The Last Bookshop in London

by Madeline Martin

  Mr. Evans scowled and glared around the shop. “That’s why it’s so dusty in here.” He waved in front of him with a folded newspaper as though the air itself issued great offense.

  She tensed, waiting for cutting words such as those her uncle had so often thrown at her. In all the years she’d worked for him, from the first day she’d completed the final year offered at the schoolhouse in Drayton until when she’d left for London, he had pointed out, in great detail, all of her many failures. Her work ethic was not on par with what he expected. She wasted product that could still be used. She could have sold more items with her suggestions if she’d been smarter, more intuitive, more driven. Less incompetent.

  She clenched her hands into fists and squeezed, bracing herself for the emotional blows on her personal deficiencies.

  “I suppose it does need a good scrubbing down,” Mr. Evans grumbled in begrudging acquiescence.

  Her fists relaxed. “I beg your pardon?”

  “The place is a bit dusty, and I haven’t the time to muddle with it.” He slapped the paper on the countertop and took the stack of receipts, ignoring several that fluttered free. “I’d thank you not to go looking through my accounts.”

  “I’d never presume.” Grace bent to retrieve the scraps of receipts and handed them to Mr. Evans, taking care to keep her gaze averted from the neat print.

  He tucked them into the pile of papers and disappeared into the little room at the back of the shop. He did not emerge for some time, and when he did, he remained at the rear, sifting through the books, more like a customer than the shop’s owner.

  Grace spent the remainder of the afternoon finishing her dusting and polishing the counter. It was really quite nice underneath years of grime, with carved scrollwork at its corners and a lovely chestnut hue. Fortunately, no other patrons sought her help with their selections and her only task with the customers involved gathering their payment.

  When at last it was time to take her leave, her announcement to Mr. Evans was met with a grunt of acknowledgment and little else.

  * * *

  Though dirty, exhausted and feeling like she hadn’t done nearly enough, Grace eagerly rushed home in anticipation of hearing how Viv’s interview went.

  She flung open the front door upon her arrival. “Viv, did you—?”

  The wireless was turned to full volume and a voice crackled throughout the parlor, informing listeners that a fleet had been mobilized.

  A fleet of what?

  Mrs. Weatherford and Viv sat before the radio, listening intently. Viv shot her a distracted glance and waved her over.

  Grace quickly joined her friend on the blue mohair sofa. “What’s going on?” she whispered. “Why is the broadcast on? It’s not six.”

  Viv cast her a nervous glance. “News came this afternoon. The reserves have been called. We were informed earlier that we shouldn’t conclude war is inevitable. But how can we not when they’re telling us that fleets are mobilized and all naval reservists and remaining Royal Air Force personnel should report for duty?”

  Grace fell back against the couch in stunned shock. How had she heard nothing about this? But then, she’d been in her own world busily cleaning, her mind set to task with determination and her customers few and far between.

  The anticipation vibrating in the air now hummed in Grace’s veins. This was it.

  War.

  Mrs. Weatherford said nothing, her face a stoic mask. She stood abruptly and snapped off the wireless. “That’s about enough for one day.” She drew in a deep breath and turned to Grace. “I trust your first day went well?”

  “Yes, thank you,” Grace replied softly.

  “Good.” Mrs. Weatherford gave a perfunctory nod. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a kidney pie to prepare or we won’t have a thing for supper.”

  Without waiting for another reply, she marched out of the room, her back unnaturally straight.

  Viv lowered her voice. “They’re evacuating the children tomorrow. All of them to the country. At least, the ones whose parents signed them up to go.”

  The news struck Grace in the chest. Viv was right; how could they not expect war when such measures were being implemented?

  Grace thought of the housewife who had been in the store earlier, selecting a book without the knowledge that her children would be leaving the following day. All the mothers of London would be losing their children due to the evacuation. And many of them would also be sending their husbands to war.

