The Bookseller's Secret

by Michelle Gable

  Katie nods and tears spring to her eyes. The ending always gets her, too, and she’d know the sentences by heart, even if she hadn’t just read the book twice. As the narrator laments Linda Radlett’s death, her mother suggests that maybe it’s for the best, given Linda’s track record with men. Fanny insists her mother is wrong.

  “He was the great love of her life, you know.”

  “Oh, dulling. One always thinks that. Every, every time.”

  May 1943

  G. Heywood Hill Ltd.

  “I cannot handle one more bill,” Nancy said, and smacked an invoice onto Mollie’s desk. “I have ceased.”

  Mollie rose cautiously as Nancy ranted on. “I’m beginning to hope that I do get called up,” she said. “Probably can’t drive for the ARP again, seeing as how I wrecked one of their cars within minutes of taking it from the leasing garage, but maybe I can join the Women’s Land Army and hoe some field.”

  “I’ll take care of the invoice,” Mollie said, and Nancy somewhat wanted to smack her for being so damned nice.

  Of course, the real problem wasn’t Mollie’s generosity, but Nancy’s state of mind, and the fact she’d taken on the nervous, tetchy energy of the Free French. Absolutely everybody at the QG was on edge as they waited for Generals Giraud and de Gaulle to decide whether Algiers was to be their political headquarters or a military high command. That de Gaulle hadn’t immediately succumbed to Giraud’s directive confounded the world, what with de Gaulle’s mere two stars, compared to Giraud’s five. Nancy, on the other hand, was not the least surprised. She knew from the Colonel this arrogance was very much in line with de Gaulle’s personality.

  Although the overall situation was complicated, for Nancy, it was simple. Whatever the decision, de Gaulle would soon leave for Algiers, and with him the Colonel. It was not unlike the latest round of Luftwaffe raids. Nancy didn’t know when or where this bomb would hit, only that it would, and the effects would be devastating.

  “Thank you, Mollie,” Nancy said. “I do appreciate you taking up the paperwork, and I apologize for my sour mood.”

  “Happy to assist. Don’t forget, though, we have fire watch soon.”

  “If only I could forget,” Nancy said, and checked the clock. “It’s probably about time to kick out my friends and the other stragglers. Yelling at people will cheer me up, if nothing else.”

  On her way to the front of the shop, Nancy poked her head into the red selling room, where Jim and Hellbags continued their hour-long row. With the National Trust recently returned to its offices at Buckingham Palace Gardens, Hellbags thought she’d ridded herself of Jim, only to discover he’d become even more invested in the fight.

  “Hey, kids,” Nancy said. “Reckon you might wrap up in the next five minutes? We’re about to close. Also, would you mind terribly keeping it down? We’ve received several complaints.”

  “How can I keep it down when he’s impossible!?” Hellbags said, flapping her arms like she was trying to take flight. “Absolutely relentless! I don’t know why he’s so desperate to get his hands on it. The place is a dump!”

  “The estate is glorious,” said Jim. “Which is why it should be owned by someone who appreciates it.”

  “Oh, just go ahead and take it already!”

  “You’ve only got three and a half minutes left,” Nancy warned.

  She went to find Evelyn, who was in his spot by the fire, same as he’d been every day for the past three weeks. Having openly questioned the intelligence of several officers, Evelyn was now on unplanned furlough from the Royal Marines and subjected to daily meetings at the Combined Operations HQ.

  “Nancy, you have a problem,” Evelyn announced. “There are some suspicious characters roaming the shop. Do you see those three men by the antiquarian books?”

  Nancy shrugged. “Daily occurrence,” she said.

  “It’s a daily occurrence for eight-foot-tall majors from the Foot Guards to search for books about sixteenth-century mystics?” Evelyn said.

  “Yes,” Nancy said, squatting beside a box. “Do you mind helping me take this to the back? It’s too heavy to carry on my own.”

  Evelyn stood to assist but teetered, and immediately sat back down. He reeked of whisky, and brilliantine from his trim at Trumper’s next door. Nancy felt a headache coming on. “Thanks ever so much,” she said. “You are extremely useful.”

