The Last Bookshop in London

by Madeline Martin

  “You know what we haven’t done yet?” She spun toward Grace with such enthusiasm, her green skirt flared out around her knees. “We haven’t gone to Hyde Park.”

  Grace grinned. How many countless summer days had they lain in the sun-warmed grass, breathing in its sweet scent as they pretended to be in Hyde Park? “It’s only just up the road,” she said with a lift of her brows.

  Viv glanced around the brightly lit rows of endless elegant displays. “If we can find the way out.”

  Grace craned her neck, searching without success. It took longer than either cared to admit, and they became lost somewhere between the bedding department and braziers, but they were finally able to locate the exit and went up the street into Hyde Park.

  What they had been expecting were clusters of deck chairs filled with extravagantly dressed people, the expanse of the Serpentine catching the sunlight like winking diamonds, and a lawn of endless green grass so soft it would tempt them to remove their shoes. They had not anticipated the trenches gouged into the soil like open wounds, or—worse still—the massive guns.

  The hulking metal bodies rose taller than a man, supported by wheels so large, they came up to Grace’s waist. A long barrel protruded from each beast, jutting toward the sky, ready to take down any threat.

  Grace looked up into the heavy gray clouds, half expecting to see a fleet of aircraft in its murky depths.

  “Don’t trouble yourself worrying about Germany, ladies.” An older man paused before them. “Those anti-aircraft guns will shoot them out of the sky before they can touch us.” He nodded with self-satisfied assurance. “You’ll be safe.”

  Grace’s stomach clenched and robbed her of any words. Viv seemed similarly affected and merely offered a weak smile. The man touched the brim of his hat and resumed his path across the park with a newspaper under his elbow.

  “The war really is coming, isn’t it?” Viv said softly.

  It was. They all knew as much, even if they didn’t want to admit it.

  Already holidays had been cut short when teachers were asked to return home early to begin preparation for the likelihood of the evacuation of thousands of children from London. If they were planning to remove the children to the country, war would surely be soon upon them.

  Still, there was a resignation in Viv’s statement that plucked at a guilty string in Grace’s chest.

  “You don’t need to be here, Viv. It isn’t safe. You only came to help me. Because I was too scared to come on my own. You could—”

  “Go back to Drayton?” Viv’s lips curled up with mirth. “I’d rather die than go back and bury myself up to the elbows in dirt again.”

  We just might, even still. Grace didn’t verbalize the macabre thought, but she did glance back once more at an anti-aircraft gun, dark and ominous where it rose against the afternoon sky.

  “War hasn’t even been declared yet.” Viv adjusted the balance of her purse strap and the string of her gas mask box on her shoulder. “Come, let’s return to Mrs. Weatherford’s and see if she was able to talk some sense into Mr. Evans.”

  Grace made a sour face at her friend. “He doesn’t want me there any more than I want to be there. The shop is old and dusty and filled with books whose titles I’ve never even heard of.”

  A sparkle lit Viv’s eyes. “That’s why it’s perfect for you, Duckie.”

  Grace couldn’t help but smile at the endearment. Her mother had first called her that as a toddler when her blond curls flipped out at the base of her neck. Like a little duck’s tail, Mum used to say. The moniker stuck. With her mother now dead, Viv was the only one who still remembered, and used, the nickname.

  “Your uncle’s shop was a dusty bit of nothing before you stepped up.” Viv put her hands on her hips. “And something tells me Mrs. Weatherford will strong-arm Mr. Evans into a letter of recommendation in six months if he dares to refuse.”

  The image of Mrs. Weatherford haranguing Mr. Evans into submission was almost laughable. “Now there would be a battle of wills.”

  “I know who I’d put my money on.” Viv winked. “Let’s go see what she’s accomplished.”

  By the time they returned to Britton Street, Mrs. Weatherford was already in the parlor with a cup of tea as the scent of roasting meat filled the air. Yet another delicious meal, no doubt. Mrs. Weatherford had quite the talent in the kitchen, the same as Grace’s mother.

