The Last Bookshop in London

by Madeline Martin

  A pungent fish odor filled the small space and sent Tabby in a frenzy of emphatic cries. Mrs. Weatherford waved at the air. “Save yourself, Grace. Put the wireless on while I fetch our tea.”

  Grace didn’t need a second offer and quickly fled the odiferous room. However, when she snapped on the set, the news greeting her was far worse than the smell of fish.

  Lionel Marson’s rich voice emanated from the speakers. “Germany has invaded Poland and bombed many towns...”

  Grace stood stock-still, her hand hovering over the metal knob. On he went, detailing how Poland had been attacked that morning, how major Polish cities had been bombed and France was mobilizing. With the Agreement of Mutual Assistance being signed with Poland only days before, there would be nothing for it: Great Britain and France would have to intervene.

  The rest of the afternoon and evening were spent in the parlor as each new bulletin aired, everyone perched in a desperate bid for more information. Much of what was said they already knew, but listened intently regardless.

  Through it all, Grace made curtains for the shop with Viv’s help once her friend came home from a successful first day at Harrods. With nerves on high alert, they picked at Mrs. Weatherford’s pork pie and prepared for the blackout before the sun had fully set.

  Hitler could do to England what he’d done to Poland. Any sliver of light at a window could tell his planes where to drop their bombs.

  A chill of anticipation squeezed down Grace’s spine. She’d been dreading the blackout and its strict rules. Now, she was grateful for the government’s foresight in keeping them from being a blatant target in the dark night.

  Likewise, she was appreciative for the Anderson shelter in the back garden. Knowing they had protection in such proximity lent her a calming sense of security.

  Amid the pure darkness of their first blackout, Grace had difficulty finding sleep. Especially when her mind was filled with talk of war and her thoughts kept returning to the children from that morning.

  * * *

  Apparently, the heavy curtains did their job too well. Grace did eventually fall asleep, but the next morning, she awoke nearly half an hour later than intended. Despite her rushed attempt to get ready, she still made it to the bookshop several minutes late.

  Mr. Evans glanced up at her arrival, his face dour. No doubt a rebuke was coming.

  Grace clutched her bag, the triple layer blackout curtains within.

  “And here I thought you might have abandoned the place as a lost cause.” A smirk lifted the corners of Mr. Evans’s mouth as he wandered back toward the rear of the shop. “Not that I’d have blamed you.”

  “I’m sorry for being late.” She called to his back and exhaled slowly. “I brought the curtains.”

  He looked over his shoulder toward her bag and nodded once.

  It was as much of a thank you as she’d expected. She tidied the shop first, cleaning the piles of receipts and bits of rubbish he’d left on the counter. Though she knew little of the books they sold, she chose covers with appealing fronts and displayed them in a curved arrangement in the large windows.

  It was a start, at least.

  She had just located a small ladder and was preparing to hang the heavy curtains when the jingling bell announced a visitor. An old man entered and caught her with his sharp gaze. “Who are you?”

  “Miss Bennett.” She climbed down from the ladder. “The new shop assistant.”

  At eye level, it was impossible to ignore how very much the man resembled a bird set against the bitter wind on a cold day. His downy white head was set low into the shrug of his hunched shoulders, and his spindly legs jutted from the bulk of his dark jacket. He glanced at the curtains waiting to be hung and tutted. “No need for curtains when tar would work just as well.”

  Grace nearly cringed at the idea of smearing tar over the glass. “May I help you?”

  “Where is Evans?”

  “Pritchard, is that you?” Mr. Evans emerged from the forest of shelves, an ever-present book propped in his hands just over the paunch of his belly. He snapped it shut and pushed his glasses higher on the bridge of his nose.

  “You hired an assistant?” The man looked around the shop, his beak of a nose exacerbating his birdlike appearance. “Are you doing all that well, then?”

  “You never know what you’ll need when a war is on,” Mr. Evans answered wryly. “Comparing our bookshops again, Pritchard?”

