Mrs. Weatherford took one of the yellow towels and lifted a plate from the rack, rubbing away the few remaining drops. “I must say, the two of you don’t sound at all like you’re from Drayton.”
Viv tilted her chin a notch higher. “Thank you. We’ve certainly tried. We’re hoping it will help with our employment.”
“How delightful.” Mrs. Weatherford opened a cabinet and replaced the plate within. “I trust you’ve procured letters of recommendation already?”
Viv had spent the day before their departure to London with a borrowed typewriter, carefully typing a letter of recommendation for herself. She’d offered to do one for Grace as well, but Grace had refused.
Mrs. Weatherford turned back to the drying dishes once more. Viv lifted her eyebrows at Grace, indicating she ought to have agreed.
“We do have letters of recommendation.” Viv spoke confidently for both of them, no doubt already scheming how she might produce a second one for Grace.
“Viv does,” Grace amended. “Unfortunately, I do not. My uncle refused to write a letter of recommendation for the time I spent at his shop.”
It had been his final offense, a retaliation for her “abandoning the store” where she’d worked for most of her life. He didn’t seem to care that his wife had insisted Grace find another place to live, only that Grace would no longer be at his beck and call.
The kettle gave a shrill cry and emitted a cloud of steam from its nozzle. Mrs. Weatherford pulled it from the stove, immediately cutting short its scream, and set it on a trivet.
She tsked as she scooped a spoonful of leaves into the tea ball before adding the boiled water to the teapot. “That’s a shame, a terrible shame.” She muttered something under her breath about Horace and settled the teapot on a silver tray with three teacups and a sugar and creamer set. She offered Grace a resigned frown. “They won’t take you at a department store without one.”
Grace’s stomach dropped to her toes. Perhaps she ought to have allowed Viv to forge her a letter after all.
“However,” Mrs. Weatherford added slowly as she carried the tray to the table and poured them each a steaming cup. “I have a place in mind where you could work for six months to obtain a proper letter of recommendation.”
“Grace would be ideal for whatever you’re thinking.” Viv took a lump of sugar from the bowl and let it plunk into her tea. “She always had the highest marks in school. Especially in maths. She practically ran her uncle’s entire shop on her own and improved it greatly while doing so.”
“Then I think this will work out wonderfully.” Mrs. Weatherford took a sip of her tea.
Something nudged against Grace’s shin. She looked down to find a young tabby cat gazing imploringly up at her with large amber eyes.
Grace stroked her hand over the soft fur behind the kitten’s ears and a purr vibrated to life. “I see you have a cat.”
“Only for a few more days, I hope you don’t mind.” Mrs. Weatherford swept her hand to shoo the cat, but it remained stubbornly at Grace’s side.
“The rascal won’t leave my kitchen anytime he smells food.” Mrs. Weatherford cast a chagrined look down at the little animal who regarded her without guilt or shame. “Colin is a wonder with animals. If I allowed him to keep every wounded creature he brought home, we would have quite the menagerie.” Her chuckle interrupted the steam rising from her tea.
The cat rolled onto his back, revealing a small white star on his chest. Grace scratched at the spot, and his rhythmic purr rumbled under her fingertips. “What do you call him?”
“Tabby.” Mrs. Weatherford playfully rolled her eyes. “My son is far better at rescuing animals than naming them.”
As though summoned, Colin entered the room at that very moment. Tabby leapt to his feet and trotted over to his savior. Colin lifted the kitten into his large hands, his touch gentle with the small creature who nuzzled affectionately against him.
This time, it was Colin Mrs. Weatherford shooed away. “Out of the kitchen with him.”
“Sorry, Mum.” Colin gave a quick, apologetic smile to Grace and Viv, then ducked from the room with the cat cradled to his chest.
Mrs. Weatherford shook her head with affectionate amusement as she watched him depart. “I’ll visit Mr. Evans to see about getting you secured in that position at his shop.” She settled back into her chair and gazed out to the garden with a sigh.
