“So you didn’t tell her to approach me about working too hard?” Grace put a hand to her hip, skeptical.
At least until Mrs. Weatherford gave a bark of laughter. “As though you’d listen. But I’ll keep saying it, and you’ll keep ignoring me up until the day you understand why I’d been warning you.” Mrs. Weatherford lifted Tabby into her arms. The cat nuzzled her chin, and she spoke around his head-butting affection. “I assure you, I’d never send someone on my behalf when I’m more than capable of haranguing you on my own.” She hesitated. “Though I did wish to speak to you on another matter.”
Grace braced herself for something awful. As it seemed most news was these days.
“I’ve considered going through the necessary channels to adopt Jimmy and Sarah.” Mrs. Weatherford set Tabby down amid a puff of dispelled cat hair. “I wanted to see where your thoughts might lie on the matter of them living with us.”
The children had been doing so well, their progress noticeable with each week that passed. Not only did they both attend the readings now, but they were often at Mrs. Weatherford’s townhouse, either for supper or to help out in the garden. They brought laughter back into a house that had gone far too silent, and the idea of having them there permanently left a smile tugging at the corners of Grace’s mouth.
“That’s how I thought you might feel,” Mrs. Weatherford said with a grin. “I’ll speak with them tomorrow to see if the idea would be amenable to them as well.”
Grace nodded in reply and went up the stairs to her room. Fatigue had her in a tight grip, exactly the way she liked it. There would be no painful memories shuffling about her mind when she tried to find sleep, leaving her restless and tossing back and forth. It would be a sweet surrender to darkness later that night.
She opened her wardrobe to hang her coat and caught sight of her ARP uniform. They’d recently been given the new blue serge attire, with men in battledress and women in tunics with skirts. She wouldn’t have need of it this night when she was off duty.
Grace forced herself to stay awake and take supper with Mrs. Weatherford, who used the ration and guilt to encourage Grace to eat. Any meal made with bacon, butter, a sprinkle of cheese or a decent cut of meat was too precious to waste.
Once their meal was done and the dishes washed and put up, they prepared for a night at Farringdon Station. Though the air raids were less frequent, it was still preferable to spend the night in the tube station as a precaution.
Waiting for an air raid siren to go down to the tube would mean no available space on the crowded station floor, so they went out into the dusk with their bundles of blankets in preparation to queue when Grace noticed the overcast sky had begun to clear. A shiver prickled over her skin, leaving the small hairs along her arms standing on end.
There would be a bomber’s moon that night. They would need all the cloud cover they could get.
Especially with the Thames at low tide.
Apprehension tingled in the back of her mind. Exacerbated, no doubt, by her weariness.
They made their way into the underground, stepping over people who had already set up their place to rest for the night and locating a spot where they might settle down together. But no matter how tired Grace was, peace would not find her.
Usually she could sleep through the talking and snoring around her, so weary she’d be in a dreamless state within minutes. That evening, however, her slumber was repeatedly broken with haunting memories clattering about her mind like a pocketful of pebbles.
The air raid cried its wailing tune sometime after eleven that night, muffled by the layers of earth and pavement overhead. The subsequent bombing, however, was not so easily muted.
The screeching bombs. The pounding fire of the ack-ack guns. The thundering boom of explosives obliterating everything in its path wherever they descended. Plaster sifted from the ceiling in chunks and chalky dust. The lights flickered, going out completely for spells at a time.
They were used to these sounds, yes, but whatever went on overhead was far worse than ordinary bombing nights.
The apprehension lodged in Grace’s chest amplified.
Mrs. Weatherford clutched her large green bag to her, part of one hand thrust inside where Grace knew she was stroking Tabby. They weren’t supposed to bring pets down with them, but Mrs. Weatherford refused to leave the small cat, and he had the good sense to stay quiet in his sack until they could return home in the morning.
* * *
As the night crept on, the sounds continued with one hour banging into another until dawn when the onslaught finally came to an end. The foreboding rattling inside Grace crystalized into something cold and sharp. Insistent.
Something was not right.
She could feel it.
Like an ant tickling over one’s skin, or the pregnant moisture in the air before a deluge. Something was not right.
The all clear finally issued its one-note call and those who’d sought shelter in Farringdon Station queued for departure. It was an agonizing wait that clawed at Grace’s patchwork patience. She could scarce stand in place, shifting from one foot to the other.
People slowed as they exited, and Grace saw why when she emerged from the station. The sky was alight with fire, clouded by great billows of black smoke. Homes were cracked and sagging, some gone entirely, knocked from the rows of townhouses like a missing tooth in a jagged grin.
Grace’s pulse raced at an unnatural pace. Sweat prickled at her palms.
“Oh, Grace,” Mrs. Weatherford gasped. “It’s awful.”
Grace quickened her pace toward the townhouse. She was nearly out of breath when she rounded the corner, anxious over what she might find.
Mrs. Weatherford huffed behind her. “I can’t run with Tabby.”