  If not enough men volunteered, they might be conscripted. Grace’s stomach gave a slight flip.

  Colin might be called up.

  It was no wonder Mrs. Weatherford had been so disinclined to hear more.

  Viv stared down at the carpet, solemn. A knot of fear tightened in Grace’s chest and she fought for some levity, lest they both give in to hopelessness. “The children will be fine as long as they don’t end up with my uncle and his family.”

  Viv offered a sad smile as she played along. “Not that he’d offer them a place anyway.”

  It was then Grace realized Viv was still wearing her smart navy suit. “Did you have your interview?”

  Viv nodded. “I was offered a position as a shopper’s assistant. I start tomorrow, for however long it will last now.”

  “It will last quite a while, I’m sure.” Grace squeezed her friend’s hand. “Everyone always needs a pair of stockings or a new blouse to make them feel fine.”

  “Or an elephant?” Viv tilted her head.

  “Perhaps a wombat?” Grace shrugged.

  Viv’s mouth stretched in a ghost of a smile. “Maybe even a cheetah?”

  “Don’t forget its lead,” Grace cautioned.

  Viv’s expression turned serious. “We’ll make it through this, Grace Bennett. Just you see.”

  She clasped her hand over Grace’s, a reminder of the camaraderie they’d shared since childhood. That solidarity had helped them survive the pain of Grace’s mother’s death, the drudgery of life in Drayton, Viv’s overbearing parents and even the incessant teasing of Geoffrey Simmons, the dolt.

  Together, they would be able to take on anything thrown at them—whether it be a curmudgeonly shop owner or a coming war.

  FOUR

  The queue of children was tragically endless.

  In truth, Grace hadn’t had much chance to think of the evacuation. There had been too much activity the evening before as they prepared for the first night of the government mandated blackout while Colin put the final touches on the Anderson shelter in Mrs. Weatherford’s poor torn-up garden.

  The ruined flower beds had been mentioned several times by Mrs. Weatherford, despite her sniffed remarks that she didn’t care a whit.

  Through it all, Grace was ashamed to admit she hadn’t remembered about the children. Not when she’d left Britton Street to make her way to Primrose Hill Books. Especially not when she caught sight of strange silver balloons in the sky, as large as townhouses and suspended above the city like bloated silver fish. Odd things that no doubt served some purpose of war.

  She stared up at one so intently as she turned down Albion Place, that she nearly crashed into a man in a blue wool Royal Air Force uniform with his full kit slung over one shoulder.

  “Forgive me,” Grace said. “I didn’t—”

  Whatever else she meant to say died on her tongue, for that was when she caught sight of the children. The queue ran down the length of the street, heading in the direction of Farringdon Station.

  The RAF officer replied, but she didn’t hear him as he strode briskly past. She couldn’t take in anything more than the endless stream of children with their small gas masks hanging from strings at their sides, their information pinned on their jackets and their bags of belongings. Such small bags for what might be a long absence. For who knew when the children would return?

&
nbsp; Some were eager, their faces bright in anticipation for an adventure. Others were tearstained as they clung to their mothers. As for the women accompanying them, each one was pale, their expressions steeled against the agony of their task.

  No mother should suffer a choice such as theirs: to send their child to live with a stranger in the country or allow them to stay in the city where it was dangerous.

  Despite the pain of separation, there must truly be considerable risk if they were going to the effort to remove so many children. Certainly it was far better than keeping them here, where they were under the constant threat of being bombed.

  Though Grace was not a mother, she hoped to become one someday. So it was that every stricken visage drove into her heart the sacrifice these women were making to ensure their children remained safe.

  As Grace walked on in her stunned state, she came upon the mass of them congregated at the entrance to Farringdon Station where another stream of children came from the opposite direction. Hundreds, if not thousands.

  Many mothers would have empty arms this night.

  A heaviness lay in Grace’s chest for those women and the little ones they had to send off to another’s care. She quickened her pace, unable to endure the sight any longer.