Grace glanced out the window where a gaping hole showed in the earth alongside a sad pile of uprooted flowers and a stack of what appeared to be sheets of aluminum. Most likely the beginnings of an Anderson shelter.
Grace hadn’t seen any in Drayton where the chances of being bombed weren’t high, but she’d heard of several cities where the Andys had been distributed. The small shelters were to be buried in the garden as a refuge if Hitler attacked Britain.
A tremor of unease rippled down Grace’s spine. Of all the times to finally make their way to London, it was at the start of a war. Now they were in the prime target for bombings.
Not that returning to Drayton was an option. She would rather face the possibility of danger where she was wanted than contend with her uncle’s hostility.
Viv peered out the window curiously and promptly looked away. After a lifetime of farming, she was—as she put it—“jolly well done with dirt.”
Mrs. Weatherford sighed again and took a sip of tea. “It was a fine garden once.”
“It will be again,” Grace reassured her with more confidence than she felt. For if there were bombings, would any garden ever be the same again? Would any of them for that matter?
Such thoughts nipped at the back of her mind and cast them in an eerie shadow. “Mrs. Weatherford,” she said abruptly, no longer wanting to think of war or bombings. “May I inquire as to what sort of shop Mr. Evans runs?”
“Of course, dear.” Mrs. Weatherford set her teacup in its saucer with a clink, her eyes lighting up with enthusiasm. “It’s a book shop.”
Grace masked a twinge of disappointment. After all, she knew very little about books. Any attempts at reading had been quashed by countless interruptions. She’d been far too busy at her uncle’s store, trying to earn enough money for her and her mother’s survival, to bother with reading. Then her mother had become ill...
Uncle Horace’s store had been easy enough to manage, especially as the household wares were items she personally used. Selling tea kettles, towels, vases and other goods she was familiar with came naturally. But she knew nothing about literature.
Well, that wasn’t entirely true.
She could still recall her mother’s copy of Grimm’s Fairy Tales with an elegant princess painted on its front. How she’d loved letting her gaze wander over the colorful illustrations while her mother’s voice spun magic with those fanciful tales. But outside of Grimm’s Fairy Tales, she’d never had time to read.
“Brilliant.” Grace smiled brightly to hide her apprehension. After all, she would make do. Anything would be better than working at her uncle’s store.
But how was she possibly supposed to sell something she knew so little about?
TWO
Grace’s first attempt with Primrose Hill Books did not go as planned.
Not that she’d harbored lofty expectations for success, but she had anticipated the owner would at least be prepared for her arrival.
She found the shop without issue, yet another testament to Mrs. Weatherford’s fine directional abilities. The narrow shopfront was not located on Primrose Hill as the name suggested, but rather was one of many in a line that ran along Hosier Lane, each with windows reflecting the dullness of the clouded afternoon sun. The bookshop’s first two floors had been painted black with a yellow stuccoed facade rising above it, cracked and faded with age. A white sign proclaimed Primrose Hill Books in a glossy black looping text. The effect was clearly meant to be elegant, but
seemed to Grace as rather flat and cheerless.
The sentiment was echoed in the shop’s dingy windows, which were layered with lopsided strips of white scrim rather than displaying a purposefully set, enticing display. The tape wasn’t uncommon; many had adhered it to their glass windows in shops and at home for prevention against shattering in case of a bombing. Usually, however, it was done neatly and with care.
A pull of trepidation dragged at Grace once more. What if Mr. Evans asked after the last book she’d read? She drew in a deep breath to fortify herself and pushed into the shop. A little bell rang overhead, far too happy for a place so dreary.
There was a mustiness in the air, mingled with a scent reminiscent of wet wool. Layers of dust on the shelves indicated most of the stock had not been touched in some time, and piles of books on the scuffed wooden floors lent it all a sense of disarray. This effect was heightened by a counter off to the right, which was cluttered with what appeared to be haphazardly stacked accounts amid a chaotic sea of pencil nubs and various other bits of rubbish.