  Mrs. Weatherford looked up from her teacup and waved the fog of steam from her glasses. “Ah, there you are. Mr. Evans will pay you a fair wage and would like you to start tomorrow morning promptly at eight.”

  Grace slid her low heels off and, without bothering with her slippers, padded onto the thick pile carpet in the parlor. “You mean...?”

  A victorious smirk touched Mrs. Weatherford’s lips. “Yes, dear. You are the new assistant at Primrose Hill Books.”

  Relief wrestled with trepidation. It was a job, one that would guarantee Grace a livelihood in London. With it, perhaps she could finally put Drayton and her uncle successfully behind her.

  “Thank you for speaking with him, Mrs. Weatherford,” Grace said gratefully. “It was so considerate of you.”

  “It was my pleasure, dear.” The slight puff to the older woman’s chest indicated that it had indeed been her pleasure to do so.

  Grace paused. “Might I ask why it’s called Primrose Hill Books when it isn’t on Primrose Hill?”

  Mrs. Weatherford gave a dreamy smile that told Grace the reason was a good one. “Mr. Evans and his wife, God rest her soul, met on Primrose Hill. They propped their backs against the same tree and discovered the other reading the very same book. Can you imagine?” She took a tea cake from the tray and held it pinched between her fingers. “When they opened the shop, they said it was the perfect name for a bookshop they shared. Quite romantic, isn’t it?”

  It was almost impossible to imagine the stodgy old shop owner as a young man in love, but the shop name was indeed charming. As was the story. Perhaps working at the store would not be so terrible.

  And anyway, it would only be for six months.

  THREE

  Grace arrived at Primrose Hill Books at ten minutes to eight the next morning with perfect curls and jangling nerves. Viv had helped set her hair the night before and rose early to wish her luck despite her own interview with Harrods not being until that afternoon.

  Grace would need all the luck she could get.

  Mr. Evans was behind the cluttered counter when Grace entered. He wore a tweed jacket with a collared shirt underneath and didn’t bother to look up at the ding of the bell. “Good morning, Miss Bennett,” he said in a bored drawl.

  Grace smiled at him, determined for a fresh start with her best foot forward. Or her other cheek turned, depending on how one looked at it. “Good morning, Mr. Evans. I truly appreciate you giving me the opportunity to work in your shop.”

  He lifted his head and regarded her through the thick glass of his spectacles. His wispy white hair and overgrown eyebrows appeared as tamed down as they might ever be. “I don’t need help, but that woman wouldn’t let me be until I finally agreed.” He wagged a stubby finger at her. “And don’t you be locking your heart into this task, Miss Bennett. It’s only for six months.”

  Grace’s shoulders relaxed somewhat with her relief. At least he wouldn’t expect her to be at the shop for the rest of her life.

  “I won’t become attached,” she answered truthfully. How could she possibly with a place so dusty and desolate?

  She scanned the shop and was struck anew with how cramped the space seemed. Shelves were crowded against one another like big teeth in a small mouth amid errant piles of scattered books. All without any sense of rhyme or reason.

  At least when Grace had begun at her uncle’s shop, there had been some semblance of order. What was she do with this haphazard chaos?

&nb
sp; A sense of hopelessness crept in. After all, where was she even to start? Did Mr. Evans already have expectations he wanted her to meet?

  She stood awkwardly in a state of uncertainty with her purse and gas mask box on her shoulder, still wearing her hat. Mr. Evans did not appear to notice as he scrawled a series of numbers into a ledger. The pencil tip was carefully pinched between the pads of his fingertips. One more sharpening and the thing would be nonexistent.

  Grace cleared her throat. “Where am I to set my belongings?”

  “Back room,” he muttered as his hand continued to move against the paper.

  She glanced to the rear of the store and saw a door, presumably where she was being directed. “Then what would you like me to do?”

