The Last Bookshop in London

by Madeline Martin

  “I think you know me better than that.” Grace settled onto her bed with her legs tucked underneath her.

  Viv inspected a freshly painted nail then slid her gaze to Grace and laughed. “We must go. Everyone talks about what a lark the West End in London is at night. Trust me, you’ll love it.”

  On her own, Grace would have hated it, she knew without a doubt. Not that she’d had the nights to spare anyway. But with Viv, she could see the possibility for a jolly good time.

  Grace nodded. “Let’s do it then.”

  Viv beamed. “You’ll have the best time. I promise.”

  She wasn’t wrong. The next night, Grace found herself at The Grosvenor House Hotel for one of their two-shilling cocktail dances. They’d donned their best swing dresses, Viv in a bright red confection with a crimped skirt that matched her nails and lips while Grace borrowed one of Viv’s in ice blue with folded sleeves. They bundled up in warm coats against the bitter December freeze and took a hack to Park Street. The Grosvenor greeted them with a mound of sandbags piled high around its perimeter and its windows blacked out against the darkening sky.

  They left their overnight bags at the front desk and were shown to the Great Room where the pulse of jazz reverberated off the glossy floors and high ceilings. People toward the front of the room whirled about on the dance floor, stockinged legs kicking out with the jitterbug and ladies swishing their hips with such enthusiasm their knickers peeked from beneath their swirling skirts.

  Excitement pulsed through Grace, penetrating that ever-present fog of exhaustion that had encased itself around her in the past months.

  Viv ordered two French 75s and met Grace’s questioning look with a grin. “It’s my favorite,” Viv shouted over the blast of lively music. “They say it has more punch than a French 75mm. Meaning it will even get you out on the dance floor, Duckie.”

  The beverages arrived in tall glasses with bubbles dancing up their sides. The drink was tart and sweet with a fizz that tickled Grace’s tongue and set a warmth glowing through her. It took only one to melt away her inhibitions and pull her toward the beat of the live band playing their souls out on the stage.

  Grace and Viv danced on and on through the night, with soldiers, with men who had jobs that kept them from conscription, and even with each other. By the end of the night, Grace’s cheeks hurt from laughing and her veins were still buzzing with the electricity of the night, the drinks and the joy of dancing.

  It was the first time since the start of the Blitz, as the papers termed the interminable onslaught by Germany, that she’d been able to set it all aside. She didn’t once think about the bombs, or the destruction they caused, or how no matter how hard she worked, she could never make the world right.

  She was alive.

  She was young.

  And she was having fun.

  This was what life in London was supposed to be for her and Viv—a celebration of youth and happiness and everything she’d set aside for far too long.

  * * *

  The effervescence of it all kept the smile hovering on her lips through the following morning after they freshened up and stepped out of the Grosvenor into a world of snow flurries and smoke.

  In the daylight, the familiar odor of war hit Grace like a punch, and all the exhilaration crushed out of her. Rubble and fragments of broken glass littered the street just beyond the immaculately swept entryway to the hotel. Several fires still burned in the surrounding buildings, the oily scent on the air indicative of incendiaries.

  It was then she realized the flecks whirling in the air weren’t snow at all, but ash.

  “Would you like me to ring you a taxi?” one of the hotel’s attendants asked.

  “How could this have happened while we were inside?” Grace asked through numb lips. “I never heard any of it.”

  “The sand bags.” The attendant puffed his chest proudly. “We’ve so many, it blots out the bombings completely.”

  A chill threaded through Grace’s veins that had nothing to do with the bite of icy wind. They were never informed of an air raid being sounded. It was all too easy to imagine what a bomb would have done to such a large roomful of people. Everyone dancing, carousing, oblivious. A shudder rippled down her back.

  The realization was immediately replaced by the heavy press of guilt.

  While residents were outside being bombed, losing their homes and their lives as volunteers worked all night to save who and what they could, Grace had been dancing.

  A pain lashed through her. She could have been out here, helping. She could have been able to offer first aid, comfort, advice to the rescue crews on who might be where and in need. She could have manned a stirrup pump to help with dousing the flames. She could have—

  Viv tucked Grace’s arm in the crook of hers. “Come, let’s go to the station.”

  “I could have helped.” Grace let herself be led away, barely acknowledging the attendant’s warning to mind their step.

  “You could have been killed,” Viv said, sharper than Grace had ever heard her speak.

  In truth, they all could have been killed. Thick walls and sandbags didn’t do much. Even underground. She’d heard of too many shelters whose occupants thought themselves safe, only to be bombed or buried in rubble.

  And the hotel had never even told them of the air raid.

  Their feet crunched over broken glass, and heat wafted toward them from a pile of shattered bricks with flames still burning somewhere within.

  “You walk outside while this is going on?” Viv asked quietly.

  “Of course,” Grace frowned. “I should have been out here last night.”

  “No.” Viv stopped in front of Grace and met her eyes. “You are working yourself ragged. You needed the distraction, at least for one evening, and I’m glad you took it.” She looked around in horrified awe before turning her attention back to Grace. “Good God, the things you must see.”