But Grace wasn’t listening as she studied the tidy line of townhouses on their street. Their home was intact, just the same as it’d ever been, save for the tomatoes sprouting from the window boxes rather than the former purple and white petunias.
The sense of dread inside her yawned wider.
Ice chilled the blood in her veins.
The bookshop.
“Go on without me,” Grace said to Mrs. Weatherford.
Before the older woman could ask what she meant, Grace was sprinting toward Hosier Lane with her bed bundle clutched to her chest. The acrid, smoke-filled air burned her throat and stung her eyes, but she didn’t slow as she darted around people returning home from a night hunkered in the tube station.
She had to reassure herself that it was safe, that it had survived the brutal onslaught. After all, Mr. Evans had entrusted her with the shop.
But with each step closer, the band of unease tightened.
When she rounded Hosier Lane, she stopped short, discovering why.
The street smoldered with extinguished fires. The building to the right of the bookshop had been struck in a blast, demolished to piles of broken brick. Primrose Hill Books still stood. But was not intact.
Glass had been blown out of every window, and shredded pages limped in an unseen breeze among the detritus on the pavement. The door was missing, and the contents inside were a scattered mess. Overhead, part of the roof had detached and the stucco near it scorched with flames that luckily had not consumed the structure.
Grace’s heart seemed to shrink inside her chest, sucked into a realm of pure dread. She stood, numb, unable to shake herself from the sight. A gust of wind rustled her skirt and carried with it a flurry of ashes and heat from a nearby fire.
The shop was inoperable.
The source of her strength had been torn inside out.
Grace dragged herself into action, stepping toward the damaged building as the bedroll slipped from her hands. The world around her crackled from nearby fires, and the crunching of glass underfoot mingled with the ragged draw of her breath.
A
ny hope that Primrose Hill Books might look better up close was dashed as she stopped before the place she had poured her soul into, the culmination of a lifetime of Mr. Evans’s hard work and the community she had built around the world of reading.
Grace struggled to find her breath, gasping around the pain that shattered open inside her, white hot and visceral. A small painted newspaper flower she’d designed for the window display rolled over bits of broken glass and dust, stopping at the toe of her shoe. She bent to pick it up. Its twisted paper stem was cool and hard where she pinched it between her fingers, its pink petals as immaculate and clean as the day she made it.
She had to go inside. To see for herself.
If nothing else, to ensure the precious books within the safe had survived.
She entered the gaping doorway and walked slowly through the mess, careful to not tread upon the fallen books. They would need to be salvaged. If they could be.
In her bewildered state, she wondered how she might sort her books from those belonging to the other bookshops, remembering belatedly she’d stamped their names inside with blue ink. Thank goodness for the organized detail with which she’d handled everything before.
Not that it would help the other shop owners, as the bookshop was now almost as useless as theirs. None of them would have a place to go.
Tears prickled in her eyes at that realization, at her inability to help those who had come to rely on her.
The back room door was missing, and the small table had been mangled into a ball of metal in one corner. The safe was fortunately still lodged within the wall. She wrestled with a cabinet drawer and withdrew a torch. With shaking hands, she unlocked the safe and held her breath.
Mr. Evans’s legacy was in those precious books he saved and collected.
The door groaned open and an exhale whooshed from Grace’s lungs. The books that had once been rescued from the flames of Hitler’s hatred had again survived a near demise. They were safely tucked inside the wall safe, framed on all sides within a shell of thick metal.
She had a mind to draw them out and bring them home with her to Britton Street. But thought better of it, knowing they were best left in their iron box. She was beginning to close the door when a slip of paper caught her eye.
An envelope.
A corner of it jutted from between two books whose German titles she couldn’t read. She plucked it from its location and read her name on its back in Mr. Evans’s slanted writing.
Her breath caught.
She slid her finger beneath the flap and drew out the neatly typed letter within.
Dear Sir or Madam,
I’m writing you to recommend Miss Grace Bennett’s services to you. She has been employed at my shop, Primrose Hill Books, for the last six months. In that time, she has taken my cluttered shop and turned it into something quite elegant, thereby increasing its popularity, and sales, tremendously.
Miss Bennett is a polite young woman with immeasurable compassion and a keen intelligence. She’s rather brilliant, actually.
If you don’t hire her, you’re a fool. And I’m a greater fool for letting her go.
My bookshop has never been in better hands, my own included.
Sincerely,
Mr. Percival Evans
Grace could hear his voice in her head, his tone growing more vehement toward the end.
My bookshop has never been in better hands.
The wreckage around her said otherwise. Carefully, she folded the letter back into the envelope and locked it back in the safe.
She would be letting everyone down without the shop. The people who relied on her to sell their wares, her customers who came seeking the distraction of books, not to mention herself. Mr. Evans.
She had lost everything.
TWENTY-ONE
There was nothing for it but to go through the debris and see what could be salvaged. Grace clicked off her torch to save the battery and left the small back room, careful to avoid tripping on any fallen items. Of which there were many.
