The Last Bookshop in London

by Madeline Martin

  His unspoken suggestion dropped on her with horror. “Do you mean someone may have died to save it?”

  She followed him into the back room where he moved around several boxes to reveal a safe embedded in the wall. She blinked in surprise, having never even known of its existence.

  “Most likely.” He spun at the knob, ignoring the keyhole an inch below it, and the door swung open with a heavy, metallic groan. Inside were nearly a dozen more books with German titles along their spines. While not new, none were in the same poor condition as the one by Albert Einstein.

  “There are many voices Hitler would quiet, especially those who are Jewish.” Mr. Evans slid the new book reverently beside the others. “It is the duty of the rest of the world to ensure they will never be silenced.” He tapped a yellow spine with Almansor in gilt at its top. “‘Where they burn books, they will ultimately burn people as well.’ Heinrich Heine isn’t Jewish, but his ideals go against what Hitler believes.” Mr. Evans pushed the safe door closed with an ominous bang. “This war is about far more than blackouts and food rationing, Miss Bennett.”

  She swallowed.

  People were dying to save books, to prevent ideas and people from being snuffed out.

  Grace wasn’t doing nearly enough.

  “I think I may join the ATS,” she said abruptly.

  His large eyes blinked behind his spectacles. “I do not think that is a wise decision, Miss Bennett. Why not join the ARP as a warden instead?”

  Grace frowned at the idea of being like Mr. Stokes, noting every amount of light emanating from households and gleefully telling them to be put out.

  The bell at the front of the shop jangled, announcing a customer. Wordlessly, Grace left Mr. Evans with the safe as she went to the front of the store. It was no patron who awaited her, but Mrs. Nesbitt.

  She wore a beige mackintosh belted at her narrow waist and a black hat set perfectly in the center of her hair, which was pulled back as severely as before. Her mouth was an angry slash of red in her hard-set features.

  “You are just the wretch I came to see,” Mrs. Nesbitt said, her words nipped out with arrogant precision.

  The aggression of her demeanor was like a slap and rendered Grace momentarily at a loss for words. “I...I beg your pardon?” she stammered.

  “Don’t play innocent with me, you minx.” Mrs. Nesbitt stormed into the shop, her hard, black heels striking the floor like jackboots. “Look how organized this is. How clean. How perfectly laid out by section.” She jabbed a finger at a sign marked History by way of demonstration. “And displayed.” She slid a side glare at the children’s table set artfully with a colorful array of books.

  She didn’t bother to hide the accusation icing over her words. “How curious that your orders at Simpkin Marshalls are increasing as the rest of us struggle to sell our usual stock?”

  Grace’s boldness in dealing with the sharp-tongued woman previously was gone, washed away by the open hostility and cemented by the need to uphold the face of Primrose Hill Books within its walls.

  Grace dug her nails into her patience and clung on. “With all due respect, Mrs. Nesbitt,” she replied levelly, “you are not the only shop to use displays in such a fashion, nor are you the only one to label the sections.”

  “Your display is quite purposefully styled,” Mrs. Nesbitt snapped.

  Grace knew the exhibit in the front window was eye-catching, a blend of popular mysteries with a sprinkle of children’s books to entice a housewife with a child in tow to enter. It was purposefully styled, as Mrs. Nesbitt said, but then many displays on Paternoster Row had been.

  “Thank you,” Mr. Evans replied. “Grace has worked hard on it, as well as everything else in the shop.”

  Mrs. Nesbitt spun around and faced Mr. Evans, tall and skinny to his short and plump. “I mean it looks very much like my display. How dare you?”

  He gave her a bored look. “Do not blame your flagging sales on our prosper.”

  “How could I not?” Mrs. Nesbitt declared. “To what else do you attribute your success aside from organizing your shop like mine?”

  “Competition,” Grace interjected, bolstered by Mr. Evans’s support. “You are amid many other booksellers on Paternoster Row, yet we’re alone here on Hosier Lane.”

