“Oh,” said Miss Crow, agog. “So Napoleon?”
“Is Stalin,” confirmed Miss Snipp.
“Well, I never.”
Mr. Reynolds appeared a short while later, along with Miss Snipp’s nieces and Emily Farthing. Gertie sat on the sidelines, listening. Emily Farthing was greatly impressed when Mr. Reynolds told her that he had once met Karl Marx, while Sylvie and Rosaline confessed that they hadn’t actually read the book but that their mother had sent them along as they were getting under her feet. It was a lively and engaging discussion, but Gertie found her mind wandering to thoughts of the future.
Bingham Books was managing to tick along as it had always done. Her regular customers still frequented the shop, and there were enough postal orders and the book club to keep Miss Snipp busy for the time being.
For Gertie, however, it felt as if something was missing. Every day she would pass the now empty shop where Margery and her WVS army had held fort and gaze inside with a pang of longing. They hadn’t fought on the front line, but their work felt important. This was borne out by the letters they now received from grateful POWs. There was one in particular that struck a chord with Gertie.
I don’t think I’m overstating it when I say that the books you sent saved me. I was in a pretty dark spot, and reading these comical stories of Jeeves and Wooster made me forget where I was. To be able to escape the grim reality and spend a few hours chuckling to myself was a balm to my soul.
Gertie had carefully refolded the letter and stored it between the pages of her own treasured Wodehouse volume.
“MRS. BINGHAM!”
Gertie flicked her gaze back to Miss Snipp, who was frowning at her over the top of her spectacles. “Sorry, Miss Snipp. What did you say?”
“Our discussion is over and people want to know what the next book club title will be.”
Gertie glanced around the assembled company, unsure of what to say, unsure if she was the right one to answer.
“If you haven’t selected anything, I’d be delighted to lead a discussion on Jude the Obscure,” Miss Snipp offered.
“Actually I read a super book recently,” said Emily. “The Pursuit of Love, by Nancy Mitford. Very funny.”
“Ooh, that sounds like just our thing,” said Rosaline, nudging her sister.
“Yes, we might even read this one,” said Sylvie with a giggle.
“The Pursuit of Love it is then,” said Gertie, ignoring Miss Snipp’s glare. “Thank you, Emily.”
As she walked home that evening, Gertie realized that it wasn’t just the WVS she missed. Hedy was still very frail after her illness and tired easily. She worked only a couple of mornings at the shop and spent the rest of the time at home, writing her stories. Sam was working hard to complete his studies and was planning to apply for a post as a trainee solicitor when he finished.
“I always fancied myself as one of those chaps in the fancy wigs,” he told them over dinner one night. “But now I realize I’d rather work in a job where I can be close to home.” He glanced over at Hedy with a look of tenderness as he said this. “Of course, we’ll need to find that home soon. You don’t want us in your hair forever, Mrs. B.”
Gertie’s heart dipped with secret dread. “You can stay as long as you need to,” she said, trying to sound breezy. “But I appreciate you needing your own place. All married couples do.”
“We’ll still see each other,” said Hedy. She phrased this like a question, as if seeking reassurance.
“Of course,” said Gertie. They had been through so much together, more than most people experienced in a lifetime. Gertie couldn’t think of a person other than Harry who meant as much to her as Hedy did. She also couldn’t imagine what her life would look like without her. Gertie wasn’t sure if she wanted to go back to the same world as before the war. Bingham Books. This house. A day-to-day existence on her own with just Hemingway for company. It was time to make a decision. The world had shifted again, and Gertie would have to find a way to shift with it.
As was their usual habit, Hedy and Sam insisted on clearing away the dinner things, while Gertie relaxed in the living room. She picked up the newspaper and tried to focus on a story about the arrest of Lord Haw-Haw but couldn’t seem to settle.
“I’m just taking Hemingway for an evening walk,” she called. “I won’t be long.”
The dog glanced up, having heard one of his favorite words but unsure if he wanted to leave the comfort of his equally favorite rug.
“Come on, lazy dog,” said Gertie, clipping on his lead. “Let’s take the air.”
The sky was alive with shades of lavender and mulberry as Gertie and Hemingway made their way out the front door. Hemingway turned his nose toward town. “Not tonight, boy. We’re going somewhere different,” said Gertie, leading him in the opposite direction. The residential streets soon gave way to more rural surroundings. Gertie had always loved that about this part of London. One moment you were in the town, the next in the Kent countryside. They strolled for a while beneath a canopy of enfolded beech trees before coming to a halt in front of a long drive leading toward a large house, its sign partly concealed by ivy: “The Dorcas Fitzwilliam Domicile for Genteel Women.”
Gertie had been astonished the day her mother told her that she would be moving to “Auntie Dorcas’s,” as it was affectionately known. She had always assumed that Lilian would live out her days in the family home she’d shared with Gertie’s father for almost fifty years. Arthur Arnold had died ten years previously, never properly recovering after the death of his son. “The simple fact is that I’m lonely,” she said to Gertie one day. “And the upkeep of the house is so costly. I shall be fed and watered, which is all I need. And it does have the most magnificent library,” she added, her eyes twinkling.
Gertie had relished her Sunday lunch trips to see her mother. She remembered one particular visit when they were served the tenderest roast beef along with Yorkshire puddings as light as clouds. It was a sublime meal, and yet for some reason, Gertie couldn’t bring herself to enjoy it.
“Is everything all right, dear?” asked Lilian, glancing at her barely touched meal.
Gertie gazed at her mother. She had always been able to talk to her, to share the innermost affairs of her heart. “I feel . . .” Her voice trailed off as she fumbled for the right word. “。 . . different.”
Lilian raised one eyebrow. “Different? In what way?”
Gertie shifted in her seat. “It’s difficult to say. I suppose I feel restless.”
“How is Harry?”
Gertie shrugged. “Harry is Harry. You know how he is. Steadfast. Reliable.”
“You say these things as if they are bad qualities.”
Gertie sighed. “I don’t mean to. He’s such a dear man. I just feel as if life has got a little humdrum of late.”
Lilian reached for her daughter’s hand. “Do you know what I have learned over my seventy-odd years?”
“Tell me.”
“To appreciate the calm. There is always a storm coming, always a battle on the horizon. You need to learn to enjoy the peace before it disappears.”