The Last Bookshop in London

by Madeline Martin

  “Did you turn off the gas, Colin?” Mrs. Weatherford’s voice was smooth and calm, as if they were not all sitting about waiting to die.

  He nodded.

  “And the sinks and tub?” She looked to Grace.

  Grace nodded also. Viv did likewise beside her before Mrs. Weatherford could ask if she’d completed her task.

  “Brilliant.” Mrs. Weatherford edged the box toward Grace and Viv. “Would you like some crisps?”

  Grace’s mouth was too dry to swallow her own saliva, let alone any food. Not that her knotted stomach would tolerate anything. She stared down at the teal tin of potato crisps and shook her head.

  “Should we put the door into place?” Viv indicated the steel door set to the side of the gaping entrance.

  Mrs. Weatherford didn’t even bother to look back at it. “If we hear planes, we will. Otherwise it will be dark as the blackout in here.”

  “How can you be so calm?” Grace asked.

  “This isn’t the first time London has been bombed, my dear.” Mrs. Weatherford extended the tin to Viv and received another silent no. “Having knowledge is the best way to fight off fear. I’ve spent quite a bit of time bending Mr. Stokes’s ear about how to properly prepare.”

  “Mr. Stokes is our ARP warden.” Colin popped the top off a bottle of lemonade and handed it to Grace, who accepted it with an automatic numbness. He did likewise for Viv and his mother before finally taking one himself.

  Mrs. Weatherford settled the top back on the box and took a sip from her bottle. “We fill the tubs and sinks to have a means to put a fire out if the water lines are compromised. The windows are drawn open to ensure any fires within can be seen in the hopes they will be put out by authorities. The gas main, well, I’m quite sure that’s self-explanatory.”

  Some of Grace’s tension relaxed at Mrs. Weatherford’s nonchalant demeanor. Grace didn’t know that she could ever be as unperturbed about bombs as her mother’s friend, but at least the woman’s no-nonsense approach took the edge off her panic.

  The bottle of lemonade was cool in Grace’s hand. She put the glass to her lips and tilted her head. The sweet, tangy drink filled her mouth with a tartness that zinged at the back of her jaw. She hadn’t realized how parched she’d been until the refreshing wash of liquid ran down her throat.

  “What was it like in the Great War?” Viv asked.

  They all looked to Mrs. Weatherford, including Colin. Grace knew her own mother’s experiences, of course, but surely life had been far different in London.

  “Well.” Mrs. Weatherford glanced about at all their faces. “It wasn’t pleasant. Are you sure you want to know when we’ll likely be facing the same soon?”

  “Having knowledge is the best way to fight off fear.” Viv grinned at her. “As you said.”

  “How can I say no to such a cheeky reply?” Mrs. Weatherford smoothed her skirt, took a deep breath and told them how it had been years ago. How the rationing of food was so carefully monitored that people could be fined even for feeding pigeons at the park. She spoke of zeppelins and how the light aircraft soared over the city like balloons before dropping bombs, too high for the RAF to reach.

  But she also spoke of victory, how the zeppelins were defeated with new planes that could climb to necessary heights, how women were accepted in roles for work and were allowed to vote and how the British people overcame the trying times with a mutual camaraderie.

  “What was the worst part of it?” Viv cast a nervous look at Grace. “So we’re prepared.”

  Mrs. Weatherford regarded Colin with a rare solemnity before looking away with a blank stare. “The men who didn’t come back,” she said in a quiet voice.

  The alarm’s blaring wail pierced the air once more, startling them with its suddenness.

  Even in Grace’s jittery state, she noted the siren’s call was different from the first, with a drone holding one long note rather than wavering up and down in inflection.

  “That’s the all clear.” Mrs. Weatherford drank the last bit of her lemonade and set the empty bottle in the box. “You’ve all survived your first air raid warning. May there be no more after this.” She gathered up the gas masks while Colin hefted the box, and they all removed themselves from the dismal, cramped little shelter.

  * * *

  It was announced later that evening on the wireless that the air raid warning had been a false alarm.

  But what if the next one was not?

  Such concerns edged to the forefront of Grace’s mind as she tried to sleep, the silence luring fear from its darkest corners.

  The unending string of news on the radio the following day didn’t offer any more information before Grace had to make her way to the bookshop.

  Mr. Evans didn’t lift his head when she entered. She knew better than to expect as much at this point. Detritus littered the countertop, the blackout curtains were still drawn tight against the daylight and several new piles of books had sprung from the dingy floorboards like weeds.

  “It appears we’re at war,” Grace said softly.

  Mr. Evans looked up with an elevation of his brows. “It should be done by Christmas according to Mr. Pritchard.”

  “What do you think?” Grace asked.

  “War is unpredictable, Miss Bennett.” Mr. Evans nestled a strip of paper between the pages of his book and closed the ledger, leaving another scrap behind.

  She picked up the errant bit of paper to return it to him.

  Mr. Evans put a hand up to stop her. “Those are some of the books sold here and how they might be sorted according to topic.”

  She gave a little gasp of excitement and focused on the list. A neat row of handwritten titles with categories beside them. “Where might I find these books?”