  “What’s in there?” He opened the box with his foot. “Books? These are new. Why are you taking them to the back?”

  “It’s Long Division,” Nancy said. “Hester Griffin’s novel. I’m returning them to Seckler because these are precisely the type of books I despise.”

  “Why do you have so many?”

  “You really think I ordered all of these? It was Anne, and I’m furious.” Nancy began pushing the box along the rug. “I can’t imagine we’d be able to sell more than one copy.”

  “I thought you could sell any book,” Evelyn said. “You’re always bragging about it.”

  “Now you sound just like her.”

  Nancy stood and informed a customer that they were about to close. After a very perturbed sigh, the woman plodded off. “Some of us have wartime duties,” Nancy muttered.

  “Is it just me?” Evelyn said. “Or are all Londoners ugly now? Everyone’s plain and messy and gray, even my own wife. Before you wield that famous umbrage of yours, know that she quite agrees!”

  “One day I’ll convince Laura to take a French lover,” Nancy said. “What you’re seeing, dear Evelyn, is the cumulative effects of stress, exhaustion, and three years without a holiday. Jim!” Nancy called out. “Yoo-hoo! Jim! I could really use your help!”

  As Nancy resumed shoving the box through the shop, Evelyn stood to follow, though not to assist. “When are you going to show me your memoir?” he asked. “Have you spoken to your publisher? What does he say?”

  “Hamish thinks an autobiography sounds grand,” Nancy said, stretching the truth. She wasn’t about to tell Evelyn that Hamish’s reaction was more along the lines of dubious. “I just need a bit more on the page before showing it to him. Also, I can’t decide whether to start at the beginning of the Phoney War or during the Blitz.”

  “Forget the Phoney War,” Evelyn said. “A wretched time. The rumors, the constant bracing for disaster, all those children evacuated before it was necessary. Our biggest accomplishment was dropping pamphlets on Germany, which served only to supply our enemy with a war’s worth of lav paper.” He snorted and shook his head. “An utter cock-up. You asked that Lea person to help, did you not? What did she have to say about it?”

  “I haven’t asked yet,” Nancy admitted. “I’ve been sending her chapters, hoping she’ll strike up an interest, but am trying to drum up the nerve to ask directly. I keep thinking, what incentive does she have, really? She’s tucked away with her daughter at Weston Manor, benefiting from Danette’s largesse, and I’ve yet to prove my books are worth getting excited about. They always flop, and the world forgets about them three seconds after publication.”

  “Never mind the uneducated masses,” Evelyn said, “I am available to offer my opinion. When would you like my critique? I’m free tomorrow afternoon. Tomorrow morning, too. Not tonight. I’m already drunk.”

  “I appreciate the offer but, as I said, there are a few bits to work out first.” Sometimes it felt like Nancy was writing in circles, as though ten pages of work produced only a sentence or two.

  “I hope you’re not letting a love affair interfere with your career. This is why women rarely make good writers. They’re too easily distracted.”

  “I’m so lucky to have you on my side. You really are a monstrous cheerleader.” Nancy paused and stood upright. “Jim!” she screeched, again. “Can you stop badgering Lady Dashwood and make yourself useful for once?”

  “Don’t pretend it’s an insult,” Evelyn said, stil
l following Nancy, nipping at her heels. “I know you agree. You turned down a very wealthy and respectable Sir Hugh Smiley three times because you hadn’t accomplished anything yet.”

  “Also, I didn’t want children who were blond and stupid,” Nancy said. “JIM! I know you’re accustomed to being yelled at, but this is getting ridiculous!”

  At last he exited the red selling room, sweaty and worse for the wear, with Hellbags hot on his tail. “She slapped me three times,” Jim said. “What do you need?”

  “Help me with this box?” Nancy said. “Evelyn’s not up to the task.”

  Jim saluted and took one end.

  “How was last night?” Nancy asked as they completed the journey of Hester’s awful books. “Didn’t you attend Emerald Cunard’s matchmaking party at the Dorch?”

  “I did, and she sat me beside my future bride,” he said. “Though I’m not convinced. She had a brown, greasy face and a furry, slip-away chin.”

  “That does not sound very prospective,” Nancy said.