  “And offer friendly service.” Mr. Evans gave what appeared to be a kind smile in Grace’s direction. “On that note, Mrs. Nesbitt, I’d like you to take your leave lest you scare off my customers.”

  Her mouth fell open with apparent offense. “I’ve never...”

  “Heard of such a thing?” Mr. Evans’s brows lifted. “Well, if you haven’t, then I wager it’s far overdue.” He indicated the door.

  Mrs. Nesbitt sniffed, lifted her head so high she most likely couldn’t see properly and swept from the bookshop.

  Mr. Evans frowned at Grace.

  She flinched inwardly, anticipating a rebuke for having caused such a row in the store where they might have been heard by customers.

  “Don’t join the ATS, Miss Bennett. Stay here.”

  “In London?”

  “At Primrose Hill Books.” He put his hands in his pockets and lowered his head. “I know you’ve a mind to go to Harrods and it’s not fair of me to ask.” He glanced up at her, his expression hesitant. “I’m grateful for what you’ve done with the shop and would like you to at least consider staying on.”

  Grace stared at him, unable to believe her ears. Surely she was dreaming.

  “With a raise, of course,” he added.

  She grinned at him. “Who could say no to such an offer?”

  “I’m glad to hear it.” He nodded, more to himself. “Quite glad indeed.”

  That afternoon at tea with Viv, Grace happily shared she wouldn’t need the good word put in for her at Harrods after all. With Viv having gathered all the information required to begin her application for the ATS, the two had much to celebrate.

  As it turned out, women who volunteered for service were not sent away for training with the same haste as the men. Between the time it took Viv to finally fill out the application, complete her medical test and wait for her paperwork informing her where she would report, January melted into late February and the icy chill in the air softened the ground enough for a new season of planting to begin.

  * * *

  It was a Wednesday morning when Mrs. Weatherford appeared in the sunny kitchen, wearing a baggy pair of brown trousers belted under her bosom with the legs rolled several times to flop over her ankles. This was matched with an old moss-colored pullover whose neckline had begun to unravel.

  The attire was sloppy and large, clearly belonging to Colin. It was far from Mrs. Weatherford’s usually neat attire comprised of floral, pastel prints.

  Both Grace and Viv paused in eating their morning meal of toast and greasy margarine, which they could never fully get used to, and gaped at Mrs. Weatherford.

  “Colin tore up my flowers for this garden of his, and I’m going to make certain it grows.” She nodded toward the window where the earth outside was still blank and bare. “I intend to plant my own vegetables since the ones he sowed froze over with this wretched winter.”

  “Do you know how to plant?” Grace asked.

  “I know flowers.” Mrs. Weatherford tugged the trousers up a little higher with a confident air. “And Colin always did the planting. But truly, how hard could it possibly be?”

  Viv choked on her tea.

  Mrs. Weatherford thrust out a leaflet, with images of brightly colored plants alongside what appeared to be a chart. “According to this, I ought to plant onions, parsnips, turnips and beans in February.”

  “Not turnips,” Viv said reluctantly. “Those do better when planted in the summer. And truly, you ought to wait until March.”

  Mrs. Weatherford flipped the leaflet back to her face and squin
ted at its small script.

  Grace lifted her eyebrows at Viv, curious to see if her friend would help Mrs. Weatherford. Viv shook her head firmly once. No.

  “Ah, yes, you’re quite right on the turnips.” Mrs. Weatherford set the paper aside and slapped a wilting straw hat on her head. “Well then. I’m off to plant. Proper this time. Or at the very least, my level best.”

  She marched out the door with the determination of a soldier.

  “You’re truly going to let her go about it on her own?” Grace scolded.

  Viv’s face crumpled into a petulant pout. “You know I’m bloody well done messing about in the dirt.” She glanced out the window where Mrs. Weatherford set aside a stack of materials for planting before assuming her task.

  The older woman started in the middle of the yard and poked a hole into the earth with a gloved finger.

  “Do you think she knows what she’s doing?” Grace asked.