  The man clicked his tongue. “Bah! War hasn’t even been declared yet. And if this mess with Poland pushes us toward it, we’ll show Hitler and his ‘Nastys’ a battle that will send them scuttling back to Germany. Mark my words, this will all be over by Christmas.”

  “I’ll still take my curtains.” Mr. Evans nodded toward Grace, releasing her from the need to be party to the conversation. “If nothing else, it’ll keep the bloody ARP warden from knocking at my door.”

  Grace gathered the slippery fabric in her arms, climbed the ladder, and proceeded to hang the curtains while the men discussed book sales and politics.

  “How the devil do you keep mice from your store?” Mr. Pritchard asked abruptly as Grace finished her task. “I’ve had issues with the buggers from the first.”

  “It’s never been a problem.” Mr. Evans’s tone was becoming distracted, a clear indication he was finished with the chat. A social cue Mr. Pritchard had failed to grasp.

  The man tucked his head deeper into his shoulders and scowled. “Most likely because you’re not as close to the Thames all the way out here. Not like I am at Paternoster Row.”

  “You need a cat,” Grace said as she climbed down from the ladder and examined her handiwork. “Mrs. Weatherford’s son has a tabby cat who needs a home.”

  Mr. Pritchard scoffed. “That meddlesome woman?”

  Grace busied herself folding the ladder to hide her frown at his unkind assessment of the woman who had done so much for her. “A cat should help with the mice. I have it on good authority Mrs. Weatherford has no plans this morning and would likely appreciate the call.”

  At least to the point of finding a new home for Tabby.

  Mr. Pritchard nodded slowly to himself. “I see. Well, it appears I might as well see about a cat. Good day to you, Evans.”

  Mr. Evans muttered some form of farewell, and Mr. Pritchard left the shop. With the curtains properly hung and a decent display in the windows, Grace turned to her next project: finding places to relocate the piles of books scattered about the floor.

  The task was far larger than she’d anticipated. Whatever shelving system Mr. Evans had once incorporated was now nearly nonexistent, which meant Grace needed to create her own. Eventually. For now, she simply found places to put the discarded tomes.

  She’d become so engrossed in her task, Mr. Evans had to remind her on several occasions that she had stayed beyond her allotted hours. Each time she’d put him off, saying she was nearly done. And each time she thought she truly was, only to discover more stacks.

  A low rumble of thunder caught her attention, and Mr. Evans appeared before her with an umbrella in hand. “Miss Bennett, go home. The shop is closing and it’s begun to rain.”

  She looked up from a row of spines pressed so tightly together, no book could possibly fit between them despite the twenty or so more she still had to put away. They weren’t in any order. Yet. But at least they were off the floor.

  She glanced toward the window and found the curtains drawn. The blackout was clearly in effect.

  Had it really become so late?

  “Stay home tomorrow,” Mr. Evans said. “You’ve put in far too much work for one day.”

  “But yesterday—”

  “You were supposed to leave this afternoon, and it is now night.” Mr. Evans pressed the brolly toward her once more. “If Mrs. Weatherford calls one more time for you, she’ll have my head.”
>
  Ah, there it was then. Mrs. Weatherford. No doubt Grace’s delay had caused her to worry.

  Grace accepted the umbrella and quickly gathered her things. Mr. Evans followed her to the front and opened the door.

  Blackness met her on the other side, as stark as it was deep—an endless sea of nothing.

  Grace blinked as if to clear her vision, but it did no good against the true and complete darkness. She hadn’t realized the blackout would be this all-consuming.

  “I should walk you home,” Mr. Evans said, more to himself than to her.

  “Think nothing of it.” Grace notched her chin a little higher, the way Viv did when putting her confidence on full display. Though in Grace’s case, it was mere bravado. “It will take me less than ten minutes. We needn’t both end up drenched.”

  He frowned and opened his mouth to say something when a sharp whistle pierced the air.

  “Put out that light,” someone called from the distance. The self-important authority to the tone suggested an Air Raid Precautions warden, the volunteer service made up of neighbors who monitored blackout compliance.