Books, glass, bits of shelves that had splintered apart. All beneath a fine sifting of dust and ash.
The slim figure of a man filled the doorway of the main entrance. She slipped back into the shadows, regretting not having at least had her ARP whistle on her.
It was far too common for looters to slink into ruined shops and homes, especially after heavy raids like the one they’d just experienced. It was a sad thing when a family returned to a ruined home to find their remaining belongings had already been picked over. Most of the pilfering fiends scared away easily after being called out. But some were bold and remained where they stood.
“What are you doing here?” Grace said sharply, hoping the man might retreat.
The figure didn’t move.
She wrapped her hands tighter around the torch. If nothing else, she could hit him about the head if he came too close.
“Miss Bennett?” Mr. Stokes replied. “Is that you?”
Grace exhaled a sigh of relief and stepped into the open where he could see her.
The electric mains had been turned off prior to her departure the night before, as always. And good thing too, else the shop might have gone up in flames when it caught fire. She would have to assess the damage to the lights before turning them back on.
Mr. Stokes walked into the shop, wearing a jacket and trousers, tiptoeing about to avoid stepping on books as he made his way toward her. “They told me the bookshop had been struck.” He looked around and frowned. “I’m so sorry.”
“Is your home safe?” Grace asked.
He nodded. “Many didn’t fare as well. It was one of the worst nights we’ve had. They estimate the attack on London last night left over a thousand dead, God save their souls. Double that are injured, and blazes still being put out.” He glanced up, squinting with assessment as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. “It’s a good thing this place is standing at all. Some of it might still be saved.”
There was a hopefulness to his tone Grace didn’t share.
“Thank you for coming by to check on the shop, Mr. Stokes.” She looked gratefully at him, realizing that he had unexpectedly become something of a friend in the last few months. They’d been through bombings together, seen death together, saved lives together.
She bent to retrieve a book at her feet, its cover splayed open and its pages bent. Before straightening, she collected three more books, pausing to shake a tinkling of shattered glass from them first.
When she stood, he arched a brow. “You don’t truly intend to handle this all on your own, do you?”
Grace regarded the mess in front of her. Books were torn and battered, shelves were in pieces, the history section pasteboard dangled by only one corner and was covered in a smattering of dirt.
When she turned back to Mr. Stokes, she found him standing in a salute. “Mr. Stokes, light recovery crew, reporting for duty.” He lowered his stiffened hand from his brow. “After all, these matters are best not done alone.”
“How could I possibly say no to that?”
“You can’t,” he answered, grinning.
The two of them worked through the morning and well into the afternoon. The damage to most of the books was not as bad as expected, and though the roof was not fully intact, the flat was, which provided shelter enough for the bookshop. For now.
It was a fortunate thing indeed she had been so slow to clear out Mr. Evans’s flat and was still living with Mrs. Weatherford.
Grace and Mr. Stokes swept up the glass and gathered the unsalvageable shelves to set outside for collection, pausing only to have a spot of tea and some fish and chips Mr. Stokes had procured.
The snatches of sleep Grace managed the previous night, however brief they might have been, provided enough energy to get her through the task. Her shirtdress was covered in a layer of dust
and soot, and her hands were gritty with filth.
As they cleared the last of the wreckage from the shop floor, Grace looked to the pile of books. It was a haphazard stack, with some spines facing outward and some turned in or on their side. It wasn’t sorted by bookseller, let alone category, and would be a hefty undertaking to put to rights once more. But then, so too would the shop.
It would be like starting from her first day at Mr. Evans’s shop. Except he wasn’t there and the whole world had so drastically changed.
Emotion bubbled up in Grace, confusing and overwhelming, leaving her uncertain if she wanted to laugh or cry. In truth, she was nearly compelled to do both at once.
“We’ve been able to save a good bit,” Mr. Stokes said encouragingly.
“What’s happened?”
Grace turned at the familiar voice to find Mrs. Kittering. A glance at Grace’s watch confirmed that it was nearly time for the afternoon reading. Which meant Mrs. Kittering would not be the only customer to show. In the next several minutes, doubtless there would be dozens more.
She rushed forward to Grace, her large, soft brown eyes going wide as she took in everything. “I’m so sorry to see this. After everything you’ve done, after everything you’ve made of this shop.”
The woman’s sympathy lodged deep in Grace’s chest, echoing the hurt already radiating inside.
“I’ll sort it out,” Grace replied with as much courage as she could muster. Admittedly, it wasn’t much.
But she was British. What’s more, she was a Londoner, baptized as such by the firestorm of war, by bombings and incendiaries.
Behind Mrs. Kittering, several more people had begun to enter the shop, gazing in awestruck bewilderment as they beheld the damage.
Mr. Stokes squeezed Grace’s shoulder.
“Thank you for your help, Mr. Stokes.” She smiled gratefully at him.
“I can stay longer if you like.” Despite the generosity of his offer, exhaustion darkened the undersides of his eyes. Still he hesitated to leave.
The Last Bookshop in London Page 25
