“But everything’s dying,” Gertie would complain.
Harry would hold out his hand and lead her into the garden. “No, my darling,” he would say, pointing to a tightly furled bud on the magnolia tree. “Everything’s sleeping. Resting until the spring when the world begins anew.”
Gertie opened her eyes and picked her way to his grave. “The trouble is,” she said as they reached it, “you died in autumn, but you’ll never begin anew, my love.” She pulled out her handkerchief and gave the letters on his headstone a clean while Hemingway sat in obedient silence.
harry bingham,
devoted husband to gertie and
beloved son of wilberforce and veronica,
at rest 25 october 1936
Gertie had been very certain about the wording, much to the surprise of Mr. Wagstaff the undertaker, a thin man with an even thinner mustache.
“May I suggest a more formal approach?” he had said. “It is usual to at least use full given names to add a sense of gravitas.”
“You may, but I shall reject your suggestion,” said Gertie firmly. “My husband was Harry to everyone who knew him. His death has provided me with all the gravitas I require. And given that I shall be the only one to tend and visit his grave, I think I should be able to choose the words which will greet me, don’t you?”
Mr. Wagstaff had stared at Gertie appalled, as if expecting her to apologize for such an outburst. He was to be sorely disappointed when Gertie stood up and fixed him with a determined look. “I am assuming this is all you require. Good day.”
“I certainly gave him what for,” she said, as she extracted the old flowers from the vase on Harry’s grave, replacing them with the roses she’d cut from the garden that morning. “There you are, my darling. A surprise bunch for you, thanks to the mild weather.”
Hemingway moved forward to sniff at the arrangement before nuzzling Gertie with his nose. She stroked his ears and put her arms around his head, cuddling him to her as tears formed in her eyes. The dog leaned instinctively toward her.
“What are we going to do, eh, boy?” she whispered into his fur.
A dancing breeze whipped up around them, so that Gertie had to clutch her hat as some of the last leaves scattered across the graveyard like confetti. A couple of pages of old newspaper caught by the wind whipped and dived in the air, causing Hemingway to bark in excitement. He leapt up with surprising enthusiasm, scampering after them as if they were giant versions of the butterflies he liked to chase with little success. This time, however, he caught one of the large sheets in his teeth and paused in astonishment at his surprise victory, before growling and shaking it in his jaws as though it were prey that needed to be tamed.
“What have you got there, you silly dog?” said Gertie in amusement, reaching down to wrest it from him. Hemingway gave a reluctant growl. “Hemingway,” warned Gertie.
The dog looked away as if assessing his options before dropping the half-chewed pages at her feet.
“Thank you, I think,” said Gertie, wrinkling her nose and picking it up with the tips of her gloved fingers. “We don’t really want you ingesting newspaper, now do we? Remember what happened when you ate those licorice twists complete with paper bag?”
Hemingway bowed his head as if he did remember that particular trip to the vet.
“Come on. Let’s go home,” she said. She was about to fold the newspaper into a neat parcel ready to put on the fire later when she spotted the word “Help!” The letters surrounding it had been ripped by Hemingway’s eager jaws, but as Gertie smoothed them, the startling text leapt out at her.
HUMANITY TO
THE RESCUE OF GERMAN JEWRY
HELP!
BEFORE IT IS TOO LATE
She stared at the words for a moment before glancing back at Harry’s grave, the oval pink rosebuds nodding in the breeze. Gertie Bingham wasn’t a superstitious woman, but she did believe in being in the right place at the right time. Call it fate or luck, it had been a feature that had underpinned most of her life. Whether it be her first meeting with Harry or the moment she spied the shop on the high street, Gertie had always followed her heart. It had occasionally gotten her into trouble but had invariably led her to where she needed to be. As she stood now, clutching the newspaper, taking in these words, she knew what she needed to do. Moreover, she knew that Harry would agree with her. Gertie felt foolish that it hadn’t been immediately obvious to her. She folded the newspaper carefully and slid it into her coat pocket. “Come along, Hemingway. We’ve got business to attend to. Goodbye, my darling. See you next week,” she said, hurrying toward the gates as the wind picked up.
She quickened her pace with Hemingway trotting alongside her. By the time they reached home, a squally shower was nipping at their heels. Gertie hurried in through the door, brushing away the droplets of rain from her hair as Hemingway shook off his coat. Gertie hastily lit the fire and reached for the telephone. She waited to be put through and relaxed when she heard the voice answer.
“Purberry 4532?”
“Charles? It’s Gertie.”
“Gertie. It’s good to hear from you. Are you well?”
“Yes. Thank you. And I’ve been thinking about our conversation the other night.”
Charles cleared his throat. “I have too. I’m sorry I put you on the spot, Gertie. You’ve had a ghastly couple of years. It was wrong of me to ask that of you. You don’t need a stranger in your house. You should be enjoying your well-deserved retirement.”
“No, Charles. I’m glad you did. You’ve made me realize some important things. Things I’d lost sight of.”
“And have you come to a conclusion?”
“I have. I’ve made up my mind. I want to help. I’ll take in a child and give them a home and do my best for them. It’s the least I can do.”
“Are you sure?”
Gertie glanced at Harry’s face, smiling out from their wedding photograph, eyes sparkling, full of hope. “I’ve never been surer.”
Chapter 4
1939
There was once a wealthy man who had a kind and beautiful wife. They loved each other very much but had no children. They desperately longed for a child, and every day and night the wife prayed and prayed but to no avail.
—“The Juniper Tree,” Grimm’s Folk Tales （author’s trans.）
Gertie stepped through a grubby brick archway, pausing at the top of the girder bridge to take in the hubbub of Liverpool Street station. She tried to picture what it would be like for a child, arriving alone, viewing all this for the first time. The ornate pillars that lifted your eye toward the glazed roof and sky above would have offered a note of optimism if it weren’t for the fact that any light was obscured by a thick coating of soot. In truth, the whole station was dark and dirty. Gertie stared forlornly at the steep, grimy steps leading to the concourse, where a constant stream of passengers hurried toward whichever steam train was preparing to leave. The din and clamor of the closed-in space merely added to its dingy atmosphere. She could only imagine that the poor children, having endured a long and tiring journey after leaving their homes and families behind, would be utterly terrified.
Gertie made her way slowly down the steps, using the rail for support. She found the bustle of London overwhelming now. Gone were the days when she would have relished an excursion to London: a browse in an art gallery, afternoon tea with a friend, and, of course, a trip to Cecil Court to visit Uncle Thomas.