  Then she threw her arms around Grace and squeezed her in a hug that smelled like the old Viv, all sweet floral perfume that overwhelmed the acrid odor in the air. “You’re so brave,” Viv whispered. “So very brave.”

  Brave.

  The word took Grace aback. She wasn’t brave. She was simply doing what any ARP warden would, what she’d been trained to do. Of all the words Grace might describe herself with, the last would be brave.

  When Viv straightened, she wiped the underside of her eyes and looked up, fluttering her lashes with a self-deprecating laugh. “I’ll ruin my makeup going on like this. Come, let’s get home so you can have a proper rest before this afternoon.”

  Warmth flushed over Grace’s cheeks at the reminder. George would be by to pick her up later that afternoon for a date. It had been over a year since she’d seen him last.

  Several men she’d danced with the night before had asked her to dinner or for her to write. A few had even boldly asked her to kiss them, declaring hers might be the last lips they’d ever taste. She’d turned every one of them down, though as gently as possible, and took care not to dance with anyone more than once, lest they mistake her interest in them.

  That afternoon, after a bit of a nap and a lot of fuss from Viv over exactly what dress to wear, they’d agreed on a cherry-red shirred dress in a silk Grace thought far too fancy and Viv insisted was exactly perfect. This was paired with matching pumps and a black purse with red piping. Her hair was styled in the latest fashion, courtesy of Viv, with reverse rolls curled back from her face.

  Viv even managed to talk Grace into a bit of red lipstick, which admittedly did look becoming with the dress. It was the boldest outfit Grace had ever worn, and it made her feel as smooth as the silk of her last pair of new stockings.

  “I think he may fall over when he sees you,” Viv said with a rise of her perfectly plucked brows.

  Grace’s cheeks flushed at her reflection.


  “Especially if you blush like that.” Viv clapped her hands with delight and they made their way downstairs.

  Mrs. Weatherford, who was waiting in the entryway for them, put a palm to her chest. “Oh, Grace.”

  Grace went hot all over, nervous that Mrs. Weatherford might declare it all too much. Certainly it was far more than Grace had ever done with so much red and in silk, no less.

  “You’re so very beautiful, my dear.” Mrs. Weatherford shook her head and breathed out a long exhale. “If only your mum could see you now.”

  Before Grace could reply, the doorbell chimed and she nearly stumbled off the last step.

  She and George had agreed on an early dinner to ensure they couldn’t be interrupted by air raids and so she could still resume her shift that night as warden. A glance at her watch confirmed he was a minute early.

  Mrs. Weatherford’s mouth formed an O of anticipation, and she scooted back from the door so Grace could draw it open. It was all Grace could do not to yank the handle, and instead pulled it far slower than she truly wanted.

  On the other side was George. The man to whom she’d written letters for months detailing every bit of her life, with whom she had shared her innermost thoughts. The man who had introduced her to the world of reading.

  And now, for the first time in over a year, she was finally seeing him again.

  SEVENTEEN

  Grace’s pulse tripped over itself as her gaze found the striking green eyes of George Anderson.

  After so many months, there he was—in person, with his dark hair neatly combed to the side and wearing a crisp blue RAF uniform, his arms tucked patiently behind his back like a soldier at ease. His mouth opened as he took her in, but he didn’t utter a single word.

  He swallowed and cleared his throat then said, “Miss Bennett—Grace—you look...” He shook his head as though trying to find the right word.

  Never had she seen him at a loss for what to say. In their previous interactions, he’d always been so smooth and confident. That she had rattled him gave her an undeniable thrill.

  “Stunning,” he said finally with a lopsided grin. “You look stunning.”

  He brought his arms from around his back and extended a book toward her. The royal purple cover was embossed with a gold image of a man standing on a barrel amid a group of people with the looping title in gilt at its top. Vanity Fair.

  “I would have arrived with flowers, but it appears they’ve all been replaced with cabbages.” He tilted the book as though reconsidering it. “So I brought the next best thing. I thought you might enjoy it, and you hadn’t mentioned reading this one yet in your letters.”

  “I haven’t.” Grace took the book, feeling suddenly shy in front of this man whom she’d shared so much of herself with. “And this is far better than flowers.”

  Grace turned inside the townhouse to set the book on the small table by the door and found Mrs. Weatherford and Viv watching with raised brows and wide, expectant smiles stretched on their faces. Grace laughed. “Let me introduce you to my dearest friends, Mrs. Weatherford and Viv.”

  George stepped into the townhouse and was introduced first to Viv, who politely greeted him, then, once he’d turned to Mrs. Weatherford, she fanned herself with openmouthed appreciation.

  For her part, Mrs. Weatherford tittered on with flushed eagerness as she chatted with him about his return to London and asked after his family who lived in Kent.

  Once introductions had been made, George returned to Grace and offered her his arm. He led her outside and together they walked to a waiting taxi.

  Her jittering nerves prior to his arrival melted into a blissful, electric happiness. There was something about knowing one another’s intimate musings and considerations. After all, it was so much easier to share oneself by pen than voice, and it had established between them an undeniable connection.

  While it might be only their first proper date, they knew one another. What’s more, they understood one another.