  The lead of the pencil snapped, and Mr. Evans hissed out an exhale of frustration. He leveled a stare at her. “I told you, I don’t need help. You can sit in the back room and sew or settle into a corner with a book to read or file your nails. I don’t care.”

  Grace nodded and slipped down the misaligned aisle of shelving toward the door he’d indicated. Above it was a dingy brass placard with “Primrose Hill Books” engraved at its top and a small line of words beneath—“where readers find love.” Hopefully it was an omen that her six months might not be all bad.

  The room was narrow and dimly lit by an uncovered bulb, with a flimsy table and chair. Boxes lined every wall, sometimes layered two and three deep, minimizing the space so that one could barely move. It was far less welcoming than the shop itself, which Grace hadn’t thought possible. She located several hooks on the wall where she hung her effects and went back to the main area of the shop.

  She’d never been one for sewing—that was Viv’s area of expertise—and wouldn’t know where to start with which book to read, let alone how to shelve them. A glance at her nails, however, had her lamenting having forgotten her nail file at home.

  There was nothing for it but to find something to do. The thick layers of dust on the shelves begged to be wiped clean. Granted, dusting the shop hadn’t been on the list Mr. Evans had recommended, but the shop was in sore need.

  Three hours later, nearly choking on dust motes in the air, she regretted her choice. Her white shirtdress with sprigs of pink flowers, one of her favorites, was streaked with grime, and Mr. Evans glared in her direction every time he coughed. Which was quite often.

  Through it all, several customers had come and gone. She’d tried to linger near them as she worked, employing considerable care to not send dust clouds in their direction, but still close enough should they require help.

  Not that she would know what to do if they asked her a question. Fortunately no one did, at least not until five minutes after Mr. Evans departed to a nearby café for tea.

  An older woman in a checked pinafore housedress approached with her gaze fixed on Grace. “Excuse me, do you have The Black Spectacles?”

  Grace smiled easily. At least this was a question she could answer. “We don’t carry spectacles here, I’m terribly sorry.”

  The woman blinked her wide blue eyes. “It’s a book. By John Dickson Carr. I finished The Crooked Hinge last night and just had to find the next edition in the Gideon Falls series.”

  If the earth were to open up at that moment and swallow Grace whole, she’d offer no protest.

  She had two book names and a series to work with and no idea where any of them might belong. While cleaning, she’d tried to find some order to the layout of the books, to no avail.

  “Oh, of course.” Grace waved for the woman to follow her in the hopes she might somehow have the dumb luck of stumbling upon the book by happenstance. Or be struck by lightning on the way. She’d accept either at that point.

  “Did you find The Crooked Hinge exciting?” Grace asked tentatively in an effort to glean what type of book she was seeking.

  The woman pressed her palm to her chest. “Oh, it was the best kind of mystery. I locked myself in my bedroom for the last chapter so I could finish it without the children interrupting.”

  Ah, yes, a mystery. Maybe there were some located near the back where she was currently leading the woman. “I believe it will be somewhere on this wall.” Grace’s gaze skimmed over the spines of multiple books. None of which were in any order, not by title or name or even color of the book jacket.

  “If I may...” A masculine voice spoke from behind Grace.

  She leapt in surprise to find a tall man in a finely tailored gray jacket with his black hair combed neatly to the side. She’d noticed him earlier. After all, what woman would not when he was so handsome? But it had been rather a while ago, and she’d assumed he’d already departed.

  “I believe it’s on the shelf on the far wall.” He glanced toward the opposite side of the shop.

  “Yes, thank you.” Grace’s cheeks burned. No, her whole body burned, flaming with an embarrassment made all the more scorching by the man’s gaze on her. She indicated the woman follow once more. “If you’ll come this way, please.”

  “If you don’t mind, miss...” The woman looked pointedly at the handsome man and blushed. “I’d rather he show me.”

  His eyebrows went up with surprise, and he gave a rich chuckle. “By all means.” He offered his elbow to the older woman, who took it with a beaming smile.

