The Last Bookshop in London

by Madeline Martin

  Grace’s mouth fell open. “You don’t mean you’ve...dug for victory?”

  Ever since October, the government had been announcing the need for flower beds to be torn up and replaced with vegetable patches in their bid for “digging for victory.” Though the rationing Mrs. Weatherford had sworn would come had not been implemented as yet, the call for an abundance of home-grown vegetables was indicative of its impending announcement.

  That didn’t mean Mrs. Weatherford was ready to have her few thriving roses and hyacinths plucked from her beloved garden.

  Colin nodded slowly, his gaze skimming over his handiwork. “I’m not familiar with vegetables, but I read the manual and tried as best I could.” He lifted his shoulders in a helpless shrug.

  “You could have asked Viv,” Grace said. “She lived on a farm before coming here.”

  “That’s exactly why I did it when she wasn’t here.” Colin got to his feet and started on the upper portion of the window. “She’s always so put together. I couldn’t have her out in the garden, buried in dirt and ruining her nails.”

  Grace rose from the ground alongside Colin. Her head came only to his chest, making her far too short to reach the windows stretching high up the wall.

  “And you know she’s too stubborn to take no for an answer.” Rather than try to attach a piece herself, she cut and moistened a length before handing it to Colin.

  He grinned as he accepted the scrim. “You said it, not me.”

  “Has your mother seen the garden yet?” Grace uncurled another piece of the adhesive paper from its roll.

  He shook his head. “She’s joined the local Women’s Voluntary Service and has gone to her first meeting. No doubt we’ll know when she sees it.”

  He looked out the window, studying the street below, and the mirth faded from his expression. “She’s going to need help while I’m gone, Grace.”

  “I’ll be here,” she vowed.

  He lowered his head. “I hate that I have to leave her. What if Germany does bomb London? The three of you won’t be safe.”

  He could scarcely stop bombs from falling from the sky, but Grace didn’t say as much. “We have the Andy you buried in the backyard to protect us, as well as the taped windows. You’ve even secured us with a garden. And you know your mother is well stocked on goods.”

  He lifted his head and gave a small laugh. “Ah, yes. To keep the hoarders from buying it all first.” He winked at Grace.

  “Exactly.” Grace leveled a gaze at him. “We’ll be fine here, Colin. You see to yourself, and we’ll have the grandest welcome party you’ve ever seen when you return.”

  His responding smile was so sweet, it made Grace’s heart splinter.

  “I’d like that,” he replied.

  The front door opened and closed, followed by the light bump and clatter of shoes being removed and a purse and gas mask hung.

  Colin grimaced and glanced around the wall.

  “Is it your mother?” Grace mouthed.

  Colin nodded with a wince.

  “Should we tell her?” Grace asked.

  He shook his head so vigorously, Grace had to press her hands to her mouth to keep from laughing.

  A door swung open at the rear of the house and clicked closed. That was when they both realized there was no need to tell Mrs. Weatherford about the sacrifice of her flower beds. Her discovery was announced in the form of a shrill scream.

  * * *

  The devastation of Mrs. Weatherford’s flower beds and the taped windows, which she referred to as “unsightly,” were hardly their greatest loss. That came in the form of Colin’s departure.

  On the morning of Armistice Day, Colin left for his medical examination. Two days later, he had orders to report for duty.

  It all flew by far too quickly, and they found themselves waking to the day of Colin’s departure in stunned shock.

  He accepted a hug from Viv first, who could scarcely summon a smile to see him off.

  Next, he embraced Grace. “Please take care of Mum,” he whispered.

  Grace nodded against his chest. “I promise.”

  When at last he said goodbye to Mrs. Weatherford, his eyes filled with tears. He blinked with a hard sniff and swiftly left the house with an unnaturally straight back. His mother had wanted to accompany him, of course, but in the end, Colin told her he needed to do it alone.

  The door closed behind him and the house fell unnaturally silent, as though it too immediately mourned the loss of his presence. Mrs. Weatherford went to the front window of the parlor and watched him as he made his way down the street.

  She didn’t leave from that spot for the remainder of the day, as if she could still see him walking away, continuing to bid him farewell.

  Only days before, the war had been a true bore—a buildup to nothing. Yet now, its reality struck them where it caused the most hurt.

  Already the sacrifice had been great. Yet it was only the start of so much more to come.

  EIGHT

  Despite more young men disappearing from the streets of London, patrons continued to frequent Primrose Hill Books. The housewives seeking a new novel, the elderly men who considered the rows of political books with shrewd expressions, the men and women too young for war and too old to be sent away to the country for safety, all of them occupied the shop and Grace was all too happy to lose herself in the aiding of their selections. What’s more, she found the customers who arrived in the newly organized store stayed twice as long and purchased three times more books than before.

  What a difference it made when they could find what it was they sought. All except a retired professor who groused at the overly clean shelves, remarking that it lacked the authenticity of the haphazard chaos of their previous sorting system. His obvious appreciation for the shop’s former state brought a smile to Grace’s lips as it made her recall George’s affection for the old, dusty shop.