  He opened the door for her to let her in before joining her in the close quarters of the cab. The scent of his shaving soap filled the small space, a familiar smell she recalled from their earlier interactions in the bookshop so long ago.

  “I want to hear all about how your book readings are going,” he prompted.

  Grace told him of the people who came and the stories she read as he listened with a smile hovering on his lips. All the while, the taxi sailed through the streets, weaving through the occasional Diversion signs to avoid craters from bombs.

  She’d expected they might dine at a small eatery, something like the Kardomah Café, whose layers of sandbags rendered it safe enough to double as an air raid shelter. So, when they stopped before the multiple arched entryway of the Ritz, her mouth went dry with shock.

  Never had she been to a place so fine, exploring any possibility only in her imagination on late night chats with Viv while they were still locked in a doldrum life at Drayton.

  “I thought...” Grace stammered. “I thought we were going to a café.”

  George grinned at her. “If I only have the opportunity to take you out once during my three-day pass home, I want to make it count.” He exited the hack, then offered her his hand. “If that’s all right.”

  She put her fingers to his warm palm and allowed him to help her from the taxi. “Quite.”

  He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm as attendants opened the doors to welcome them into the splendor of the Ritz. They were led into the dining area where many tables were set for two with fresh linens and plush chairs.

  As grand as she had anticipated it might be, it was far, far grander.

  There wasn’t simply one chandelier, but several. They were all linked throughout the oval-shaped ceiling by garlands and seemed to drip down like jewels from a fine necklace. Every inch of the place was resplendent with opulence, from the scrollwork-patterned rug thick underfoot to the painted walls and ceilings.

  It was as though they’d stepped into a pocket of London where the war didn’t exist. Where people wore clothes that weren’t sensible for running to a bomb shelter or stumbling over rubble-strewn streets. Where the scent of food in the air held luxuries like sugar and quality meat. Somewhere unseen, a pianist’s fingers danced effortlessly over the keys, producing the most delicate tune that made her think of summer and laughter.

  At the head of the room was a stately Christmas tree with not a scrap of painted newspaper to be seen among its glittering ornaments.

  They were shown to a table set for two in the corner with a small bunch of what appeared to be dahlias in a vase on the table.

  George grimaced at the flowers. “And all I could find were cabbages.”

  Grace laughed, giving way to the giddy rush racing through her. “You’re not the Ritz.”

  The waiter arrived and presented them with the menu. At the top, in a fine looping script was Le Woolton Pie. Grace smiled, imaging Mrs. Weatherford’s face when she found out the Ritz was serving Woolton pie with a fancy name.

  Grace opted to forego Le Woolton Pie and chose a perfectly cooked roast beef instead, which emerged succulent and tender, a refreshing change from what they managed to purchase from the butcher, which often seemed more fat than meat.

  George ordered the same with a carrot salad to start.

  “Carrot salad?” Grace made a show of raising her brows. “Is it true that they help you see in the dark?”

  “The government says they do.” He winked.

  Various posters had appeared recently encouraging carrot consumption and touting their ability to help people see in the dark. Especially pilots.

  “And what do you say?” Though Grace asked the question playfully, she was indeed curious. After all, she’d been eating more carrots than usual and had noticed little different when on patrol in the blackout.

&
nbsp; He grinned. “It works well enough for the Germans to start feeding them to the pilots too.”

  “Truly?”

  He laughed and she realized he was intentionally edging around her question. It was something he did when it came to his efforts in the war. When she’d asked if he’d been in France, he’d replied with one word: Dunkirk. The guarded look on his face and the understanding of what he must have seen kept her from asking any more.

  He was stationed at Acklington in Scotland with 13 Group as a fighter pilot who flew a Hawker Hurricane. And he’d been at Dunkirk. Outside of those few bits of information, she knew little else. With the sensitivity of sharing details about the war, especially regarding the RAF, Grace was well aware there was a lot that couldn’t be said.

  After all, loose lips sink ships. Be like dad and keep mum. And all those other slogans about staying silent.

  “Now tell me, how did you know I would love The Count of Monte Cristo?” she asked.

  This was a topic he could speak on freely, as was evidenced by the way his handsome green eyes lit up. “Everyone loves The Count of Monte Cristo.”

  “It seems you did especially.” She trailed off her words and took a sip of wine, hoping he would fill her in on the story behind the old book.

  “My grandfather gave it to me.” Tenderness touched George’s smile. “Every year when I was a boy, we would take the train to Dorset to stay in his cottage. It’s on one of the cliffs, overlooking the sea. There’s an extensive library.” He widened his hands to reflect its enormity. “It takes up half the house and is filled with classics. But that one was always my favorite. Once I attended university, I couldn’t go anymore, so he had the book mailed to me.”

  “Dorset.” Grace leaned back in her seat and gave a wistful smile. “I’ve heard it’s beautiful.”

  “It is.” George curled his fingers around his wineglass, his head tilted in musing. “I miss it, the way the wind smells of the ocean, and how it tugs insistently at my hair and clothes when I stand near the edge of the cliff. On fine days, we would go down to the beach where the sand is hot and the water is cold.”