  Viv sipped her tea, her gaze fixed on Mrs. Weatherford who was now making holes in a circular pattern. “She does not.”

  Grace tilted her head imploringly at Viv.

  Her friend settled back in her seat, teacup stubbornly locked in her hands. “I’m not helping.”

  Outside, Mrs. Weatherford inspected three pouches of seeds before putting a little of each into the poked earth.

  “Is she planting them all together?” Grace leaned on the thin-cushioned seat for a better view.

  “I’m not going out there.” Viv crossed her legs and sipped her tea.

  Mrs. Weatherford brushed the dirt back over the holes where the seeds had been deposited and scooted over two feet. She punched her finger into the soil and began with a second spiral.

  Grace frowned. “She didn’t even mark the plants.”

  Viv set the cup on the table with such a firm hand, a few droplets sloshed over the rim. “I can’t take it. I’m going upstairs to put on old clothes to help her.”

  Grace hid her smile and gathered up the tea. “I’ll clean up here then put on a set of trousers to join you.”

  It took them the better part of the morning to section off an area of the garden for planting, ensuring to leave space for future seeds that could be sown in warmer months.

  “I think you may be even better at this than Colin,” Mrs. Weatherford said to Viv when they’d finished. “I know you’re eager to join the ATS, but I dare say I believe you would make a fine Land Girl.”

  Viv simply offered a tight smile to the compliment.

  While the work had been hard and terribly messy, it had been enjoyable with the three of them chatting as they toiled. Little did they know it was the last time such joy would be had together, for that afternoon, Viv’s orders came with the post and she was to leave the following day for a training facility in Devon.

  For the first time in her life, Grace would be without her dearest friend to face the wild unknown of London at war.

  TEN

  Life without Viv was lonely. Not only had Grace lost the companionship of her best friend, but she felt as though she’d missed out on something larger than herself by declining to join the ATS.

  Rather than sign on as an ARP warden, Grace allowed Mrs. Weatherford to convince her to attend several WVS meetings.

  There, Grace found herself among housewives, some older than her, but many her own age, with husbands and children. She helped them roll bandages while they lamented the toils of dirty nappies, the excruciating delay of the mail with the war on and the difficulties of getting by on their own. Through it all, they offered encouragement and swapped recipes to get through the ration any way they could. Especially after meat was added to the restrictions in March. After all, there was only so much one could do with four ounces of meat.

  Viv had always been the outgoing, carefree one in their friendship. It had never bothered Grace before that she was more reserved. At least, not until Viv wasn’t there and Grace found herself in a room full of strangers who remained as such week after week.

  And so it was that as April rolled in, Grace began making excuses for being unable to attend the WVS meetings—which Mrs. Weatherford thankfully never protested—and instead curled up in her bed with a book propped in front of her.

  When she wasn’t assisting Mrs. Weatherford in their fledgling garden, Grace devoured the rest of Jane Austen’s works before moving on to several novels by Charles Dickens. Then came Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein and finally something more current by Daphne du Maurier.

  Each and every book Grace enjoyed, she passionately recommended to the customers of Primrose Hill Books. The increase in sales was stunning. So much so that Mr. Evans began loaning Grace books to read. She’d resisted the suggestion at first, until she realized the financial impact of her newfound reading habit, then gratefully accepted Mr. Evans’s generous offer.

  * * *

  Grace had just recommended Rebecca, the latest Daphne du Maurier book she’d read, to a woman she recognized from the WVS—a woman who did not appear to remember her—when Mr. Stokes walked in. Mr. Evans no longer worried about blackout infractions when they saw the middle-aged man with his perpetually furrowed brow, not when he’d become a regular fixture at the store and had a propensity to go through books almost as quickly as Grace.

  “We haven’t seen you in nearly three days,” she commented after she’d completed the WVS woman’s purchase of the book she’d recommended. “I assume The Count of Monte Cristo took some time to read?”