  She’d even managed to convince Mr. Evans to engage in the National Book token system. It was a marvelous advertising opportunity where one could purchase the card as a gift and the recipient could redeem it for any book of their choosing. Grace had learned of the ingenious system from a trip to Foyle’s, the six-story bookseller who touted secondhand books and notable teas with celebrity guests. Once she’d seen the tokens there, she realized they were everywhere, which put Mr. Evans’s shop at a severe disadvantage.

  Until now.

  With Christmas soon upon them, Primrose Hill Books sold several dozen the first day Grace put out the advert announcing they had book tokens.

  “I’ll give it to you, Miss Bennett,” Mr. Evans admitted in a grudging tone after the customer he’d rung up had departed. “That was a jolly good idea you had with those book tickets.”

  She bit back a grin at his habit of calling them tickets rather than tokens.

  “I’m pleased they’ve worked so well.” She tied a piece of twine around a bit of folded silver tissue and pulled it apart to make a decorative ball. Perfect for the new winter scene she’d assembled in the window.

  “December is nearly over.” He made a note in the small ledger Grace kept beside the register, marking the sales with the same efficiency she’d begun. When he finished, he set the pencil—a proper one he didn’t need to pinch between his fingertips—neatly to the side and tossed a torn piece of paper into the dust bin near the counter.

  “I hope 1940 brings us an end to the war.” She bound together another bundle of silver tissue. One more and she’d have all she needed.

  “You’re two-thirds of the way through your six months here.” He regarded the ledger before letting it fall closed.

  “I am.” She studied him and found his face impassive.

  He opened his mouth as if he meant to say something further when a tall, slender man with a heavy mustache entered the shop and set the small bell jingl
ing. Mr. Evans gave a soul-deep exhale. “Good afternoon, Mr. Stokes. Have we suffered an infraction?”

  The man’s name was familiar, but Grace couldn’t place it.

  “I’m not on duty.” There was an authority to his tone that tugged harder at Grace’s memory, and it struck her at once.

  Mr. Stokes was the local ARP warden.

  “I confess, it’s been rather dull of late.” Mr. Stokes scanned the rows of books, his brow furrowed. The lines creased his forehead, indicating it was an expression he wore often. “I could use a book to get me through the night. My partner is little more than a lad and not much of a conversationalist. You would think with Christmas festivities, there would be more lights visible, but...nothing.” The corner of his lip tucked downward in apparent disappointment at not having more opportunities for rebuke.

  “Perhaps a nice mystery, eh?” Mr. Evans waved the other man to follow him.

  That was where Mr. Evans excelled. And where Grace failed. She had focused for so long on the setup of the store that she had not had time to read its wares, especially not to the point of being able to recommend a book. Was that what Mr. Evans had planned to tell her when he mentioned her time at Primrose Hill Books would soon come to an end?

  She never had the opportunity to find out. The rest of that afternoon became impossibly busy, and Mr. Evans hadn’t brought it up again. With the new year soon upon them, she had it set in her mind that she would take the time to read the books they sold. Then perhaps she could finally offer proper recommendations rather than merely suggesting books based on what seemed most popular.

  * * *

  Christmas was a solemn affair without Colin. Mrs. Weatherford had put together a feast in light of the impending ration, which was rumored to begin in January. She’d found a plump turkey to roast for their dinner along with parsnips, potatoes and brussels sprouts. They’d exchanged gifts in an attempt to lighten the heavy mood, though it only helped a little. The house was not the same without Colin’s goodness to make it glow with warmth.

  Grace had given book tokens to Mrs. Weatherford—they truly were handy gifts—and a fashionable new hat for Viv who had sewn new dresses for Mrs. Weatherford and Grace. Mrs. Weatherford had purchased both girls a handbag fitted for gas masks.

  It was a curious thing with a rounded bottom for the canister to go inside and a pocket to fit the bulk of the mask. The handbags were fashionable black leather with gold snaps at their tops. Certainly a handbag any lady would carry proudly.

  “So you won’t be leaving them behind when you go out.” Mrs. Weatherford had made the declaration with a note of finality that told them she’d take no more excuses at leaving their masks home going forward.

  Not only did Christmas passing not bring an end to the war as many had optimistically predicted, but it brought the implementation of the threatened ration. The limits to bacon, butter and sugar only served to make one of the coldest winters in London all the more bitter.

  Each person in England, including the king and queen, were given a small book of stamps to limit the amount of rationed goods they could purchase. Somehow, even with Mrs. Weatherford’s stockpile of sugar she’d held under lock and key in the previous months, Grace and Viv found the sugar caddy often sparse.

  It was in that dull gray world where Grace discovered an unexpected ray of sunshine.

  One afternoon, on a particularly icy day after she’d been given leave from Primrose Hill Books, she found herself in the very peculiar position of having free time. And she knew exactly how to spend it. She made herself a cup of tea, snuggled into the Morris chair with a thick blanket over her legs and settled under the weight of The Count of Monte Cristo on her lap.

  She ran her fingers over the worn cover and thought of George Anderson. Not only him, but all the men who had been called up.

  Where were they? Was it as drearily dull for them?

  She truly hoped so. Better to be bored than in danger.