  He shrugged. “But once you’ve located them, it’s as good a place as any to start sorting out this mess, is it not?” With that, he turned toward the back of the shop. “Make sure you leave by two,” he said over his shoulder as he strode away. “I’ll not have you staying until evening again and going home in the dark. And I’ll certainly not be subjected to another call from Mrs. Weatherford on the matter.”

  Grace winced. She could only imagine how such a discussion had gone. Rather than ponder over it and allow herself to feel bad for Mr. Evans, she put her attention to the list.

  There were twenty-five titles labeled as classic fiction at the top followed by groups of history, philosophy and mystery. By the afternoon, she’d managed to locate only four of the classic fiction when the chime of the bell interupted her task. She pulled herself from a shelf she was examining and took her search to the front of the store to be near the customer.

  The patron was not just anyone, however. Mr. George Anderson greeted her with a handsome smile. “Good afternoon, Miss Bennett.”

  Grace’s pulse quickened. “Good day, Mr. Anderson. May I help you?” She almost laughed at her offer in light of how things went last time. “Or perhaps at least keep you company while I look about for titles.”

  “Are you looking for something?” He glanced at the list in her hands.

  She stuffed the paper behind her, realizing he meant to help, and shook her head. “It’s nothing.”

  Those green eyes narrowed with playful suspicion and a smile teased at his mouth. “Nothing? I think not.”

  She opened her mouth to protest, but what was the point when he knew the store better than she? Slowly, she brought the bit of paper around. “I’m trying to organize the shop and have been given these titles with which to start.”

  He took the list and studied it. With his gray well-tailored three-piece suit, and his dark hair impeccably combed, he looked like a solicitor reading over an important case rather than a customer aiding a shop’s assistant with a tally of misplaced books.

  What did he do for employment?

  Grace pres
sed her lips together to keep from asking.

  “I’ve found Wuthering Heights, Sense and Sensibility, A Tale of Two Cities and Frankenstein,” she said instead and came around beside him to point to the titles. He smelled clean, like shaving soap and something spicy she couldn’t name. It was an appealing scent.

  “That’s a fine start.” He winked at her. “Let’s see what else we can locate.”

  They scanned through the shelves together. While they did, she confessed her intent to go to Paternoster Row to see how best to help advertise Primrose Hill Books.

  “Paternoster Row is a prestigious location for publishing.” His lashes lowered slightly as his gaze skimmed down the row of books before them. “There are printers and book binders and various publishing companies. Quite a few have a slant toward religion on account of its history.”

  “What history is that?” she asked.

  “St. Paul’s Cathedral is there.” His index finger ran along a series of multicolored spines. “It’s said that ages ago the clergymen would go on procession down the street while offering the Lord’s Prayer, hence the name.” He paused over a book with a maroon binding and gilt lettering along the top. “Sense and Sensibility. And if I may be so bold, an excellent story. A classic.”

  “But also a love story?” Grace took the book in her hand and added it to the pathetically small pile she’d excavated.

  He gave that rich, warm chuckle she found she liked a great deal. “You aren’t going to make this shop as pretentious as some of the others, are you?” He grimaced.

  “I haven’t seen them yet.” Grace admitted. “But I don’t think that’s possible regardless. I would like to at least make this place appear more welcoming.”

  “There’s an old world feel here I’ve always appreciated.” He lifted a shoulder. “It would be a shame to have it be like another Nesbitt’s Fine Reads, all crisp newness without any personality.”

  “I’ll take it by your authority until I see for myself. I would like to do what I can to elevate Primrose Hill Books’ appeal. To bring in more customers.”

  “It’s good of you to care so much.”

  “My intentions aren’t altogether altruistic,” she admitted. She explained about not having a letter of recommendation and how she’d spent years improving her uncle’s shop only to end up in London with no options. Sharing her story with others wasn’t something she often did, but there was a kindness in Mr. Anderson that pulled at her and made him seem trustworthy.

  He listened with a slight furrow of his brow, nodding periodically in understanding. “I’m sorry that’s been the way of it. I’d love to be of assistance in your quest to better the shop in order to obtain the most glowing letter of recommendation to ever exist.”

  Heat rose in Grace’s cheeks, and suddenly she found she didn’t mind her predicament as thoroughly as she once did. “You can be, actually.”

  He lifted the list they’d been working off and raised a single brow in a terribly debonair manner. “By locating all these?”

  “I don’t even know if such a feat is possible.” She glanced toward the front of the shop to ensure no one had entered. Their conversation had been so engrossing, she might have actually missed the bell’s chime. “I wonder if I might ask you some questions about reading, to determine how best to advertise.”

  “Ah, you wish to tap into the mind of a reader.” He lifted his pointer finger. “Brilliant.”

  Another wave of warmth suffused her face. “What do you like best about reading?”

  His fingertips steepled together and tapped against one another as he thought. “That’s quite the question, like asking me to describe all the colors in a spinning kaleidoscope.”

  “Is it truly that complicated?” She laughed.