It was no wonder Mr. Evans required assistance.
“Call out if you need something.” The unseen voice was as dry and disused as the books.
“Mr. Evans?” Grace made her way deeper into the small shop.
Rows of unmarked shelves stretched high above her head, pressed so closely together she wondered how anyone might fit between them to peruse their contents. A second story balcony curled around the perimeter of the first floor, visible above the towering shelves and just as overcrowded and messy. Despite its external size, the shop’s interior had been rendered far too small and tight.
Footsteps shuffled toward her as a portly man with white hair and bushy brows squeezed from a narrow aisle with an open book framed between his hands. He lifted his head from the pages and regarded her for a long moment without speaking.
“Mr. Evans?” Grace stepped carefully around a knee-high stack of books.
His eyebrows crawled up over his glasses. “Who are you?”
Grace wanted nothing more than to navigate her way through the forest of shelves, back to the store’s exit. But she’d arrived with purpose and put an edge of steel in her spine as her mother had always encouraged. “Good afternoon, Mr. Evans. I’m Grace Bennett. Mrs. Weatherford sent me here to speak with you about a position for a shop assistant.”
His blue eyes narrowed behind his spectacles. “I told that meddlesome woman I didn’t need help.”
“I beg your pardon?” Grace asked, taken aback.
He looked down at his book and turned away. “There’s nothing for you here, Miss Bennett.”
Grace instinctively took a step toward the door. “I...I see,” she stammered. “Thank you for your time.”
He didn’t acknowledge her as he scooted between the bookshelves once more in a clear sign of dismissal.
She stared after him in shock. If he wouldn’t hire her, would there be more options without a letter of recommendation? She knew no one outside of Mrs. Weatherford, Colin and Viv. She was in a foreign city, away from a home where she no longer felt welcome. What else was she going to do?
A panicked urgency ran through her veins and left her palms prickling with heat. She should stay and fight for the job. After all, she needed it.
What if she couldn’t afford the reduced rent on the room in two months’ time? Certainly she couldn’t bring herself to ask Mrs. Weatherford for more assistance on top of what she had already given. Nor would Grace rely on Viv’s aid.
All at once the stuffiness of the shop became stifling, the towering shelves too pressing. She should stay and fight, but her emotions were too tumultuous. God how she missed her mother’s strength, her counsel and love.
Without another word, Grace found her way to the front door around tightly packed shelves and piles of books and left the shop.
She returned to Britton Street with brisk steps, wanting nothing more than to be alone. Solitude, however, was not to be had. Viv was in the parlor with Mrs. Weatherford, cooing over Tabby. Colin, who had worked all night at the Pet Kingdom in Harrods with a new baby elephant, was crouched beside the kitten with a bit of meat at the end of a spoon. Which meant all eyes turned to Grace the moment she closed the front door.
Though she knew her friends meant well, she wanted to slink from their stares rather than divulge how she’d run from the first sign of difficulty.
“How did it go with Mr. Evans?” Mrs. Weatherford sat forward in the burgundy armchair.
Grace’s cheeks burned, but she managed to force a smile and act nonchalant. “I believe he is not looking to hire an assistant.”
“Why ever would you assume such a thing?” Mrs. Weatherford asked.
Grace shifted her weight from one foot to the other. The gas mask box on its slender string bounced against her hip. “He told me as much.”
Mrs. Weatherford pushed upright with a harrumph. “Colin, put the kettle on.”
He looked up at his mother from where he sat on the floor beside Tabby with a spoon perched between his large fingers. “Will you take your tea out here?”
“It’s not for me.” She hastened to the stairs. “It’s for Grace, who is no doubt in sore need of a cuppa while I go have a word with Mr. Evans.”
“Wait.” Viv put a hand to Colin’s shoulder before he could leave.
