The Last Bookshop in London

by Madeline Martin

  Grace did as she was asked, pushing the door against a gust of wind trying to curl its icy fingers inside. Once the chill was thoroughly blocked out, the warmth of the shop tingled at her cheeks and hands, making her almost hot in the bundle of her winter clothes.

  “The children have been coming back since Christmas.” Mr. Evans squinted at something in the ledger. “What does this say?” He turned it toward her.

  She looked down at his jerky script and ignored the ache pounding in her head from lack of sleep. “It says five copies.”

  He hummed in acknowledgment and wrote something beside the note. “I don’t know how you’ve come to read my writing better than I do.”

  “I think we ought to order children’s books and create a new section.” Grace set her handbag on the counter with a thunk, its weight considerable with the combination of her gas mask and book.

  “They’ll all be sent back now that Christmas is over, I wager.” Mr. Evans lifted his generous brows as he wrote, as though doing so made it easier to see.

  “A small section then.” Grace unbelted her coat and tugged the muffler from her neck as she scanned the shop, envisioning where a space for children’s books might go.

  A center table had been prepared for the newest popular book, What Hitler Wants. The attention-grabbing orange banded dust jacket promised to delve beyond Hitler’s manifesto, Mein Kampf, to offer insight into what drove Hitler’s decisions and what he might be motivated to do going forward. It was an atrocious publication in Grace’s opinion, but the masses clearly disagreed and wanted to know more.

  Maybe there was something to Mrs. Weatherford’s claim that having knowledge truly was the best way to fight off fear.

  Grace indicated the table set aside for the book on Hitler. “Here.” The space would be better used for a children’s section.

  Mr. Evans grunted, which she’d come to take as his form of agreement. Or at least, it wasn’t ever a no.

  She set to work that afternoon, putting together a list of books for Simpkin Marshalls to fill. The wholesale book distributor was located on Paternoster Row and had an uncanny knack of prompt delivery from its massively stocked warehouse.

  Yet through it all, she couldn’t dislodge The Count of Monte Cristo from her head. Edmond had only just crawled through the tunnel toward the abbé’s prison cell.

  What would he find in there? What if they were caught? The very thought sent her pulse racing.

  After ordering new stock for the returning children, she slipped the thick book from her handbag and snuck between two large shelves near the rear of the store. Immediately, she fell into the story and the fog of exhaustion in her brain cleared away.

  “Miss Bennett.” Mr. Evans’s voice cut into the stone-walled dungeon cell and slammed her right back in the middle of the bookshop.

  She leapt and slapped the book closed, immediately regretting not having noted the page number first. Never in all her time at her uncle’s shop had she taken even a moment from her tasks for herself in such a way. She slowly looked at Mr. Evans, tense with guilt.

  His heavy brows crawled together as he bent to study the title on the spine. “Are you reading The Count of Monte Cristo?”

  She nodded. “Yes, I...” It was on the edge of her tongue to offer a justification, but she stopped herself. Nothing could excuse what she’d done. “I’m sorry.”

  The corners of his mouth lifted. “I see you took Mr. Anderson’s recommendation.” He nodded to the book. “Carry on, Miss Bennett. I expect if it has captivated you so thoroughly, we can anticipate selling quite a few copies based on your recommendation.”

  Relief eased the tension from her shoulders. “I’ll order more from Simpkin Marshalls.”

  “See that you do.” He picked a bit of yellow lint from his tweed jacket. “And you may want to consider Jane Austen for your next book. Women seem to enjoy her protagonists.”

  Curiosity piqued, she made a mental note to purchase one of Miss Austen’s books. Maybe Emma. Mrs. Weatherford appeared to have found it enjoyable.

  “I’m pleased to see you’ve become a reader in your time here.” Mr. Evans drew his spectacles off to examine them. Without the magnifying effect of the glass, his eyes appeared rather small. “Even if you do have only one more month remaining in our agreement.”