  She all but threw herself into the bookshop, earning her a sharp look from Mr. Evans upon her arrival. “Has the war already started?” he asked dryly and returned his focus to the book in front of him.

  “It might as well have.” Grace glanced out to the street as a mother hastened her two young children in the direction of the tube station. “The children are all being sent away.”

  He hummed in distracted agreement.

  She peered up to the sky, seeking the large silver objects. “And those balloons—”

  “Barrage balloons.”

  She turned back to him. “What on earth are those?”

  Mr. Evans sighed without patience and set his book down. “They’re affixed to steel cables and prevent aircraft from flying too low. They’re there for our protection.”

  “So they can’t bomb us then?” Grace asked hopefully.

  Mr. Evans snorted. “Oh, they can bomb us well enough. The balloons prevented it in the Great War when planes couldn’t fly as high, but now at least it forces them up into the range of the anti-aircraft guns.”

  Chills prickled over Grace’s skin. She wanted to ask more questions, but he’d already lifted his book and resumed reading. Few customers entered the store that day. It was easy to see why when the children were being shipped off, the men were leaving for war and all the mothers were left behind with their heavy sorrow.

  Grace had thought to try organizing the books, but could not clear the image of those children from her mind. Not when there had been so very many of them. Not when their mothers had been so strong in the face of what they must do to have their children protected.

  She recalled the time her mother had gone to visit Mrs. Weatherford once when she was a child. Though Grace had stayed with Viv’s family for the week, she still remembered how missing her mother had left her feeling bereft. And that had been only a week.

  Those poor children.

  In the end, Grace applied herself to the messily placed scrim on the windows, peeling away first the tape, then picking at the adhesive that remained in sticky patches along the glass. The task was mindless, which suited her well, for her mind was entirely overfull already.

  When there were only two strips left and she was debating whether or not she had time to reapply more tape with proper care, Mr. Evans came to her. “Go home, Miss Bennett. There’s not enough business to even bother staying open. Not today. Besides, I haven’t anything to black out the windows when it grows dark.” He folded his arms over his chest, and his inhale whistled through his nostrils as he looked about his shop. “War is coming and books aren’t what people will be shopping for.”

  Grace gathered the discarded tape and stood. “But surely they need entertainment.”

  He nodded to the windows. “I’ll bring in newspaper tomorrow.”

  Grace hid her grimace of distaste at the thought of layering the wide windows with plastered news sheets. “I can make curtains. Mrs. Weatherford has quite a bit of fabric on hand already. We’ve some to spare.”

  Indeed, Mrs. Weatherford had been quite elated to crow over her victory at getting so many yards of heavy black sateen at only two shillings a yard.

  Grace didn’t know why she was offering to help Mr. Evans. Especially when he was implying he soon may not have the business to support hiring an assistant. But they had the fabric to spare, and anything she could do to remain useful enough to glean a letter of recommendation would work in her favor.

  Grace quickly gathered her purse, hat and gas mask, eager for the extra time off.

  Mr. Evans met her at the entrance and flipped the sign from Open to Closed. “Good afternoon, Miss Bennett.”

  He closed the door behind her and locked it. The children were gone from the streets by that point, almost as if their organized departure hadn’t happened. On her walk home, Grace pushed her thoughts from the painful recollection and instead considered how to draw more customers into Primrose Hill Books.

  She’d done it with her uncle’s shop. Several signs in the window and a few items placed strategically on sale had made all the difference. Soon customers had come with regularity.

  Of course, there were fewer patrons at Primrose Hill Books, and the ones remaining perched on tightly strung nerves. But books served a purpose. Distractions were always needed. Most certainly in times of strife.

  If she made one store successful once, by God, she could do it again. And this time, she’d jolly well make sure she recieved a glowing recommendation for her efforts.

  She met Mrs. Weatherford just outside the townhouse, the older woman’s arms laden with bags.

