The Last Bookshop in London

by Madeline Martin

  By the time they stepped out of the immaculate office-like interior of the warden’s post, the blackout was in full effect. The moon’s face was nearly completely hidden, and any light it might have offered was rendered opaque with a veil of heavy clouds.

  It was far too dark to see anything.

  Grace’s palms prickled with sweat despite the night chill.

  “Come on then.” Mr. Stokes’s steps strode confidently ahead.

  Grace cautiously inched forward.

  “Miss Bennett, we can’t linger in front of the post all night.” Impatience edged Mr. Stokes’s tone.

  Regret lanced through her. She never ought to have signed on with the Air Raid Precautions unit. How could she face every night in pitch-darkness?

  She shuffled closer to the sound of Mr. Stokes’s voice.

  His laughter rang out. “You new wardens are all the same, blind as moles in the daylight. Find the white lines on the curbs, Miss Bennett, your eyes will adjust and you can follow them with ease.”

  The direction was given with more condescension than instruction, but still Grace did as he suggested. True to his words, her vision did adjust to identify the thickly painted lines.

  She and the veteran warden carefully made their way through the blackened streets of their allotted sector, once so familiar by day and completely unrecognizable in the dark. As they did so, he showed her where the shelters were located as well as any areas that might cause public issue if bombed.

  As they passed people’s homes, he rattled off their names. In the event of a bombing, they’d need to mark each resident down as they entered the shelters.

  Between names and locations, Mr. Stokes reiterated all the details that had already been presented to Grace in the Air Raid Warden’s Training Manual, albeit the passages on the effects of gas were not as vivid, nor were the descriptions of injuries anywhere near as gratuitous with gore.

  If Mr. Stokes had been able to see her face, he would know his words had left her disgusted. But perhaps that was the point. She wouldn’t put it past him to encourage her to quit.

  “The Taylors,” he muttered with hostility under his breath. “Do you see that?” he asked, more loudly this time, clearly put out.

  Grace searched the darkness in front of them, trying to ignore how the heaviness of it seemed to press into her eyes. There, in the distance, a glow of golden light framed the square of a distant window.

  Grace almost laughed. The light was barely visible. “Surely that can’t be seen by German planes.”

  Mr. Stokes’s footsteps resumed at a clipped pace. “The RAF has already tested infractions such as this and confirmed they can indeed be seen from the skies at night. The Germans invaded Norway and Denmark only yesterday. We could be next. Do you want your house bombed because the Taylors didn’t cover their windows properly?”

  The question jarred Grace. “Of course not.”

  “Missed the bus indeed,” Mr. Stokes groused, referencing Chamberlain’s recent claim. “If we lose this war, it’s because our government is too bloody slow to act.”

  Grace had heard the broadcast as well, where Chamberlain claimed Hitler had “missed the bus” in that he should have attacked earlier in the war when he was prepared and Britain was not. The boast was ill-timed when days later, Hitler attacked Norway and Denmark. The latter fell in a matter of hours.

  All of England had soured on Chamberlain’s response to the war.

  Mr. Stokes darted up the front stairs at a pace Grace doubted she could ever grow used to in such pitch-blackness. “Mr. Taylor, put that light out. You know I told you there’d be a fine next time...”

  Grace did her best to slink into the shadows. Certainly they felt great enough to swallow her up. She would be at the ready should they be attacked by Germany, but she refused to take such pleasure in fining the people of London for not tightly drawing their curtains.

  * * *

  Over the next month, Grace donned her tin warden’s hat three nights a week to grudgingly accompany Mr. Stokes as he terrorized the well-meaning citizens of London whose blackout efforts weren’t up to snuff.

  In that time, Mrs. Weatherford had heard from Colin, who offered multiple assurances he was doing well and succeeding in his training. Grace had also received another letter from Viv. Her friend’s exuberance poured from the page with such vivacity that Grace had the comforting sensation of her friend’s voice in her head as she read. Whatever it was Viv had been assigned was noted in the letter and run through with the thick black band of a censor’s blot. Regardless, everything was right and tight with Viv, and that brought Grace incredible relief.

  Through all the letters from Viv, Grace couldn’t help but wonder about George Anderson. In truth, she’d hoped to have received something from him and had been somewhat disappointed when nothing had arrived. Still, she never ceased to peruse the letters received at Primrose Hill Books from the post in the off chance that he might have written.

  She was going through the most recent post delivery one afternoon when Mr. Pritchard pushed into the shop with a newspaper clutched in his bony hands. Tabby wound anxious circles around his ankles as he shouted his news into the store. “Evans! The Nastys are in France. Also Holland and Belgium. But, France, Evans—France!”

  Fear shivered up Grace’s spine. Hitler hadn’t been so bold as to attack France yet, but now he was in all the countries bordering England. If France fell, there would be nothing but the Channel to keep Hitler away.

  A chill crept over her skin and her thoughts immediately went to her friends in the war. Only later did she realize she ought to be equally terrified for herself and everyone else in London.

  Mr. Evans came to the front of the store with more haste than Grace had ever seen. He didn’t bother to mark his place in his book as he closed it and set it aside on the counter. “Has Chamberlain resigned yet?”