  “On the other hand, I am thirty-four, and she is very rich. I could pretend to be thirty-three for a tad longer?” Jim mused.

  “There’s an idea. Let’s set the box over there,” Nancy said, and they shuffled toward the corner, where a pile of post waited, ready to go out.

  “Danette Worthington was there,” Jim said as the box thudded onto the ground.

  “She was at a matchmaking party?” Nancy said, and crossed her arms. “Gosh, I don’t know how to feel about that. It’s nice to know she’s starting to move on, but is it too soon?”

  “Danette Worthington is not ready to move on,” Jim said, and his brow darkened. “She spent the entire party alternating between pie-in-the-sky laughter and sobbing despair. It was a spectacle. People will be talking about it for weeks.”

  “Poor Danette,” Nancy clucked. “Did she happen to mention her houseguests—”

  Whatever answer Jim had was interrupted by the arrival of Anne Hill, bobbling into the room like a delirious, obese duck. “Nancy! Have you forgotten?” she squawked. “You have fire watch tonight!”

  “Yes, darling, I’m aware. Please, calm yourself, or you’re liable to pop out that child.”

  “Must be soon, eh?” Jim said with a face of deep longing. “You are luminous.”

  Nancy rolled her eyes. Only Jim would find a nine-months-pregnant Anne sexually appealing.

  “Soon. Yes. Thank you,” Anne said. “Nancy, if you don’t report, we could be fined five hundred pounds. Any infraction will come directly out of your paycheck!”

  “You only pay me three pounds per week,” Nancy said. “We’d be onto a whole new war by then. Darling—” she put a hand on Anne’s shoulder “—fire watch starts in seven minutes.”

  “Mollie’s left already!”

  “Lovely! That means I have fifteen minutes to spare.”

  “Nancy! Why do you hate me?” Anne cried. After an abrupt and terrifying explosion of tears, she extracted a piece of paper from her dress and waved it overhead. “I should never have filled this out!”

  “What is it?” Nancy said, trying to read the words.

  “The form that would allow you to stay at the shop, until August, possibly longer. Very generous of me, but now I have to ask, what’s the point?”

  “Oh, gosh, don’t worry about me,” Nancy said as her stomach fell. It was a nice thought, but she didn’t like to picture herself working in the shop that many months into the future. “Don’t make special accommodations.”

  Anne closed her eyes and sighed. Within seconds, her face returned to normal, her tears whisked away. “I don’t mind,” she said. “I should’ve done it by now. Heywood told me it was most urgent to complete the paperwork. They’re getting very quick to call people up. All they seem to require is a pulse.”

  “Somewhat more than a pulse,” Jim grumbled, bitter to have been permanently excluded from service due to his leg spasms and frequent blackouts. Like every other man on earth, Jim viewed himself as a hero-in-wait, capable of valiantly killing someone, if it was needed to save the world.

  Anne snuffled and rubbed her nose with the back of her hand. “I’ve stunned you into silence, I see! No need to get shell-shocked about it, Nancy. A simple thank you will suffice.”

  * * *

  When Nancy arrived at Crewe House, her tin hat and gas mask were laid out on the camp bed. Mollie was marching along the easternmost rim of the roof, scanning the streets for incendiary fires.

  “I apologize for my tardiness,” Nancy said. “Waylaid by Anne.”

  “It’s fine. So far, everything seems quiet tonight.”

  “That’s good,” Nancy said, and rested against the chimney. “Then again, I never know whether to hope for ‘quiet’ or action. Either we’re running around in a frenzy, lugging stirrup pumps and splashing pails of water, or we’re stuck with too much space to think.”

  “That’s the straight truth,” Mollie said. “At least, during the Blitz, everything was such nonstop turmoil you didn’t have time to get bored.”

  “Not a second to catch your breath from one air raid siren to the next,” Nancy said.

  “All of us constantly scrambling into shelters,” Mollie said. “Quivering for hours in some damp basement, waiting for the all clear.”

  “Coming out only to get buzzed by low-flying planes, swastikas and iron crosses visible on the tails and wings.” Nancy tightened her coat and shivered, though she was not cold. “It’s amazing how easily we get used to terrible things.”

