Our deeds still travel with us from afar,
And what we have been makes us what we are.
—George Eliot, Middlemarch
Gertie arrived at the shop early that morning. She didn’t sleep much past five these days. It was a nuisance, but there it was. Hemingway, the mild-mannered yellow Labrador, was at her side as usual. He had become something of a local celebrity since joining their staff four years ago. Gertie noticed that he had the ability to raise a smile from even the most austere of customers, and several mothers had been known to make a detour during shopping trips so that their eager children could pat his bearlike head.
Little had changed in the town of Beechwood since Harry and Gertie first opened the doors of Bingham Books all those years ago. The Tweedy family still ran the bakery, and Mr. Piddock the butcher had retired only last year, handing over his impeccably sharpened knives to his son Harold, who, according to local gossip Miss Crow, left too much sinew in his leg of beef. Gertie glanced along the high street now. Her shoulders dipped at the sight of the honey-colored lettering of Perkins’s Confectioners. Harry had bought a bag of cinder toffee from Mrs. Perkins every week without fail for them to share during evenings beside the radio.
“Come on, Hemingway. Good boy,” said Gertie, ushering the dog inside the shop, grateful as ever for his distracting presence.
The sun’s early rays cast a spotlight through the window, as motes of dust danced and swirled like fireflies. Gertie paused to inhale the exquisite possibility of unopened books as she had done every morning for nearly thirty years. This place had brought her such joy for so long. She and Harry had built something wonderful. Their own world full of ideas and stories. At one stage in her life she thought she’d change the world in some dynamically public way, but she soon realized that she could do the same with books. They were powerful. They forged ideas and inspired history.
That joy was beginning to diminish now, however. She gazed toward the doorway at the back of the shop and imagined Harry standing there, arms full of books, smiling at her. Instinctively she reached down to stroke one of Hemingway’s velvet ears as the memory pinched her heart. The dog stared up at her with mournful eyes.
It had been the medical condition that won Harry his exemption from the Great War that had also caused his death two years ago. Gertie counted herself lucky when Harry was granted exemption on medical grounds, although Miss Crow had not missed the opportunity to dismiss him as a “shirker” to anyone who would listen. If Harry was hurt by these comments, he didn’t show it. His quiet service as a volunteer air-raid warden made Gertie burn with pride. But life has a way of catching up with you eventually, and the respiratory illness, which Harry had endured since childhood, meant that his body wasn’t able to fight the tuberculosis that finally stole his life. Gertie still couldn’t believe it. How could he be gone? They still had so much life to live.
“It’s not the same without him, is it?” said Gertie, her voice seeming too loud in this hallowed space, as if she were bellowing in church. Hemingway sighed in agreement as Gertie brushed away a tear. “Well. No use in dwelling on things you can’t change. Come along. We’re down to our last volume of Wodehouse, and Harry wouldn’t like that one jot.”
By the time Betty, the assistant bookseller she’d employed after Harry died, arrived, Gertie had dusted, tidied, and restocked the shelves ready for opening.
“I must say it looks spick-and-span in here, Mrs. B,” said Betty, shouldering off her coat. “Shall I make us some tea?”
“Thank you, dear. I’m absolutely parched.”
Betty reappeared a short while later carrying two mismatched cups and saucers. “Here we are. By the way, I’m still mulling over next month’s book club title and wondered if you had any thoughts.”
Gertie gave a casual wave of her hand. “I’m sure whatever you decide will be splendid.”
“Well, I’m quite keen on Middlemarch.”
“Good idea,” said Gertie. “I can’t remember the last time we chose a George Eliot novel.”
“Unfortunately Miss Snipp isn’t so sure.”
“Is she campaigning for another Thomas Hardy book by any chance?”
Betty nodded. “I don’t mean to speak out of turn, Mrs. Bingham, because he’s a wonderful writer, but we only read Tess of the d’Urbervilles two months ago, and forgive me for saying this, but some of the members didn’t care for the way Miss Snipp conducted the meeting.”
This didn’t surprise Gertie. Miss Snipp’s communication style could most accurately be described as abrupt bordering on downright rude. When they first met, Gertie had assumed that Miss Snipp simply didn’t like her. However, she soon came to realize that she disliked almost everybody, apart from Harry, but then, everyone had loved Harry. “I see. And what is she proposing you read next?”
“Jude the Obscure.”
Gertie winced. “Heaven help us all.”
“Mr. Reynolds was so upset by what happened to Tess, I’m not sure he could take it.”