  “Good night, Mr. Evans.” Grace slipped out of the shop as she snapped open the brolly.

  Still Mr. Evans waited, holding the door open for her.

  “Put it out, Mr. Evans,” the ARP warden shouted again, this time closer.

  Finally, he let the door fall closed and a thick blanket of darkness fell over Grace. It seemed to press against her eyes, making her strain to see something—anything—and failing miserably.

  Usually there were people about, cars with bright headlights slicing through the pitch-black and lampposts with a golden glow in a radius beneath. But not now. Not during a blackout.

  She hesitated where she stood in an attempt to gain her bearings which didn’t seem quite able to sort themselves out. Rain pattered on her umbrella while she remained in place.

  She would have to move based on memory in the absence of sight. It was fascinating how only a week of being in London resulted in her being able to picture the path to Britton Street with such ease. Except that had been when she could properly make out her surroundings.

  She took a cautious step forward, the scuff of her shoe loud in the empty street. She half expected an obstruction to trip her up. It didn’t. Nor was the next step impacted, or the one after that. She continued with the strange, hesitant shuffle of her feet on pavement that rasped against the bottom of her shoes.

  How many steps was it to the street? Her pace faltered and she found herself stretching her free hand in front of her, patting at air.

  Maybe she should go back and take Mr. Evans up on his offer to walk her home. But then, how would he return to the shop?

  Her nerves felt as though they were uncoiling with each blind step, her senses on wild alert. A rumbling filled the silence of night. It came with such haste, she drew back quickly, stumbling in the process. The whoosh of a car with its headlamps off sped by, dragging her skirt in a gust of powerful wind as it splashed what must have been a bucketful of puddle water on her.

  Her dress clung to her, ice cold and drenched with filthy rainwater. She wrapped her arms about herself as she clutched the brolly handle, not that it mattered if rain fell on her now.

  Lightning flickered overhead, casting the world in a brilliant wash of light. It was enough to make out what direction she needed to go, as well as confirm there were no more cars making their way toward her.

  Drenched, blind and freezing, Grace stumbled her way back to Britton Street one careful footstep and flash of lightning at a time. The usual ten-minute journey took an eternity. Who knew how much time she’d wasted repeatedly walking past Mrs. Weatherford’s townhouse in a fruitless bid to identify the right door.

  Finally, she managed to ascertain which was indeed the correct home and carefully climbed up the stairs. Her shoes were so thoroughly soaked, they seemed to weigh several pounds each and squished with each footfall, causing water to well up around her toes. Her free hand patted at the door for the handle. Cool metal met her palm, and she curled her fingers around it. The door clicked open, unlocked, and swung inward.

  The light from inside was like an explosion against her eyes, almost as blinding as the complete darkness. She staggered inside, nearly collapsing.

  “Grace,” Mrs. Weatherford exclaimed from the parlor. “Goodness, child, what’s happened to you? We’ve been worried sick.”

  It was in extreme times such as this that Mrs. Weatherford’s bossy nature held great benefit. Within the short side of an hour, Grace was dry with a fresh change of clothes and a hot cup of tea in her hand before tucking herself into bed.

  Safe and warm beneath her quilt, she snuggled deep into her bed and made friends with the dark once more as it pulled her into slumber. But before sleep claimed her, she made a plan to use her time off from the shop to visit Paternoster Row the following morning. If she could see how the displays were set and the books shelved in those stores, she might have a stronger idea of how to properly direct her efforts.

  Unfortunately, such well-laid plans dissolved with the news that met her the following day.

  FIVE

  Britain had officially declared war.

  The prime minister made a special broadcast at 11:15 the next morning before Grace could leave.

  She sat on the mohair sofa with Viv as Chamberlain’s voice filled the small parlor. Colin was no longer on the floor as Tabby was now with Mr. Pritchard. Instead, the young man perched tensely at the edge of the Morris chair beside his mother’s seat.

  A tea tray sat on the center of the small table beside a vase of dahlias, untouched.