  Was there truly only one more month to go? How was it even a dismal Christmas season had passed with such swiftness?

  Grace nodded, unsure of what to say, and realized belatedly he most likely couldn’t see her.

  He drew out a handkerchief, wiped at a spot on the lens, then replaced the glasses on his face and blinked owlishly at her. “You haven’t become attached to Primrose Hill Books now, have you?”

  The question took her aback, but not nearly as much as her immediate awareness that indeed, she had become attached.

  She liked how customers could easily find their books in the newly organized store, she enjoyed the book jackets and how creative some publishers were with their designs. She even relished the dusty scent that lingered in the shop no matter how often she cleaned, and had come to appreciate Mr. Evans, dry humor and all.

  Before she could formulate a reply, the bell dinged, announcing an incoming customer.

  “Evans?” Mr. Pritchard’s voice chirped from the front of the shop. “Are you here?”

  Mr. Evans rolled his eyes heavenward and shuffled out to greet the man who Grace could never tell was a friend or foe. “Good afternoon, Pritchard.”

  “Have you tried the fish and chips at Warrington’s recently?” Mr. Pritchard asked. “I just had some and they’re bloody awful. It’s a shame what’s become of London when you cannot even find a decent meal of fish and chips. I know they don’t have the same fat to fry them in, but after the queue I stood in and the price I paid...”

  The men continued on discussing how the ration had affected their enjoyment of food and how margarine could never fully replace butter. While they did so, Grace grappled with the dismal realization that soon she would no longer be employed at the bookshop.

  After all the times she’d dreamed of being alongside Viv at Harrods, amid the colorful, stylish clothes and the air scented with costly perfume, never once had she considered how much she genuinely enjoyed her current position.

  Her stomach clenched and she clutched George’s book more tightly in her hands, as though it could somehow help ground her spiraling emotions.

  In only one month, she would have her letter of recommendation, and her employment at Primrose Hill Books would be done.

  Mr. Evans had told her from the start not to get attached. Though she hadn’t meant to, somehow she had.

  And now she didn’t want it to end.

  NINE

  Grace had not been able to dislodge her melancholy at the idea of no longer working for Primrose Hill Books. Yet in the three weeks that followed, she couldn’t summon the temerity to speak to Mr. Evans about the possibility of staying on. Not when he’d been so insistent that she not become attached.

  She did, however, finish The Count of Monte Cristo and so thoroughly enjoyed it, she couldn’t stop recommending it to customers. So much that she’d had to order more than the five they had stocked, something Mr. Evans had commented on with enthusiasm.

  She couldn’t wait to get to the last page to find out if Edmond had his revenge and if his life finally settled into happiness. But as much as she loved reading the story, no one had prepared her for the end being so bittersweet. No one told her finishing the book would leave her so bereft. It was as though she’d said goodbye for the last time to a close friend. When she mentioned it to Mr. Evans, he simply smiled and recommended she try another book. And so, she consoled herself with Emma, which was a most marvelous distraction.

  Through it all, however, Grace couldn’t help but notice Viv had been rather out of sorts. It became most
apparent during one of their afternoon teas in the sunny yellow and white kitchen at the townhouse. First Viv forgot to turn the stovetop on, which left the kettle sitting cold on its surface, and then she brought the tea over without any teacups.

  All of it was very unlike Viv, who loved to add fanfare to any event, even something as common as afternoon tea.

  Grace quickly acquired two cups and studied her friend. “Something is weighing on you. What is it?”

  Viv sank into the opposite chair and sighed. Her gaze wandered to the barren garden outside where Colin’s planting efforts for Dig for Victory had been frozen over by the winter’s brutality. A mound humped up from the middle of the desiccated flower beds where the Andy was buried. Normally a garden would have been locked in winter dormancy, but now there was only bare earth, stripped to stark desolation.

  “Do you ever feel like you don’t do enough?” Viv took a sip of her tea and left a red half-moon on the cup’s rim from her lipstick.