  Mr. Pritchard shook his head. “I can’t say.” He looked helplessly at the paper. It was half the pages now than it’d been in the previous year, another indication of the ration on paper.

  “Heaven help us all if he hasn’t.” Mr. Evans took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose where the weight of his eyewear had left permanent indents in his aged skin.

  The door chimed the merry announcement of a new visitor, a shrill, overly bright sound in the ominous quiet that had descended. A delivery boy from Simpkin Marshalls came in, a large box held in skinny arms.

  It was the recent order of Pigeon Pie, the political satire of the “bore war” by Nancy Mitford.

  Grace could have groaned.

  Such a book would be in terribly poor taste now.

  She’d wanted to order the book before its release several days prior, but Mr. Evans had vacillated on the idea, stating he was more of a classic book seller than a trend follower. Finally he’d relented, and now that risk was about to explode in Grace’s face.

  The state of war escalated in the following days, and as expected, the book was a flop. Sales went down as people found themselves plastered to their sofas at home before their wireless sets, desperate for any news.

  And little of it was anything good.

  The only bright spot was when Chamberlain stepped down as prime minister, his perpetually defensive tactics tiring and now dangerous, and the First Lord of the Admiralty, Winston Churchill, assumed his place. Much to the profound relief of all of Great Britain.

  War was on everyone’s lips, weighing heavily on all their minds, consuming conversation and occupying every aspect of their lives. The details carried on the threads of such gossip were horrifying. The worst of which was the bombing of Rotterdam, Holland, which had been rumored to have killed over thirty thousand people.

  Mr. Stokes had informed Grace of that terrible figure with an edge of awed glee in his voice. Something was finally happening in the unending stretch of a
n actionless war, and it lit a fire inside him. His approach to people’s misdemeanors became practically militant, and he constantly reminded Grace of her duties should they be bombed.

  The curious thing to all of it, however, was how delightful the weather had been. It was an odd thing to note, of course, but never had Grace seen such a beautiful May. The sun shone, the skies were clear and brilliantly blue and the garden’s sprouted shoots unfurled into healthy, broad leaves and flowers that promised vegetables soon.

  The sandbags bricking up public shelters and call-up adverts had long since faded into the background of her awareness. Now, there was only birdsong and sunny days. It was surreal to imagine that nearby, allied countries were under attack with lives being lost daily to bombs and battle.

  But that lovely May was a mirage, a pretty, fragile shell waiting to shatter the reality of their world. Hitler’s troops had torn through France and were poised on the opposite side of the Channel.

  Britain was next.

  Already rumors swirled of coastline evacuations as the children of London were once more removed to the country.

  * * *

  While the presentation of Pigeon Pie at Primrose Hill Books was an enormous failure, copies of What Hitler Wants were nearly impossible to keep on the shelves. But people desperate for information on Hitler’s logic were not the only patrons who still managed to trickle through their belled door. Housewives came in periodically too, anxious over their husbands who fought in France and melancholic at having to once more send their children away. They were women desperate for distraction, a way to occupy their minds so they could forget their heavy hearts.

  One particular woman, a young brunette around Grace’s age, lingered in the shop for well over an hour. Initially she’d declined assistance, but when she remained in a corner by the classic fiction for a considerable amount of time, Grace was compelled to go to her once more.

  “Are you certain there’s nothing I can offer assistance with?” Grace asked.

  The woman startled and sniffed hard, turning her head away. “I’m sorry. I...I shouldn’t...” A sob burst from her, abrupt and unexpected.

  Mr. Evans, who had been in the next aisle over, scuttled quickly to the opposite side of the store, leaving Grace with the crying customer.

  Most of the housewives who came into Evans’s seeking books were stony-faced, hiding their hurt behind a mask of decorum. None had shown their feelings so openly.

  It was a painful thing to behold and tugged at a deep place in Grace’s chest.

  “Don’t trouble yourself over it.” She reached into her pocket and withdrew a handkerchief, which she offered to the woman. “These are hard times for us all.”

  The brunette accepted the handkerchief with an apologetic smile, the flush of her face nearly as red as her lipstick. “Forgive me.” She dabbed at her eyes. “My husband is in France and I...” She swallowed hard and pressed her lips together in an apparent effort to squelch a new wave of despair. “I sent my daughter away two days ago.” Her large brown eyes met Grace’s, her lashes spiky with tears. “Do you have children?”

  “No,” Grace said softly.

  The woman looked miserably at the handkerchief, now stained with mascara, lipstick and the dampness of her sorrow. “I didn’t send her away with the first round. It was selfish, I know, but I couldn’t bear to. But with what is happening with France...and Hitler being so close...”

  She put her hands to her chest and her face crumpled. “I cannot stand the pain of missing her. I keep expecting to hear her little voice calling for me, or singing those silly songs she makes up. I did laundry today and made the mistake of smelling her pillow.” Tears welled in her eyes. “She always has this scent about her, like powder and honey. It smelled just like that. Like her.” She lowered her face to her hands where she cradled the wadded handkerchief and wept.

