“Good morning, Mrs. Bingham,” said the young woman with a keen, efficient smile. “May I ask how your interview with Mr. Higgins went?”
Gertie hesitated. She dearly wished she’d been able to consult Harry, to check that what she felt in her heart was an accurate representation of the facts. “Well, he’s an absolutely charming man.”
“Oh, absolutely,” echoed Miss Crisp. “Quite charming.”
“But if I’m completely honest, I had hoped to find someone to continue to run the shop as it is.”
“As a bookshop?”
“Precisely.”
Miss Crisp’s face fell. “I’m most dreadfully sorry, Mrs. Bingham, but I fear that may be a challenge given the current climate. Taking over an existing business, even one as successful as this, is a tall order, especially when we have no idea where the country will be in six months’ time.”
“But what am I to do?” cried Gertie with a rising desperation that she immediately regretted.
Miss Crisp raised her eyebrows. “I’ll keep trying, of course. You never know, but I feel it’s my duty to be honest.”
“Of course,” said Gertie, embarrassed she had let her feelings show.
“Please be assured that I will continue to work my hardest for you.”
“Thank you, my dear.”
Miss Crisp gave her the sympathetic look that Gertie had become used to over the past couple of years. It was the one people offered whenever they remembered that she was a widow. Widow. Such a dark, depressing word. So final.
“Don’t give up hope, Mrs. Bingham,” Miss Crisp said before she left.
“I think it might be a bit late for that, don’t you, Hemingway?” said Gertie. The dog looked up at her and yawned. “I agree. Grief is terribly dreary.” She glanced at the clock. “Come on. We’d better close up. Betty will be arriving soon for the book club meeting. It’s Dickens today.” Hemingway emitted another loud yawn. “For a literary dog, you’re very disrespectful, you know.”
“What ho, Mrs. B,” cried Betty, charging through the door like a comet.
“Hello, dear. Hemingway and I were just shutting up shop, ready to get out of your way.”
“Please don’t rush on my account. In fact, you’re welcome to stay for the discussion, if you’d like? Great Expectations is such a terrific read.”
“It is indeed,” said Gertie. “But we always visit Harry on Mondays.”
Betty put a hand to her forehead. “Of course you do. Forgive me, Mrs. B. I’m an absolute dunderhead sometimes.”
Gertie waved away her concerns. “Are you expecting a good turnout?”
“I’m not sure. Mr. Reynolds has a bad head cold, and Mrs. Constantine has a prior engagement. I’m hoping Miss Pettigrew might come, although it’s difficult to convince her to read anything apart from Georgette Heyer. So really that leaves—”
“Good afternoon,” said Miss Snipp in a dull tone as she appeared in the doorway. “Where is everyone?”
“Some of our regular members were unable to attend,” said Betty.
“Oh dearie dearie me,” said Miss Snipp. “I feared this might happen now that Mr. Bingham’s no longer with us, God rest his soul.”
Gertie’s back stiffened with indignation. Do not rise to it, Gertie. She imagined Harry resting a consoling hand on her arm and busied herself by counting that day’s takings.
The shop door opened again, and this time a small, mouselike woman wearing a cherry-red beret stood blinking at them as if amazed by her own entrance.
“Miss Pettigrew, you came! I’m so pleased to see you,” cried Betty with an overexuberance that caused Miss Snipp to frown. “Come in and I’ll fetch some chairs from the storeroom. We’ll be a small but perfect discussion group.”
Betty sat them beside the poetry section and took out her copy of the book.
“So,” she said. “What did you think of the novel?”
Gertie watched Betty with a heavy heart as she did her best to cajole a stone-faced Miss Snipp and a bemused-looking Miss Pettigrew.
Miss Snipp gave a heavy sigh. “I must say I have always found it rather feeble.”
“Oh,” said Betty. “How so?”
“I didn’t engage with these characters. Pip is a coward, and Estella is a Jezebel.”
Gertie noticed a rare flicker of irritation in Betty’s expression. “Yes, but what about the story? It’s jolly dramatic, and Pip’s character goes through so many twists and turns, and of course there’s Miss Havisham and the love story with Estella. And what about the ending?”
“Excuse me, dear?” said Miss Pettigrew.
“Yes?” said Betty, looking visibly relieved by the interruption.
“When are we going to discuss Oliver Twist?”
Miss Snipp rolled her eyes to the heavens.
“Oliver Twist?” said Betty.
Miss Pettigrew nodded. “You said we were reading Dickens, so I chose Oliver Twist. I do love the Artful Dodger. Such a naughty boy.”
Betty glanced over at Gertie, who winced sympathetically.
“Well,” said Miss Snipp with obvious satisfaction. “That’s that then.”
Betty looked panicked before a flash of inspiration came to her. “No. No, it’s all right. We can just talk about Dickens. Miss Pettigrew, tell us about Oliver Twist.”
Gertie gave Betty an encouraging smile before taking her leave. She knew she was being cowardly by retreating, but she felt she had no choice. Gertie couldn’t allow herself to invest in the book club, and indeed the bookshop, if she was planning to step away from it. She gathered her belongings and gave Betty a cheery wave before creeping out the door, leading the dog along the high street and up the hill toward the cemetery.
She caught sight of the Beechwood town sign with its galloping white horse and beech tree insignia and wondered how it might feel to leave a place that had been her home for so long. It was a charming little town. The shopkeepers took pride in keeping their shop fronts gleaming, shining out beneath brightly colored canvas awnings.
Two small boys were standing with their noses pressed up to the window of Stevens the Chemist’s, with its intriguing rainbow display of liquid-filled conical bottles, waiting for their mother to reappear. They turned as Gertie passed.
“Hullo, Mrs. Bingham. Hullo, Hemingway the dog,” said the larger of the two boys. “Please may we pat him?”
Gertie was used to these interactions. Hemingway’s dignitary status in their little town meant that she often had to stop so that both children and adults could stroke him.
“Of course,” said Gertie, watching as the boys showered love and affection on the appreciative dog.
“Look. He’s smiling,” squeaked the smaller of the two boys before kissing the top of Hemingway’s head. “You’re the best dog in the world.”
Gertie glanced up at the large square clock hanging outside Robinson the Cobbler’s. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, young gentlemen. Hemingway and I have a prior engagement.”
She felt weary to her bones as she climbed the hill to the cemetery. When she reached the gates, Gertie paused to catch her breath and take in the view. As a final resting place, it was rather splendid, lined with carefully tended gardens and enveloped on all sides by towering beech and horse chestnut trees. Their branches were mostly bare, but a few stray leaves clung resolutely to the trees, fluttering like orange-and-red flags against a sapphire sky. Gertie closed her eyes and turned her face upward to feel the precious warmth of the sun on her face. She’d always disliked autumn, much preferring the fierce hope of summer when the world seemed so alive, gardens bursting with color, parks and beaches crowded with joyful humanity. The world began to disappear underground in autumn, decaying and decomposing before her eyes. It had been Harry’s favorite time of year, of course.