  Grace wrapped her hands around the heat of her teacup. The last week had been cold enough to freeze a mix of snow and ice on the ground. Though the kitchen was the warmest room in the townhouse, Grace’s hands never seemed to thoroughly thaw.

  “This war will continue until we do something.” Viv’s large brown eyes were apprehensive.

  Whatever she had to say, she knew Grace would not like it.

  Nervousness tightened in Grace’s stomach. “What are you going on about?”

  Viv’s mouth twisted slightly, indicating she was biting her lip, a confirmation that she was indeed anxious. “I can’t do it any longer. You know I’ve never been one to sit around waiting for things to happen.”

  Grace set aside her teacup. She did know. Viv had always run headfirst into life, ready for whatever she might face. “The ATS?” Grace surmised.

  Viv nodded. “The uniforms are ghastly, I know, but the service suits my talents. And it’s far better than becoming a Land Girl.”

  The Land Girls were part of the Women’s Land Army, a group of women who assisted with growing crops. While the service was voluntary, it didn’t mean people wouldn’t pressure Viv to join if they knew anything of her history with her parents’ farm.

  She’d heard from her parents only once in the time since they’d arrived in London. In the letter, her mother had expressed her displeasure at Viv’s abrupt departure and told her to not bother returning. Viv had passed it off indifferently with a light jest, but Grace knew it had cut her deeply.

  “You’d make a fine Land Girl,” Grace protested as she bit back a smile.

  Viv’s mouth fell open in exaggerated offense. “You’re so wicked, Grace Bennett.” She nudged Grace’s toe with hers in a mock kick. “You could come with me, you know.” Viv’s auburn brows were finely arched, plucked each day to perfection. They rose now in invitation. “Imagine it, the two of us in the ATS, commiserating in those atrocious brown uniforms that make our bums look long and rectangular, sacrificing youth and fashion to do our bit for England.”

  “Well, when you sell it like that...” Grace laughed. Despite her mirth, she knew she ought to do something for her country. The men were being called up, mothers had sacrificed their children to the country to remain safe, strangers were caring for those children, women were volunteering. And what was she doing?

  Nothing.

  “Come with me, Duckie.” Viv winked, turning on the full effect of her charm. “We can do this together.”

  Grace’s chest squeezed at what joining the ATS would mean, aside from the duty of aiding her country, of course. She would be leaving behind Primrose Hill Books and the disappointment of no longer working there. She wouldn’t have to work at Harrods without Viv. Best of all, she would still be at her friend’s side, the way they’d always been since they were girls.

  But it would also mean leaving Mrs. Weatherford alone.

  The WVS offered her mother’s friend only so much of a reprieve, and the threads of Mrs. Weatherford’s life were beginning to unravel. Mrs. Weatherford preferred to be in charge, but had to yield to the woman heading her local WVS, who had no intention of relinquishing the leadership role. Instead, Mrs. Weatherford shifted her need for control to the house.

  The tar-like odor of carbolic soap permeated every surface from her daily scouring. Towels were adjusted neatly to the exact center of their racks, food tins were lined with their labels facing out like rows of soldiers and even the teacups were put away with their handles pointed in the same direction.

  If Grace were to leave, Mrs. Weatherford would have no one. And Grace had promised Colin she would look after his mother.

  Grace shook her head. “I can’t.”

  “Mrs. Weatherford,” Viv guessed.

  Grace stared into the depths of her tea, just able to make out the bottom in the dark liquid. “I can’t leave her alone here. And you know I’ve never been daring like you. I’m not cut out for the ATS or any of the other lines of service.”

  “You’re more daring than you think.” Viv lifted the rose-painted teacup to her lips and took a small sip.

  There it was again—a pinch of guilt.

  Not that Viv had intended to cause such a reaction, but Grace knew she wasn’t doing enough for the war effort. And the more they all helped, the sooner it would be over.