“I’ll speak to Miss Snipp.”
Betty exhaled. “I would be grateful, Mrs. Bingham. I’m already concerned about our membership. I know we have our postal members, but last month’s meeting was very poorly attended. Mr. Reynolds said that it used to be standing room only when you and Mr. Bingham were in charge. I don’t want to let you down.”
Gertie gave her a reassuring smile. “Oh, Betty. You’re not letting me down. The world has changed and people are all rather distracted at the moment. I’ll speak to Miss Snipp, but please, don’t give it a second thought. Bingham’s Book Club is the least of our worries.” Gertie couldn’t say what she really felt: that her world had changed and she was rather distracted, and the book club was the least of her worries because she couldn’t bring herself to think about it. She hadn’t attended a single meeting since Harry died. In fact, Gertie had intentionally absented herself because of the simple fact that she couldn’t bear to attend without him.
They had set up Bingham’s Book Club together and run it as a partnership, relishing the monthly challenge of selecting the perfect book and chairing the most stimulating discussions. Mr. Reynolds had been right. People had traveled from the surrounding towns to take part. They had even attracted authors who were willing to come and discuss their works, achieving something of a literary coup when Dorothy L. Sayers agreed to attend what turned out to be a particularly lively meeting.
That seemed like a distant memory to Gertie now. Gone was the spark of excitement that used to fizz in her brain as she and Harry carefully chose the book club title. She could barely conjure up the impetus to read these days and certainly lacked enthusiasm for anything new or original. This was the reason she had delegated the role to Betty. She was an avid reader with far more youthful zest than Gertie could muster.
Not only was Betty a welcome addition to Bingham Books’s staff, but she also served as a pleasant antidote to Miss Snipp, who had spent her life forging a successful career in both books and complaining. It had been Harry, naturally, who insisted they employ her after she retired from the library.
“Her bibliographic knowledge is encyclopedic, Gertie,” he said. “There is no one better qualified to source books for our customers.” He had been right of course, but still, Gertie was relieved that she worked only two mornings these days and was largely confined to the makeshift office in the corner of the stockroom.
Her heart sank as Miss Snipp appeared at the door, her face as sour as if she were sucking a sherbet lemon. Gertie decided to try to adopt Harry’s amiable attitude while also feeling decidedly queasy at the conversation that lay ahead.
“Good morning, Miss Snipp,” said Gertie with as much cheer as she could muster. “I trust you are well?”
“Not especially,” she replied with a frown. “My gippy hip has been playing me up dreadfully.”
“I’m terribly sorry to hear that,” said Gertie. “Have you tried Epsom salts?”
“Of course. It’s this wretched damp weather,” she said accusingly, as if Gertie were somehow to blame.
“Ah yes, well, there’s not much we can do about that.”
“Hmm. I suppose not. Now, Mrs. Bingham. May I have a moment of your time?”
“Of course.”
Miss Snipp repositioned her glasses on her nose. “It’s about the book club.”
“Oh yes,” said Gertie with a rising sense of dread.
Miss Snipp folded her arms. “I am afraid I’m going to have to resign my position as chairwoman.”
“Chairwoman?” said Gertie in surprise.
Miss Snipp nodded. “It is simply too much for me at my age, and frankly the individuals who attend the meetings these days seem wholly undeserving of my efforts.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
Miss Snipp gazed into the distance and shook her head. “They fail to appreciate the magnitude of some of our greatest writers. They are beyond my help.”
“Oh dear.”
“Indeed. So I think it would be best if Miss Godwin took the reins.”
“I see. Well, if you think that’s best.”
Miss Snipp glanced up sharply. “I must say you’re taking this very lightly, Mrs. Bingham.”
Gertie sighed with what she hoped was sufficient gravitas. “Believe me, Miss Snipp, it saddens me greatly, but I fully support your decision.”
Miss Snipp regarded her over the top of her half-moon spectacles. “Well. I best get on,” she said, hobbling toward the back of the shop.
“Good morning, Miss Snipp!” cried Betty as they met in the doorway.
“Is it?” she muttered, before disappearing into the back room.
“Is she all right?” asked Betty, approaching the counter.
“She’s perfectly fine. She’s just delegated her book club responsibilities over to you, so George Eliot it is this month.I hope that meets with your approval?”
“I won’t let you down, Mrs. B.”
Gertie patted her hand. “I know you won’t, dear.”