  Grace’s throat drew tight with the force of her own emotions. She was no mother, but she did know loss, how powerful and visceral it could be. Wordlessly, she embraced the woman.

  “I miss her so much,” the woman sobbed.

  “I know.” Grace held her gently as the woman gave in to her grief. “This will get better. You’ve done what is best to keep your daughter safe.”

  The brunette nodded and straightened as she wiped at her streaked makeup. “I probably shouldn’t have come out in such a state. Do forgive me.” She sniffed and dabbed under her eyes where the skin had gone gray with her running mascara. “A friend recommended I get a book to lose myself in. I thought I could find one, but can scarce concentrate to even decide.”

  Grace discreetly exhaled a relieved breath. This was her area of expertise. “Then let me help you.” She led her to a shelf and withdrew Emma, whose humor made it a particular favorite of Grace’s. “This will have you laughing one minute and sighing wistfully the next.”

  The woman’s hand closed around the volume. “It’s a classic fiction?”

  “And also a romance.” No sooner were the words out of Grace’s mouth than George emerged in her thoughts.

  The housewife’s thanks and further apologies were profuse as she purchased the book and quickly departed, clutching it to her like a treasured possession.

  Several days later, Grace noted a battered envelope addressed to her atop a pile of mail at the edge of the counter. Her pulse missed a beat.

  Surely it couldn’t be George. She shouldn’t dare to hope after all this time. Yet her hand trembled with it as she reached for the piece of mail and read the return address with Flight Lieutenant George Anderson written in neat script.

  She sucked in a hard gasp and opened the envelope, trying to keep from tearing it in her haste.

  George had written to her.

  After all this time, he truly had sent her a letter. Was he in France? Was he safe? When would he be home?

  She unfolded the correspondence and stopped. Gaps in the page showed where pieces had been cut out. What remained was a ravaged note with nearly half the text removed. The date at the top indicated the letter had been drafted back in February.

  The thing could scarcely be held, it’d been so pruned of its contents. Grace lay the fragile paper upon the smooth counter surface to keep it intact and read.

  George apologized for his delay in writing to her for a reason she couldn’t read. He hoped she’d enjoyed The Count of Monte Cristo and bemoaned his lack of access to books where he was. He had a copy of something which he’d read time and again, though its name had been cut from the paper. He hoped to eventually be back in London sometime that year and asked if she might still be free for a date.

  Her pulse kicked up its heels at the last bit. He hadn’t even bothered to hide the invitation behind a suggestion of being available to help her with advertising the shop.

  A date.

  Grace had been on a few when she lived in Drayton, all of which had not ended well. Tom Fisher had been a terrible bore, Simon Jones had pushed too hard to kiss her and Harry Hull was just trying to get to Viv.

  And not a one of them had made her heart skip like George Anderson.

  She floated through the rest of the day on thoughts of that shredded letter. The smile was still hovering on her lips when she entered the townhouse and found Mrs. Weatherford in the parlor amid bandages in various states of being rolled and packaged.

  “They’re coming back home,” she said excitedly from where she sat on the floor before a box of bundled bandages.

  Grace lifted a strip of linen and began to roll, the way she’d done with countless others at the WVS meetings. “Who is coming home?”

  “Our men.” Mrs. Weatherford beamed so brightly, even Mr. Stokes wouldn’t have been able to dim her brilliance. “The BEF is returning home from France, and we at the WVS have been informed to prepare for their arrival. We’re to offer aid where we can and present refreshment and comfort.”
She huffed as though trying to catch her breath. “Grace, Colin will be coming home.”

  If the British Expeditionary Force was returning from France already, that could mean only one of two things: either France was victorious in ousting the Germans, or France had fallen and the British were fleeing. From the official reports Grace had heard, as well as the unofficial rumors, she was more inclined to believe the latter.

  She hid her distress at the news, for an uncomfortable gnawing in her gut told her the BEF’s return was not a good sign. If their men were coming back to English soil, it was because they were retreating from the enemy, and that Hitler was winning.

  But what would that mean for Britain?

  ELEVEN

  The confirmation of Grace’s suspicion was as swift as it was bitter. But it didn’t come from the BBC or any newspaper. It came from the saddest source of all: Mrs. Weatherford.

  The blackout curtains were closed before the older woman finally arrived home the first night of her assistance with the WVS for the men returning from Dunkirk. Grace wished that she might have joined the ladies of the WVS, at least this once in their aid of the returning soldiers, but only those who were members were allowed to help the men. Instead, she waited in the parlor with Pigeon Pie cradled in her lap. If nothing else, her purchase was one more sale out of their unmoving stock. The story held humor to be sure, if one took into consideration it was written prior to Hitler’s attack on France.

  Never had there been a book with such poor timing.

  The click of the front door alerted Grace to Mrs. Weatherford’s return. She all but leapt out of the Morris chair and ran to the foyer.

  Mrs. Weatherford’s gaze was stuck in the distance, her hands feeling for the doorframe, which she leaned heavily upon as she stepped out of her short heels.

  “Mrs. Weatherford?” Grace reached for the older woman.