  Mrs. Weatherford waved her over with half of a finger, which appeared the only appendage she had to spare. “Your timing is impeccable, Grace. Come here, child.”

  Grace rushed over and pulled several totes from Mrs. Weatherford’s arm. An unexpected weight tugged at Grace’s hand with such force, she nearly dropped the parcel. “What do you have in here? Sandbags?”

  Mrs. Weatherford cast a conspiratorial glance around before leaning in and whispering, “Tea.” She lifted one shoulder to heft another sack. “And sugar. Now come, let’s get this inside quickly.”

  She didn’t speak again until they spirited the packages into the house and safely tucked them in the kitchen. The heavy dark curtains hung from the windows in the otherwise cheerful kitchen, a reminder of the blackout starting that evening. There had been several test runs the previous month, but this time would be in earnest.

  Mrs. Weatherford dropped her burden with great care and issued forth a relieved sigh. “Heavens, but that was heavy.”

  “This is all tea and sugar?” Grace surveyed the bags, which were stuffed to the seams.

  “Some of it is flour too.” Mrs. Weatherford wagged a finger. “Don’t you go looking at me like that, Grace Bennett. The war is coming and you mark my words, there will be rationing. I had to get to these items before the hoarders.”

  Grace regarded the trove of dry goods. “The hoarders?”

  Mrs. Weatherford set to work, unpacking her wares. “Mrs. Nesbitt had at least twice as much, and she’s a woman on her own.” Mrs. Weatherford bent over the counter to rearrange objects in the cabinet, making space for her new purchases. “You know her, the proprietress of Nesbitt’s Fine Reads, one of the many illustrious bookshops along Paternoster Row.” She glanced at Grace for confirmation.

  Grace shook her head.

  Mrs. Weatherford’s brows furrowed. “Surely Mr. Evans has mentioned Paternoster Row?”

  “He hasn’t.” Grace stacked several bags of sugar in a cleared spot in the open cabinet. />
  Mrs. Weatherford shifted aside some boxes and replaced them with tins of tea. “Well, that street is where most booklovers with good money go. I’ve told Mr. Evans a dozen times he should relocate.” She took a step back and inspected the stacked cabinet with a satisfied nod. “You should go sometime. See what a proper bookshop looks like. I can give you directions.”

  A proper bookshop. It was exactly what Grace needed to study to see how to improve Primrose Hill Books. “That would be wonderful,” she said. “While we’re on the topic, would you mind if I took some of the black sateen to make curtains for the shop?”

  Mrs. Weatherford cast a proud smile at her, the kind her own mother once gave. It touched a wounded place inside Grace, somewhere buried deep, and soothed it in the gentlest way.

  “Of course, you may, dear,” the older woman said. “Mind that you do at least three layers or it won’t block out a bit of light. I’m sure he’s very appreciative of your efforts.” She filled the kettle with water from the tap. “Even if he doesn’t say as much.”

  Colin came into the kitchen with Tabby following at his heels, mewing insistently. “Hullo, Grace.” His cheeks colored with a slight blush, as always happened when he entered a room Viv or Grace were in. “We received a baby cheetah this morning. There’s almost nothing to him, just a bit of fluff and a fierce personality.” He made the shape of a ball with his fingers to indicate the animal’s size.

  “I imagine he must be darling.”

  “You’ll have to come by and see him next time you’re at Harrods.” He glanced to his mother. “Can you hand me a tin of tuna, Mum?”

  Mrs. Weatherford’s mouth pinched, but she handed him the tin regardless. “I think Tabby is large enough to find a home. Soon we’ll be sore pressed to feed ourselves, let alone a cat.”

  Colin took the can with a rueful smile.

  “You both think I’m mad, but I tell you, everything will be rationed.” Mrs. Weatherford folded the now empty totes and put the full kettle on the stove while Colin peeled the top off the tin with a can opener.