She gave Tabby a scratch on the head and popped up from where she sat on the floor beside them. “Better than tea, let us go explore London.” She fanned her hands toward Grace. “You’re already dressed so nicely and I don’t have my appointment until tomorrow afternoon. Let’s go have a look about the city.”
Viv’s appointment was an interview at Harrods, secured in part by Colin with his influence of having worked there for several years, and also by her recommendation letter. While her position was indeed enviable, Grace would never begrudge her friend’s happiness.
And as much as Grace didn’t want to leave the cool quiet of the house, Viv’s smile was so wide with excitement, Grace found she could not say no.
Viv readied herself with such haste, she descended the stairs the same time as Mrs. Weatherford, both with their hats pinned into place and neat heels clicking over the polished wood surface.
“You mark my words.” Mrs. Weatherford glanced in a small mirror hanging beside the front door and adjusted the brim of her angular black hat. “Mr. Evans will hire you if he knows what’s good for him.”
Grace wished she could protest, to stoutly deny her need for a job or the kind help Mrs. Weatherford offered. But, alas, she could not refuse her charity. Uncle Horace had seen to that with his refusal to write a proper letter of recommendation. After so many years of restoring his shop, it seemed painfully unfair. Unfair and cruel.
Before she could even try to stop Mrs. Weatherford, the older woman disappeared out the front door, huffing with determination.
Viv took Grace’s hand. “Let us go see the gem that is London, darling,” she said in her finest “high society” inflection.
Grace couldn’t help but smile at that and allowed her friend to pull her off to explore, leaving Colin with Tabby.
The women were soon swept up in the fast-moving city, amid tall buildings plastered with brightly colored adverts and the rumbles and honks of traffic. They darted and dashed through it all, keeping to the quick pace of city life with each hastened step.
But London was not the gem they had anticipated. Her sparkle had been dulled by the effects of an oncoming war, glued together with scrim tape and apprehension. Her shine was masked behind walls of sandbags and her soul unearthed to make way for shelters and trenches.
Such warnings were impossible to ignore.
In Drayton, where an attack was less likely, some preparations had been apparent. But there, the tape lining the windows had been idle amusement, and the greatest lurking fear was rationing rath
er than bombing. In London, such actions were done with blood-chilling necessity.
The evidence could be pushed aside temporarily, of course. Like when Grace and Viv entered Harrods for the first time and encountered the elaborate scrollwork along the ceilings, the Egyptian painted columns and exquisite fanning lights. The store went on as far as the fields in Drayton, each new department more exciting and elaborate than the last. There were silk scarves so fine, it felt like Grace was touching air, and perfumes set behind glittering glass counters that scented the air with an expensive musk.
The most fascinating by far was Pet Kingdom where Colin worked. The baby elephant he’d spent the night soothing now frolicked about in a pile of clean hay while a leopard cub raked its textured pink tongue over its pelt and watched them with curious green eyes.
“Imagine,” Grace said dreamily as they left the animals and drifted through the other departments. “You will soon work here as a shopper’s assistant.”
“And you’d be with me,” Viv whispered. “If you’d let me write you a letter of recommendation as well.”
Grace’s excitement wilted somewhat at the reminder of where she’d end up instead if Mr. Evans caved to Mrs. Weatherford. He seemed a brusque man in a store filled with wares she knew little about.
And yet she could not bring herself to present a false letter of recommendation. She’d never been good at lying, going all red about the face and tripping over her words. No doubt she’d fumble falsified information just as greatly. Still, she knew Viv wouldn’t let it drop unless given some sort of concession.
“Perhaps if no further opportunities are presented, I may reconsider,” Grace said slowly.
Viv’s face lit up. “Consider it done.”
“Only if no further opportunities are presented,” Grace repeated, suddenly hopeful Mrs. Weatherford might get her way with Mr. Evans.
But Viv had turned away to examine a pair of stockings and merely acknowledged Grace’s careful statement with a hum. Viv set the item aside, her hand splayed over its crinkly pink package.
The Last Bookshop in London Page 2