  A curl of steam rose up in front of Viv as she lowered her cup. “I understand, Grace. Besides, imagine having our room to yourself so you can keep the light on to read at night, instead of having to constantly purchase new torches.”

  Grace had to laugh at that. No. 8 size batteries were nearly impossible to locate anymore. It was far easier to purchase a new torch than find the batteries to put in it. After Viv’s confession to being hopelessly bored, Grace had dedicated her afternoons and evenings to her friend. There had been teas, cafés, cinemas and shopping during the day and the programs on the wireless in the evening.

  But even as she listened to the broadcasts, Grace’s mind always crept back to whatever story she was in the middle of reading. It made for late nights buried under her covers with her newest book.

  Mr. Evans had been correct. Grace had loved Jane Austen and was currently making her way through the author’s entire collection.

  “It won’t be the same here without you,” Grace said to her friend.

  Viv reached across the table and took Grace’s hand. “I’ll come back here every time I’m on leave.”

  “What of your parents?”

  “They’ll disapprove, I’m sure.” Viv rolled her eyes and drew her hand back to her teacup. “They’ve already told me I don’t need to bother returning home, and I won’t. I’d much prefer to come here to see you rather than find myself trapped in an eternal lecture on my disappointments.”

  “The ATS will be all the better for having you.” Grace sat back in her chair and regarded her friend in a new, proud light. “You’ve always been so brave.”

  Viv scoffed humbly at the praise and took a sip of her tea. “I’m only sorry we won’t get to work at Harrods together. I’ll ensure I put in a good word for you before I leave. How delightful would it be if they gave you my position?”

  Grace simply nodded and offered what she hoped was a convincing smile. She didn’t want to work at Harrods. Especially not without Viv.

  More than ever, Grace knew without a doubt that she would prefer to continue her employment at the bookshop. Now she need only convince Mr. Evans.

  * * *

  When Grace entered Primrose Hill Books the next morning, she found a large box sitting on the counter. Mr. Evans greeted her as he lifted a stack of books from its depths and set them aside in a neat pile.

  In the time it took Grace to deposit her belongings in the back room and return to the front, he’d nearly unpacked the entire container.

  “Is that the new shipment from Simpkin’s?” She kept her tone mild,
but her nerves made her feel as though she was rattling inside.

  He nodded and pulled out three more books.

  “There’s less than a week left in my employment here,” she ventured.

  “I’m already working on your letter of recommendation,” he said gruffly. “You needn’t worry after it.”

  Disappointment punched into her gut. His preparation of the letter made everything so much more solid, real.

  Too real.

  Before she attempted a different angle, he reached into the box and withdrew a book bound in a length of canvas. He laid it on the counter with reverence and carefully withdrew the cloth.

  The book inside was filthy. Dirt left brown smears over the golden yellow cover, and a rust-colored stain seeped from its worn face down into the pages beneath. Grace tilted her head to read the spine.

  Quantentheorie des einatomigen idealen Gases by Albert Einstein.

  She straightened as a chill prickled over her skin. “Is that German?”

  “It is.” Mr. Evans lips tucked together, his brows edging together. “It was saved from the book burning the Nazis did around seven years ago. Foyle has been determined to get his hands on all of them and even made a bid to Hitler himself. Who knows why?” Mr. Evans put his hands over the cover, hovering without touching. “Knowing Foyle, he’d probably stuff them into the sandbags around his shop like he does with the rest of the old books he’s used so callously.”

  Grace had seen the squared off sandbags in front of Foyles and had wondered at their shape. Never had she dreamed he would have filled them with old books. Her gaze wandered to the reddish-brown stain on the cover of the battered tome. It was fascinating and yet disconcerting.

  “What is that?” She indicated the book.

  Mr. Evans drew in a long inhale and slowly let it out. “Blood.” He lifted the book free of the cloth. “Old blood. Hitler didn’t take kindly to the books he meant to burn being hidden.”