertie. We could all be blown from our beds at any given second. You have to grab these chances of happiness by the throat while you can.”
Gertie wondered how happiness felt about being grabbed by the throat but guessed that it would comply with Margery’s wishes, as most people did. “You make a wonderful couple.”
Margery astonished Gertie by kissing her on the cheek. “It never would have happened if it hadn’t been for you, my dear. Gerald and I call you our little cupid. He’s a darling man. There will never be another like my Edward, but there will never be another like my Gerald. I count myself very lucky to have been blessed with two such fine husbands. You know you should really think about it, Gertie.”
“If I chance upon Clark Gable on my way home, I’ll be sure to pop the question.”
“I’m serious. It’s never too late for a second chance at happiness.”
Whether it was Margery’s encouragement or the fact Gertie had drunk a glass of beer to toast the happy couple, she made a snap decision to telephone Charles that evening. They hadn’t spoken since Christmas. Gertie recalled their unfinished conversation and decided that it was time to pick up the thread.
“Gertie? Is everything all right?” He sounded weary.
“Everything’s fine. I wanted to talk to you about what was said at Christmas.”
“I’m not sure this is a good time.”
Gertie was determined not to be fobbed off. “When is a good time, Charles? When this cursed war is over? Because who knows when that will be. Surely we need to live for the day. Or seize the day or something.”
“Have you been drinking, Gertie?” His voice was gentle, teasing. The Charles of old. The Charles with whom she could share her deepest feelings.
“A little. Margery and Gerald got married today, and I may have had a small beer to toast their happiness.”
“Good for you, Gertie.”
“And consequently, I am feeling rather loquacious.”
“I’m impressed you can still say the word.”
Gertie laughed. “I love you, Charles Ashford.”
“I love you too, Gertie Bingham.”
“No. I mean I love you like Margery loves Gerald. Well, probably not precisely like that. I wouldn’t boss you around like she bosses Gerald, but I do love you, and I think it’s time we got married.” There was silence on the other end of the line. “Charles? Are you still there? Did you hear what I said?”
“Yes.”
“Oh,” she said. “You don’t love me in that way.”
“Gertie . . .”
“No. It’s all right, Charles. I’ve been a perfect fool. Please forgive me.”
“Gertie, please listen. It’s all right. I’m flattered. Very, very flattered, but the truth is I could never make you happy. I could never make anyone happy. I love you dearly, more than any wife in truth, but I’m not the man for you. I’m sorry.”
Gertie was relieved he couldn’t see her face, which she was convinced was now the color of one of Gerald’s prize beetroots. “It’s quite all right, Charles. I understand. It’s just that you mean the world to me, and I thought there might be more to it. We’re still friends, aren’t we?”
“Of course. Forever and a day. I do love you, Gertie Bingham.”
“I know you do. Good night, Charles.” Gertie hung up the phone and sank into her armchair, clutching her forehead in her hands. Hemingway lolloped over and plonked his head in her lap. She stroked his downy fur and sighed. “Your mistress is an utter chump.”
The flying bombs brought a fresh terror that Gertie hadn’t experienced since the London Blitz. They were relentless and deadly, falling all night and every night for weeks on end. Even if Gertie had wanted to sleep, she wouldn’t have been able to, particularly on the nights when Hedy was on ARP duty. She sat up in the shelter with Hemingway curled but alert at her feet. She missed the Chamberses’ reassuring presence but was glad that Elizabeth had decided to take Billy to stay with her parents. At least they would be safe there.
On these nights, Gertie would distract herself with a book. The air-raid and POW book clubs had gone from strength to strength over the course of the war. Much to Miss Snipp’s mock annoyance, they now sent books to every corner of the globe. This month’s book had been suggested by Cynthia. She approached Gertie one day when the shop was quiet, sliding a copy of Little Women across the counter.
“I thought this might perhaps make a good read for the book club,” she said, avoiding Gertie’s gaze. “I found it very comforting after Father died.”
“I think it’s a wonderful idea,” said Gertie. “Marmee always reminds me of my mother.”
Cynthia smiled at the floor. “Laurie reminds me of Archie.”
Gertie was lost in the world of the March girls when she heard the first ghostly bomb fall. A deadly robot grinding its teeth. A moment’s deathly silence. A screeching rush of a steam train followed by splintering, smashing, falling, thudding. Chaos. Carnage. Whole streets flattened. Bodies ripped apart. Children buried alive. Hell on earth.
When Hedy returned from nights like these, as the sun was inching its way through the clouds, transforming the sky from scarlet through fiery orange to ripe lemon, Gertie was always waiting for her at the kitchen table. She would make tea and listen to Hedy’s stories with tears in her eyes, grateful for her safe return. Gertie was glad she shared these tales rather than swallowing them down to remain in her heart. Better to recount and sob for the family whose baby had been blown clean from her cot, and whom Hedy had covered with her coat and carried to the ambulance, or the elderly couple who were found in the rubble still clinging to each other in the marital bed they’d shared for over fifty years. Better to look horror and inhumanity squarely in the eye, staring them down so that they couldn’t drag you to their dark pit of despair, so you could rise again and face another day.
Gertie always rested easier on the nights when Hedy was at home. It wasn’t only the company; it was the reassurance that she knew where she was. If I keep her close, I can keep her safe, she would tell herself. Gertie knew that sometimes her fussing irritated Hedy. Five years of war had taken its toll and it was hard not to lose patience. One night, the siren wailed at a little past midnight and Gertie hurried from her bed.
“Come along, Hedy. Let’s get down to the shelter,” she called, knocking on her door. There was a groan from inside. “Come along, dear. We must hurry.”
“Not tonight, Gertie. Let me stay in my bed. Please.”
Gertie pushed open the door, her mind whirling with panic. She yanked back the covers of Hedy’s bed. “You must come at once. It’s too dangerous to stay inside.”
Hedy snatched the covers back and pulled the pillow over her head. “Go away, Gertie. I don’t have to do what you say. You’re not my mother.”
Gertie took a step back as if she’d been stung. “No, I’m not your mother, but I’m sure she wouldn’t want you to stay in your bed while Hitler’s bombs rain down around your head.”
There was a moment’s silence before Hedy gave a resigned groan. “All right. I’m coming.”