  Grace watched the two with amusement as the gentleman took down a black book with bold red type on the front. The woman thanked him and met Grace at the cash register on the cluttered counter.

  “What a gentleman.” The woman patted her reddened cheeks before removing the payment from her purse. “If I were as young and pretty as you, I don’t think I’d let him leave without finding out his name.”

  Grace flicked an anxious glance at the man to ensure he hadn’t heard the woman’s statement. He remained facing a shelf several paces away, apparently oblivious. Thank goodness.

  The tension in Grace’s shoulders eased somewhat. She counted out the woman’s change, thanked her and handed her the purchased book. The housewife gave her a quick wink and exited the shop, sending the little bell chiming.

  When its ring cut off, a heavy silence filled the cramped space. While Grace had been oblivious to the man’s lingering presence in the store earlier, she was keenly aware of it now. If this had been the shop in Drayton, she could offer to assist him, perhaps make a few suggestions. As it was, he appeared to know the store better than she.

  She discreetly brushed as much of the lingering dust from her dress as possible and vowed not to wear anything white again until the shop had been thoroughly cleaned. In the end, she opted to tidy the bits and bobs scattered over the counter as she waited for him to make his selections. She found an old cup in one of the cabinets below, where she gathered the pencil nubs, each worn nearly to its end. Next she disposed of the scraps of rubbish, but only after confirming they were not in fact account slips, as the two often looked similar.

  The gentleman was standing before the partially cleared off counter when Grace looked up. He smiled at her and met her gaze with the most striking green eyes. There was a slight cleft in his chin, which complemented the sharpness of his jaw nicely and made him as alluring as one of the actors in a cinema production.

  Grace’s mind tripped over itself for something fascinating to say and quickly came up empty. “Is there something I can help you with?”

  He nudged the stack of books on the counter toward her, books she’d been too lost in his beautiful eyes to notice.

  “I’d like to purchase these, please.” He put his hands casually in his pockets and settled into the wide-legged stance of a man intent on conversation. “I’ve never known Mr. Evans to have a shop assistant.”

  Grace punched a button on the old National cash register, and its accompanying thwack resounded in the empty shop. “It’s my first day.” She cast him a sheepish glance as she reached for the next book. “It was kin
d of you to help earlier. Thank you.”

  His smile widened and made the smooth skin around his eyes crinkle at the corners. “It’s the least I could do. I’ve been coming regularly since I was a boy. I noticed you’ve cleaned the place up a bit. That’s quite the task to take on.”

  “I’m looking forward to the challenge,” Grace replied, realizing the truth behind her words. If nothing else, putting the shop in order would help fill her time over the next six months.

  “It will be a challenge indeed.” The man glanced behind him with an exaggerated grimace. “Especially if you’re a book lover. Mysteries could easily be thrillers, classics could easily be love stories, and on and on with all that.”

  “I’m not,” she confessed. “A book lover, I mean. I haven’t had much time for books.”

  He drew up slightly, almost as though affronted by her admission, though his smile did not waver. “Well, if you were to start with any of them, I’d suggest The Count of Monte Cristo. It’s a classic I’ve always enjoyed.” He tilted his head. “Though it could also be a love story.”

  “I’ll take it into consideration.” Grace lifted the last book to ring up. “Thank you for the recommendation.”

  He took out his wallet and paid for the books. “May I be so bold as to ask your name?”

  “Miss Grace Bennett,” she replied.

  “Miss Bennett.” He nodded politely. “I’m George Anderson. I look forward to seeing what you do to the shop.”

  She nodded mutely and Mr. Anderson departed, walking backward as he did so to cast her one last devestating grin.

  Heavens!

  She put her hand to her chest as though she could slow its rapid beat. Just then the chime sounded at the door once more and Mr. Evans filled the shop with his cranky disposition.

  His gaze scoured the organized countertop and his furry eyebrows wriggled with apparent consternation. “What the devil happened here? Have we been robbed?”

  “I tidied up,” Grace replied.