  “I’ll try.” He tilted his head and his gaze focused in the distance as he considered his response with apparent care. “Reading is...” His brows knit together and then his forehead smoothed as the right words appeared to dawn on him. “It’s going somewhere without ever taking a train or ship, an unveiling of new, incredible worlds. It’s living a life you weren’t born into and a chance to see everything colored by someone else’s perspective. It’s learning without having to face consequences of failures, and how best to succeed.” He hesitated. “I think within all of us, there is a void, a gap waiting to be filled by something. For me, that something is books and all their proffered experiences.”

  Grace’s heart went soft at the poetic affection with which he spoke, finding herself both envious of the books as well as the fulfillment he found in them. Nothing in all of her years had ever inspired such passion.

  “I see what you mean by trying to describe all the colors in a spinning kaleidoscope,” she said. “That was beautiful.”

  He met her eyes once more and gave a sheepish smile. “Well, I don’t know that it will help you with advertising.” He cleared his throat.

  “It absolutely does.” Grace paused as she assembled the racing thoughts in her head. “Perhaps something about lighting a blackout with the enjoyment of reading or using it as a means of taking oneself away from the war with a new adventure.”

  He opened his hands as if presenting her as a masterpiece. “Those are perfect. You’ll do a stellar job of this.”

  “Thank you.” Heat flushed through Grace’s cheeks and chest.

  He glanced at his watch. “Forgive me, but I have an appointment I must run to. I should like to continue our discussion on how I might assist you in your efforts. Would you perhaps like to meet for tea some time?”

  Her cheeks were so hot now that she was sorely tempted to press her cold hands to them for a bit of relief. She nodded. “I’d like that very much.”

  “Perhaps next Wednesday at noon?” he asked.

  Grace was working that day, but Mr. Evans would give her the time off for tea if she asked. Or, at least, she hoped. “That would be lovely.”

  “Would the café around the corner suit you, P&V’s?”

  She nodded. “I’ve been wanting to try it.”

  He grinned. “I look forward to it.” He gave her a little bow. “Good day, Miss Bennett.”

  Giddy excitement tickled up through her, but she tamped it down long enough to see him out of the shop properly. Only when he was gone did she allow herself to press her hands first to her chest to calm her frantic heartbeat, then to her cheeks to cool their blaze.

  “You can go on Wednesday,” Mr. Evans called from somewhere in the bookshop.

  Grace froze, hands splayed on her cheeks, eyes wide. “I...I beg your pardon?” she stammered.

  “I wasn’t intending to listen, but the two of you were rather loud.” Mr. Evans emerged from the other side of the shop, his arms folded over the chest of his dun-colored pullover.

  She straightened quickly, dropping her hands.

  Mr. Evans glanced at the pile of books they’d managed to accumulate. “You could do worse than the likes of George Anderson. He’s an engineer and most likely won’t be called up to war. But then again, he’s also just the sort of bloke who will volunteer regardless.”

  The reminder of war was jarring. For that one brief moment, she had forgotten about it. As though the world had, for the span of a blink, been once more blissfully normal.

  Except that it wasn’t. There were barrage balloons in the air outside to ward off bombers and children who had been carted to the country to live with strangers. Men were leaving and may never return, and at any moment, Hitler could drop his bombs.

  It was like waking from a dream and realizing you were in the onset of a nightmare.

  Somewhere outside, a cloud passed over the sun and cast a shadow of gray over the shop.

  “I only hope you won’t be foolish about this nonsense with Mr. Anderson.” Mr. Evans gave her a stern look, the way one’s father might. “Every girl is rushing to marry before
the men can be sent off to war.” His mouth flattened in a chastising gesture. “Keep your head about you.”

  Grace suppressed the urge to squirm where she stood. Was he truly giving her relationship advice? “I don’t plan to wed anytime soon,” she replied slowly.

  He grunted, though she couldn’t tell if that meant he believed her or not, and disappeared down the aisle. As the afternoon went on, Grace found only two more books from the list he’d given her, a search that was decidedly less enjoyable without Mr. Anderson.

  When it was finally time for her to leave for the day, it wasn’t Britton Street she headed for. No, this time she was determined to find her way to Paternoster Row to see how the rest of London touted her bookshops.

  SIX

  All throughout Paternoster Row, wide windows peeked out from multiple shops, showcasing the books being sold within. Gilt letters adorned the glass with store names while painted posters advertised sale prices meant to lure in customers with a bargain. The front displays varied from those that were artfully arranged to piles of books stacked in no particular order, all but blocking the interior. If nothing else, perhaps the latter didn’t require blackout curtains. After all, who needed three layers of fabric when one had stacks of books five deep?

  Grace strode along the raised pavement of the narrow street, pressing close to the tall buildings to avoid the black-painted bollards meant to keep vehicles from edging onto the walkway.

  Between the shops, vendors were scattered about with their wheeled carts, selling everything from lemonade to sandwiches, and the greasy scent of fish and chips lingered in the air.

  She had been admiring the artfully arranged display of F. G. Longman’s large square windows when a familiar face caught her attention. Standing in the doorway of a store on the opposite side of the street was a wide-shouldered, beak-nosed man with skinny legs and a tabby cat close at his heels.