  Grace didn’t bother to hide her smile. He had asked for a book that would last more than one night. The exhaustion shadowing the skin under his eyes indicated he had likely tried to get through the massive book with haste.

  She knew what she’d been doing when she recommended the book to Mr. Stokes. No doubt George also had known what he was doing when he gave her his old copy of The Count of Monte Cristo. A sudden yearning to have another conversation with him struck her. How she longed to share how impactful his gift had been. If nothing else, she wished she had his address, to write her appreciation for the book.

  “You were right about the story occupying a good portion of my time.” Mr. Stokes rubbed at the back of his neck. “It was far longer than others and equally as riveting.” He sighed. “The lad I was working with was conscripted so I’ve been carrying the load of two men in his absence. Do you happen to know of anyone who would be interested in joining the ARP as a warden?”

  “Grace has been considering it,” Mr. Evans offered from somewhere in the history section.

  Now that the store had been properly organized, it was easier to see the types of books that drew the shop owner’s attention. History and philosophy. A majority of Mr. Evans’s days were spent poring through his own stock, ensuring there were no printing inaccuracies, as he put it.

  Grace grimaced at having been volunteered and busied herself at the counter, organizing the neat surface with such unnecessary effort, she reminded herself briefly of Mrs. Weatherford. Regardless, it was better than looking directly at Mr. Stokes and encouraging his entreaty that she join up.

  After all, her attempt to help with the WVS had felt pointless. Worse than pointless, it made her feel awkward and socially inept. Would being an ARP Warden be any better? Air raids still came on occasion, all resulting in nothing more than a few hours in windowless, stuffy places until the all clear sounded. People seldom even bothered to seek shelter anymore.

  She’d eventually received two letters from Viv in the time her friend had been gone. With Viv being stationed in England, they came with more frequency than those from Colin, who was stationed abroad. Though given the backed up postal service, that wasn’t saying much. At least the correspondence had let Grace know Viv appeared to be happily adjusting to her new tasks. Certainly with more ease than Grace had with the Women’s Volunteer Service.

  “Miss Bennett, is that true you wish to join on as an
ARP warden?” Mr. Stokes asked.

  Grace straightened a copy of Bobby Bear’s Annual where the children’s book was on display by the register to attract housewives for one last impulsive purchase. “I’ve considered it.”

  Mr. Stokes’s mustache twitched. “But you’re a woman.”

  Grace stiffened, affronted by the blatancy of his demeaning implication.

  “If you mean to imply she couldn’t do it, you’re daft.” Mr. Evans emerged from the history aisle, shooting a glare at Mr. Stokes from over his thick glasses. “Miss Bennett could do the job of any man, and far better at that.”

  Mr. Stokes scoffed.

  His dubious response, as much as Mr. Evans’s commendation of her abilities, notched her chin a little higher. “I’ll do it.”

  Mr. Stokes’s forehead creases deepened. “You will?”

  “Don’t act as though you’ve competition for the position, Mr. Stokes.” Mr. Evans smiled at Grace and melted back among his books.

  “Very well,” Mr. Stokes said. “Go to the warden’s post this afternoon and inquire within.” He cleared his throat. “And I’d like another book if you would recommend one.”

  Later that day, after Grace’s shift had ended, she did as Mr. Stokes said and inquired within the warden’s post. Several days later, she was awarded a tin hat with a white W painted on it to denote her role as a warden, a whistle, a gas rattle to alert the public in the event of a gas attack, an orange bound copy of the Air Raid Warden’s Training Manual as well as a CD mask. It was the latter that dismayed her the most, for the professional grade gas mask was far larger than her current one, having large glass eyes and a filter that was made to accommodate a microphone. How would such a monstrosity ever fit neatly in her handbag?

  So it was that she ended up on her first shift four nights later alongside Mr. Stokes with her mask strung about her shoulder in its ungainly box rather than with a smart handbag at her side. She wore a light coat against the chill April carried in, and the blasted string refused to remain set against her shoulder. If nothing else, the metal ARP badge she’d pinned to her lapel helped tether the string into place.