The day seemed to drag like a spoon through treacle until midmorning, when Barnaby Salmon, the young bespectacled publisher’s representative, appeared. The fact that Betty always stood up straighter, smoothed her dress, and patted her hair whenever he entered the shop was not lost on Gertie, nor was the fact that Mr. Salmon always made sure his appointments fell whenever Betty was working.
“Good morning,” said Gertie.
Barnaby tipped his hat in greeting. “Good morning, Mrs. Bingham, Miss Godwin.”
“Mr. Salmon,” said Betty, seeming to grow inches taller under his gaze.
Gertie turned to the young man. “Now, Mr. Salmon, do you think I could leave you in Miss Godwin’s capable hands this morning? She has been assuming more responsibility of late, and I’m keen to encourage her endeavors.”
Mr. Salmon looked as if he’d been offered the keys to the kingdom. “Of course, Mrs. Bingham. It would be my great pleasure.” He turned to Betty. “I have a wonderful new book by Mr. George Orwell which I know you’re going to like, Miss Godwin.”
“How marvelous,” said Betty with a sparkle in her eye.
Gertie smiled. She enjoyed watching their charming bibliophilic romance unfold. It transported her back to the days when she and Harry first met. Such joyful memories. How she missed his disheveled presence.
She was grateful that Betty readily accepted extra responsibility whenever it was offered to her. She told herself that it was important to encourage the younger generation, but deep down Gertie knew she was retreating. Bookselling had been her world, but without Harry, it had lost its magical luster. Every aspect of her life had in fact. His absence was Gertie’s most constant companion. She found herself laying out two cups and saucers for tea, or she would hear something of note or concern on the radio and turn to discuss it with him, or a customer would ask for a book recommendation and she would immediately think of Harry. He had instinctively known what every type of customer would enjoy reading, from the small boy who loved pirates to the elderly retired gentleman with a passion for Shakespeare. Gertie had an instinct for this too of course, but Harry was a natural. She had been the one to deal with publishers, and he had been the one to nurture the customers. There were still people who came into the shop now and asked to speak to him two years on and who always seemed deeply distressed when she told them that he had died. She knew how they felt. Sometimes she would run her hands along the spines of the books on the shelves because Gertie saw Harry in every book, in each page, in every word. It offered some comfort but also a sharp tug of sorrow. Gertie loved their shop, but she loved it most with Harry in it.
“Did you hear me, Mrs. B?”
Gertie blinked away her daydream. “Sorry, dear. What did you say?”
Betty chuckled. “You were in a proper brown study there, Mrs. B. I was just telling you that Mr. Salmon is leaving now. Would you like to check the order? I thought we could make a big thing of the new George Orwell book. I’ll do a window display, if you like?”
Gertie glanced over the docket, grateful to have someone else making the decisions for her. “This looks splendid. Thank you both.”
Mr. Salmon gave a polite bow. “Thank you, Mrs. Bingham. Miss Godwin, I’ll see you on Saturday?”
Betty held his gaze. “I’m looking forward to it.”
“Good day, ladies,” he said, pausing in the doorway to tilt his head toward Betty in farewell.
“Saturday?” said Gertie after he’d gone.
Betty nodded. “He’s asked me to the pictures. We’re going to see the new James Stewart film. Usually, I’d be giddy about him, but I don’t really give two hoots now.”
“I’m delighted for you, my dear.”
Betty gave a happy sigh. “It’s just marvelous to find someone who loves the same things you do, isn’t it? Barnaby and I—”
“Oh, it’s Barnaby now, is it?”
Betty looked coy. “Well, Mr. Salmon is a bit formal, isn’t it? It’s not the 1900s. We were just saying how we can’t think of anything better than bookselling. It really is a salve to the soul. I mean, take P. G. Wodehouse. The fascists take over Europe, and he creates Roderick Spode to make them look like nincompoops.”
As Gertie listened to Betty expound her theory on how every author from Charlotte Brontë to Charles Dickens had improved life, an idea crept into her mind. Betty and Barnaby were the new generation. They had the passion that she so dearly lacked these days. Maybe it was time to hand over the mantle like Mr. Piddock had done with his business.
Gertie had been mulling this idea over the past few months, but now it seemed obvious. It was time to move on, to move away even. She rather fancied Rye or perhaps Hastings. She was approaching sixty, and despite what Mr. Chamberlain said, it looked as if the country could well be on the path to war again. Gertie wanted to be tucked up safely away from London by the time anything happened. She couldn’t face another war in London. She wasn’t sure if she could face another war full stop. Most of all, she wanted to escape the constant reminder that Harry was gone and the painful reality of a life without him.
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