The atmosphere was tense as they settled into the shelter. Gertie lit the candle while Hedy curled herself onto one of the bunks and took out her notebook. “How are you getting on with your story?” Gertie asked.
“Fine,” said Hedy, scribbling away.
“I’m sorry if you think I make a fuss, but I have to keep you safe for your mother, you see.”
“I know.” Hedy continued to write, so Gertie took out her book and began to read. “Gertie?” said Hedy after a while.
“Yes, dear?”
Hedy looked up from her notebook. “I’m sorry for what I said.”
“It’s all right.”
“I get grumpy when I’m tired.”
Gertie smiled. “So do I. You carry on with your writing. Hemingway and I are used to—” She froze. “Oh no.” Gertie cast ’round in a panic. “He must not have heard the siren. He’s a little deaf these days. I’m so used to him following me out here.”
“I can go and get him,” said Hedy.
Gertie shook her head. “You stay here. I’ll only be a moment. Perhaps you could read me some of what you’ve written when I come back. I want to know if Arno and Gertie escape the shellycoat.”
“Yes please,” said Hedy. “I need some advice about the next part of the story.”
The sky was a clear canopy of blue silk peppered with silver stars as Gertie made her way back to the house, the moon illuminating her path. On nights like these, it was easy to forget there was a war on. Gertie let herself in through the back door.
“Hemingway? Hemingway?” she called. She padded through the kitchen to the hall, peering into the living room, but he was nowhere to be seen. “Hemingway?” she cried with increasing alarm as she climbed the stairs.
The moon threw a shard of milky light onto the landing where Hemingway lay, his great hearthrug body spread between the two open doors of Gertie’s and Hedy’s bedrooms. A chill of terror spread through Gertie’s veins as she peered at his fur, unable to detect the rise and fall of his breathing.
“Hemingway?” she whispered, tears springing to her eyes. She reached out a tentative hand toward his large, soft head. “My dear sweet boy. Not you as well. Not my darling Hemingway.” As soon as she made contact with his fur, the dog opened one eye and gazed up at her quizzically. Gertie clutched her chest. “Oh thank goodness,” she cried, burying her face in his neck. “Thank goodness. Come along, my boy. We must get back to Hedy. She’ll be worried about you.”
They were descending the stairs when Gertie heard the pulsing buzz. It seemed to come from nowhere, but all at once it was as if a thousand wasps were swarming above the house. And then silence. Gertie glanced toward the kitchen. There was no time to reach the shelter. No time to run. No time to do anything but pray. She threw her body over Hemingway’s and held her breath. The world exploded. Darkness fell.
Chapter 21
Do the wise thing and the kind thing too, and make the best of us and not the worst.
—Charles Dickens, Hard Times
Gertie wouldn’t leave. She couldn’t. As long as Hedy was trapped under the mountain of rubble from the house that had backed on to her garden, she would stay and she would search. The firemen tried to reason with her （“It ain’t safe, missus”） and then Gerald did his best to persuade her （“I beg you, Mrs. Bingham. Why don’t we wait for the rescue team?”）。 Finally, they sent for Margery Travers.
“If you’ve come to tell me it’s too dangerous for a woman like me, you can save your breath to cool your porridge,” said Gertie, lifting another brick from the vast pile covering the shelter.
“I wouldn’t dare,” said Margery. “I’ve brought some tea and an extra pair of hands if you’ll have me.”
Gertie blinked into the face of this ferociously kind woman and felt her lip tremble. “I told her to stay in the shelter, Margery,” she whispered. “I thought she’d be safe there. I went back for Hemingway.” She glanced over at the dog, who was lying close by, watching the drama unfold with forlorn eyes.
“Now, now, Gertie. There’s no time for all that. You did what you thought was right. That’s all we can ever do. Now, we must concentrate all our efforts on the rescue.” She reached out a hand and squeezed her arm. “We will find her.”
They worked all night and into the next morning as the day dawned pink and orange in a sky still thick with smoke and plaster dust. Gerald appeared after his warden shift, bringing another flask of tea and an air of quiet purpose. Together the three of them heaved and hauled the filthy debris until their hands were raw. The task seemed impossible, like trying to shovel snow in the middle of an avalanche. Gertie looked from the pile they’d cleared to the mountainous heaps remaining and felt her shoulders sag.
“We thought you might need some help,” said a familiar voice. Gertie turned, blinking through the rubble dust at Miss Snipp, standing with Miss Crow, Cynthia, and several of Margery’s WVS volunteers including Emily Farthing. For once in her life, Gertie Bingham was lost for words.
“Jolly good,” said Margery, rolling up her sleeves. “Just what we need. Right. Miss Farthing, you start to clear from this side with Miss Crow; Cynthia, you come with me and Miss Snipp. Gertie, Gerald, the rest are with you.”
Hemingway circled the group as they worked, sniffing the air for his beloved Hedy. After more hours of clearing, a shout went up. “I see corrugated iron here!” cried Emily. Hemingway made a beeline for the spot and began to bark.
“Here!” cried Margery. “We need to dig here.”
They hurried over and redoubled their efforts to the one spot, clearing as quickly as they could until everyone was covered in dust and the door to the shelter was visible.
“Right,” said Margery. “Put your backs into it.”
They heaved at the door, which was bent out of shape and wedged fast.
“Again,” she said, jutting out her chin. “Imagine we’re playing tug-of-war with Hitler himself.”
They shot one another steely nods.
“On my count. One. Two. Three!”
The door gave way with a metallic shriek as they wrenched it from its hinges. They peered into the inky darkness.
“We need light,” called Margery.
Gerald passed his flashlight to Gertie, whose fingers were trembling as she took it. Margery placed a hand on her shoulder as she directed the beam inside. The shelter looked almost exactly as she’d left it. There were the mattresses, blankets, her tea and book from earlier, the candle knocked to the floor. Gertie narrowed her eyes, desperate and fearful of what she might see as she darted the light from left to right.
It was the locket she caught sight of first, glinting like lost treasure. The locket Sam had given Hedy on her sixteenth birthday when the world was still intact, when life had been full of light. She followed the beam and there, tucked in the corner, her eyes closed as if she was fast asleep, was Hedy.
“I see her!” she cried. “Help me down. Please. Someone help me down.”
Strong hands reached out to lift Gertie into the darkness. Margery shone the flashlight as Gertie inched toward Hedy, her heart thundering in her ears. Please, she prayed. Please let her be alive. She crept nearer, whispering, “Hedy? Hedy, can you hear me?” The silence was suffocating.