  Slowly, she opened the book, noting how the old spine didn’t bother to creak, as though it had been oiled by age, and began to read.

  What she found within was nothing like the texts she’d read in school that offered dry accounts of maths or broken down sentence structures and word formation. No, this book, when finally given the proper attention it deserved, somehow locked her in its grasp and did not once let go.

  What started as an accusation in the beginning spiraled into treachery before tailspinning into the greatest betrayal. Word after word, page after page, she was pulled deeper into a place she had never experienced and walked in the footsteps of a person she’d never been.

  She was emotionally invested in the tale, her eyes darting faster and faster across the page to devour every word, desperate to know what would become of Edmond—

  “Grace?” Mrs. Weatherford’s voice broke into the story, shattering the scene playing out in Grace’s mind.

  She startled and looked up at Mrs. Weatherford.

  “Supper is nearly ready.” The older woman glanced about and tsked before rushing to the window. “You didn’t draw the curtains. I’m certain we’ll hear of it from Mr. Stokes later.”

  Grace blinked, caught in a momentary state of confusion. It had grown rather dark. She’d recalled noticing it briefly and meaning to put on a light, but that had been when Mercédès and Edmond had their engagement party and the nefarious plotting had truly begun to unfold.

  A light snapped on, a flash of brilliance that made the page bloom white in front of Grace’s eyes and rendered the stark black letters so much easier to see.

  “What are you reading?” Mrs. Weatherford angled her face at the cover as she stepped closer.

  “The Count of Monte Cristo.” Grace’s cheeks warmed. “It was the book Mr. Anderson left for me before he was called up.”

  Mrs. Weatherford’s eyes dimmed. “That has always been one of Colin’s favorite books as well.”

  “Have you heard from him?” Grace asked.

  Mrs. Weatherford wandered aimlessly around the room, straightening an immaculate pile of magazines and plumping pillows that could truly not possibly fluff anymore. “I haven’t, though I expect I soon shall. You know how they train those boys so thoroughly before...” Her voice caught.

  Before they’re sent into battle.

  The words hung unsaid in the air, as well as the implication of danger.

  “If you’d like to read it when I’m done, you may borrow it,” Grace offered in an attempt to change the subject.

  “Thank you, but I have a lovely novel by Jane Austen from one of the book tokens you gave me. I haven’t read Emma yet.” She fidgeted with the blackout curtain, making sure it fell just so. “And I stay quite busy with the other women of the WVS, of course. Now come along before supper cools.”

  The Women’s Voluntary Service had done Mrs. Weatherford a world of good in Colin’s absence. Not only did it keep her busy so she didn’t scrub the floors of the house into a carbolic oblivion, but she was in the company of other mothers in similar situations, whose sons were also at war.

  Grace obediently set the book aside and went to the kitchen where they’d taken to eating their meals. The formal dining area felt far too large without Colin sitting opposite his mother.

  Viv grinned at Grace as she entered. “I figured you wanted to skip our tea today considering how involved you were with George’s book.”

  It was as though Grace had tipped fully into another world and was just now finding her way back into reality. She laughed, feeling somewhat foolish. “I’m so sorry I didn’t hear you come in. I didn’t even notice the room had grown dark.”

  Yet even as she chatted through supper and ate the tender chicken Mrs. Weatherford roasted for their meal, Grace found her thoughts turning back to Edmond Dantés. More than that, she recalled his experiences with the same poignancy as if she herself had lived throu
gh them rather than the character in the book.

  This was clearly what George had meant when he described how he felt about reading.

  That night, she stayed up with the blanket covering her head and a torch illuminating the pages as she fell back into Edmond’s story. After every chapter, she swore to herself it would be the last until her eyes finally fell closed, blending the images in her mind with those of her dreams.

  The next morning, she startled awake, bleary-eyed and nearly late. After a particularly unsweetened cup of tea and bite of toast with barely a scrape of butter, Grace bundled up against the harsh cold for the trek to Primrose Hill Books.

  The quick walk that had seemed so brief and pleasant in the summer and fall had become grueling in the winter. The wind pushed at her, making her forward progress all the more difficult as a deep wet cold sank into her bones.

  She was nearly to Farringdon Station, lost in reliving what she’d read in The Count of Monte Cristo, when a peal of laughter pulled her attention to a side street. Two children bundled against the dismal weather raced back and forth in what appeared to be a game of tag, their cheeks red from the nip in the air and their laughter fogging in front of their mouths.

  Once those giggles had been ubiquitous, blending into the roar of traffic and chatter of passing people. It struck Grace suddenly how the sound of children had become foreign.

  Not all mothers had sent their children away to the country, of course, but with so many who had, there were few left to be seen.

  And yet, the children playing were not the only ones she spotted that morning. As she continued on toward the bookshop, she came upon several little girls whispering together with a toy pram holding their dolls.

  Were children returning?

  Buoyed by the possibility this might mean an end to the war, Grace pushed into the store and immediately addressed Mr. Evans. “Have you seen the children? It looks as though they’re returning.”

  Mr. Evans waved emphatically, nearly upsetting a jar of sharpened pencils. “Shut the door, Miss Bennett. It’s cold as brass monkeys out there.”