  Nancy turned and gazed out across the rooftops, and tried to imagine what the Colonel was doing at that moment, and what he’d be doing if the war ended tomorrow. They’d spoken of living in Paris, but would Nancy really follow the Colonel to France? She thought about all the decisions she’d made in her life—marrying Peter, her books, working at the shop—and wondered whether she was too old, or too far down the path, to backtrack now.

  “What did Anne want?” Mollie asked. “You said she held you up?”

  “Right.” Nancy chortled. “She completed the paperwork to keep me on at the shop, until August. Hurrah! What I really need to do is figure out the brand of war work people like Cyril Connolly have managed.”

  “Oh, geez, what did Connolly finagle? He’s a bit of a snake.”

  “He started a magazine,” Nancy said with a hefty roll of the eyes. “Then hired all his grubby bohemian friends to write for him. The government approved this as proper war work. Men get all the breaks.”

  “On the bright side, you won’t be conscripted,” Mollie said. “Working at a bookshop has to be better than most jobs they let us have, especially since you can’t drive.”

  “I can drive,” Nancy said. “Just not very well, which is a description that can be applied to so many things.” She thought back to all the war work she’d done so far. “What else might I do? Everyone absolutely despised me at the Frog canteen in White City, and I was miserable rolling bandages for First Aid. I enjoyed giving broadcast talks about firefighting, but that didn’t last two weeks.”

  “Why’d you stop?”

  “Got sacked. Nobody could abide my voice, apparently. One fella wrote in to say that he wanted to put me on the fire!”

  Mollie threw back her head and gave a long, full-throated laugh. “Nancy!” she howled. “You’re such a tease!”

  “Oh, I wasn’t joking.”

  “You see? This is why I’m always cackling hours after I’ve left the shop.”

  Nancy eyed her curiously. “Is that true?” she said. Though Mollie Frieze-Green had been friendlier of late, Nancy never fancied it was to this extent. She only ever seemed to get jolly at Nancy’s expense, like when she was struggling with a pump, or running directly into a fire.

  “I can’t believe you have to ask,” Mollie said, astonished. “Of course it’s true! I don
’t want to get too sentimental about it.” She paused and bit down on her lip. “But, Nancy Mitford, you’ve absolutely made my war.”

  * * *

  Nancy returned from fire watch in the predawn, walking alone along the quiet city streets, past rows of buildings whose power had been out for weeks, and others not long ago bombed. It was an endless winter in London and Nancy was aching for sunshine.

  She turned onto Blomfield Road. The wind rustled the branches, and, in the distance, someone sang. Nancy squinted through the fog, trying to make out the squat figure leaning against an unlit lamp.

  And someone’s...

  Sneakin’ ’round the corner...

  Could that someone...

  Be Mack the Knife?

  “Colonel!” Nancy shouted, and sprinted toward him. “I can’t believe you’re here!” She hurled herself into his body and wrapped her arms around his neck. “Shouldn’t you be getting ready for work?” Nancy let go and stepped back. As they met eyes, her heart dove to her feet. There was something wrong about the timing of his visit, and the sadness of his gaze. The Colonel was never woebegone. “Why don’t you come inside?” Nancy said quickly, as if she could stamp away what she already sensed. “Gladys will make breakfast. We are absolutely crawling with eggs. I also have plenty of tea, if you can believe it!”

  The Colonel flicked his cigarette to the ground. “My love,” he said. “I’ve not come for breakfast, but to say goodbye.”

  Nancy whimpered, though she’d known this was coming for months.

  “My love, we talked about this,” he said. “You knew that, once we regained power in North Africa and fixed the problems with Giraud, the seat of the Free French would move to Algiers.”

  “Doesn’t de Gaulle need a man on the ground?” Nancy said. “Someone to monitor relations with the Brits? People don’t trust the Frogs. Surely your government should keep in residence an attaché, or ambassador?”

  “Your government does view us as grenouilles suspicieux, which is another fact of which you’re well apprised.” The Colonel winked. “How fortunate they’ve had you to watch after us all this time. Alas, your mission d’espionnage now comes to its end.”