  The prime minister relayed that Germany had ignored requests to pull free from Poland. Grace held her breath and prayed silently that Chamberlain wouldn’t announce the news they had been dreading.

  But all the listeners in London holding their breath couldn’t stop his next words. “...consequently, this country is at war with Germany.”

  Even though the declaration was expected, it hit Grace like a blow. How could something so expected carry such visceral impact?

  She was not alone.

  Viv dabbed at her eyes with a pretty lace-lined handkerchief she’d sewn before they left Drayton, and Mrs. Weatherford sucked in a breath. Colin immediately reached for his mother’s hand.

  They were at war.

  But what did that mean? Would they be bombed? The men conscripted? Food rationed?

  Grace remembered her mother’s stories from the Great War and how difficult it had been. But those had simply been tales to Grace, ones without context for a life she could scarce imagine. And now that unfathomable world was about to become their new reality.

  A shrill wail cut through the silence, the blaring of the air raid horn that had no end as its warbling cry rose and fell. The blood in Grace’s veins froze. She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move.

  They would be bombed. Like Poland. Overtaken by the Germans.

  “Grace.” Mrs. Weatherford said her name with an insistence that broke through the haze of her fear. “Go fill the tub and sinks with water. Viv, open all the windows. I’ll fetch our masks and supplies while Colin turns off the gas at the mains.”

  “B-but the bombs,” Viv stuttered, looking more terrified than Grace had ever seen her.

  “They’ve only just seen the plane.” Mrs. Weatherford pushed to her feet and snapped off the wireless. “We have at least five minutes to get to the Andy if not more.”

  There was a calm authority to her tone as she spoke, and it pulled each one of them to the task she’d assigned. Though Grace didn’t know why she had been told to fill the tub and sinks, she did as asked, letting the gush of water accompany the siren’s wail.

  Never had the taps run more slowly.

  By the time the last sink filled, she ran to the Andy on leg
s that threatened to give out. There was little to the shelter, merely a curve of metal buried beneath a bit of dirt to form a submerged upside down U. How such a contraption could possibly keep them protected from a bombing was beyond her, a consideration that hadn’t crossed her mind until that moment.

  She stepped down through the small entrance, squeezing her way into the shelter. It smelled of dirt and damp metal, and blotted out the sun overhead, leaving the interior dim. Viv was already there, sitting in the near darkness on one of the small benches Colin had set on either side of the narrow space. Her arms were hugged around her middle and she looked up sharply, her long-lashed brown eyes wide with worry.

  The siren cut off. An ominous silence replaced the warbling cry.

  Grace sat beside Viv and took her friend’s hand in hers. But she could offer no words of comfort. Not when every muscle in her own body was tensed for an explosion.

  This was it. Like Poland. They would be bombed as surely as had Warsaw.

  She didn’t know what a bomb might sound like, or even what to expect. Let alone what to do if they were struck in their tin of a shelter.

  Colin joined them in the Andy and folded his large frame on the bench opposite them. His head bowed forward somewhat to accommodate the low arching ceiling. Mrs. Weatherford entered the shelter last with four gas masks dangling from one shoulder and a large box clasped in her hands. The clatter of her movements echoed against the steel frame and reverberated in their ears.

  Colin immediately reached up to take the box from his mother. She smiled her gratitude and handed everyone their respective mask.

  Grace accepted hers with hands that wouldn’t stop shaking. “Should we put it on?”

  “Only if you hear the wooden rattle outside.” Mrs. Weatherford sat on the bench beside Colin. “The ARP wardens are all equipped with one for such a purpose. And I’ve purchased some Anti-Gas Ointment from the chemist. We have approximately one minute to smear it on our exposed skin, which is plenty of time. So you see, there’s no need to worry.”

  She lifted the top from the plain box, revealing myriad supplies within. A yellow-topped tin of No. 2 Anti-Gas Ointment, a container of Smiths crisps, a couple bottles of what appeared to be lemonade and a bit of yarn and knitting needles.