She stepped onto the concourse and approached the mahogany kiosk selling newspapers and paperback books. Gertie smiled to herself as she recalled her uncle’s explosive reaction on the day he’d discovered that Allen Lane would be introducing paperback books into the world.
“It is an affront to the very fabric of our civilized society, Gertie. Nothing more, nothing less. They will never catch on, and Mr. Lane will be left with egg on his face. Egg, I tell you.”
Uncle Thomas held firm until the publisher offered him a very favorable deal to trial a few of these monstrous volumes. He was a businessman, after all. He continued to sell both formats to his customers but took great pleasure in the fact that hardback books were still the main meat of his business.
“I tried to tell Mr. Lane, but these publishers think they know it all,” he would say to anyone who would listen, patently ignoring the fact that this innovation had changed the reading world forever.
Gertie cast her gaze around the concourse. She spied a banner displaying the words “Movement for the Care of Children from Germany,” with a table set up beneath it where several individuals were sitting, clipboards at the ready. She recognized one of them as Agnes Wellington, the woman who had come to vet her house a few weeks earlier. Gertie felt as nervous now as she had back then, when Agnes walked from room to room, regarding everything with a critical eye.
“You live here alone?”
“Well, there’s Hemingway,” said Gertie, gesturing toward the dog, who had already disgraced himself by greeting Miss Wellington with a succession of deafening barks.
“Hmm,” said Agnes, climbing the stairs. “No children?”
“Er, no,” said Gertie, following her to the landing.
“You’ve never had children?”
The question felt like an accusation. “No,” said Gertie, her voice almost a whisper.
“And which of these rooms would be the child’s?”
Gertie led her to a bedroom overlooking the garden. “I thought it would be nice for him or her to have a view. I’ll redecorate and air everything, of course,” she said, pulling back the curtains, sending up a vast cloud of dust in the process.
“Have you thought about the practicalities of looking after a child? Would you be able to care for a baby, for example, or a toddler?”
Gertie’s mouth went dry. “I hadn’t really thought about that.”
Agnes raised an eyebrow. “It’s probably time you did.”
“Yes. Yes, of course,” said Gertie. “I’m sorry. I suppose I was thinking about an older child, maybe fourteen or fifteen years old? I run a bookshop, so it would be lovely if he or she liked to read.” She didn’t think this was the time to mention she was trying to sell the business. From the look on this woman’s face, her disapproval of Gertie had already reached its zenith.
Sure enough, Agnes gave a reproachful grunt. “Well, you won’t get a choice about that. These children are in desperate need. The question is, Mrs. Bingham, can you meet that need?”
“I think so.”
“Thinking is not good enough. Knowing is what we need.”
“All right then. I know so.”
“Very well. We’ll be in touch.”
Gertie had telephoned Charles the second Agnes left in a high state of anxiety. “Who did you see?” he asked.
“Agnes Wellington.”
He chuckled. “Oh, don’t give it a thought. Agnes can be a little heavy-handed, but she’s got a good heart.”
“She keeps it well hidden. She scared me half to death.”
“Don’t worry, Gertie. You’re doing a good turn. She merely has a duty to the children, but admittedly, she does take the responsibility very seriously.” He laughed again. “I wish I could have seen your face.”
“Horrible man. You’re lucky I’m so fond of you.”
“I can assure you the feeling is mutual.”
“Good morning, Miss Wellington,” said Gertie, approaching the desk now. “I’m Gertie Bingham. We met a few weeks ago.”
Agnes glanced up from her clipboard. She was wearing a cloche hat that was a little too large for her and a serious expression. She gave no hint that she recognized Gertie as she scrutinized her list. “Bingham. Bingham. Ah yes, here we are. Gertrude Bingham. You’ll be collecting Hedy Fischer. The train should be here any minute. Please wait by the barrier until they call your name.”
“Thank you,” said Gertie with a certain amount of relief. “I can’t wait to meet her, but I must confess, I am rather nervous.”
Agnes raised an eyebrow. “Rest assured, these poor children will be far more nervous than you.”
“Of course,” stuttered Gertie. “Well. I’ll just wait over there.”
Agnes pursed her lips as if to say, You do that.
All that Gertie knew about Hedy Fischer was that she was fifteen years old and came from Munich. Once she had this information, Gertie had taken the preparations for her arrival very seriously. She enlisted the help of Betty, barely past Hedy’s age herself, to ensure that everything was as it should be. Betty chose the buttercup-yellow paint and helped Gertie to redecorate the bedroom. They also washed the curtains, beat out the rug, and eliminated every last speck of dust. They took great care to select a few books from the shop that they thought Hedy might enjoy and that might help with her English. The Secret Garden, Pride and Prejudice, and Mary Poppins all made the cut. After Gertie placed them carefully on the mantelpiece, she and Betty stood back to admire their handiwork.
“Do you think she’ll be happy here?” asked Gertie.
Betty threw her a sideways glance. “If she’s not, she can come and live at my house. I’d happily swap. My brother, Sam, is a pig!”
“Betty!” said Gertie, chuckling. “Thank you for your help, my dear.”
“It’s my absolute pleasure, Mrs. Bingham. And I mean it. Hedy is very lucky to be coming to live with you.”
Gertie patted her shoulder and dearly hoped she was right.
She watched now as the steam train transformed from a smoke-curled dot in the distance to a billowing behemoth, hissing to a halt alongside the platform. The noise was terrific, and yet Gertie could still hear the sounds of children: a babble of chatter, an anguished shout, a few plaintive sobs. There were a lot of other expectant-looking individuals, mostly women, waiting behind the barrier alongside her. They watched as the station staff moved forward to open the doors and a handful of adults emerged, each leading a little group of children toward them. Gertie was immediately struck by the variety of ages. They ranged from babies in arms to boys and girls who almost looked like adults. They bore every expression Gertie could imagine. Some looked excited as if they were off on an adventure; others seemed terrified, eyes darting left and right as they took in the noisy chaos. Some were crying, mouths open wide, wailing with a sorrow that made Gertie’s heart break.
“Poor wee mites,” said a woman in the crowd, echoing everyone’s thoughts, because it was pitiful. They all looked so lost and alone. A freshly stoked fire of indignation flared up somewhere in Gertie’s soul. Who would do such a thing to this poor, wretched group of children? To children, for pity’s sake? Forcing them to leave their homes and their parents and come to a strange land without knowing what might happen. What kind of evil did this to children?