He set the list on top of a row of books. “You can move things about to help properly organize. But mind you’re not too heavy on your advertising. And I’ll not be buying back books or hawking used wares like Foyle’s.”
“Of course not,” Grace promised.
He issued a low mutter that might have been a yes.
“I beg your pardon?” she asked innocently. “Was that permission to make changes to Primrose Hill Books?”
He sighed. “Yes.”
She snapped up her list, already knowing where to start. “You shan’t regret this.”
“I hope you’re right,” he grumbled and pulled a book from the shelf into his waiting palms.
Regardless of his trepidation, she was certain he would be happy with the results. Eventually. For it would all take a considerable amount of work to implement in the coming months. She only hoped it wouldn’t take more than her allotted time at the bookshop, however, as she certainly had no plans to stay.
SEVEN
The next two months dragged on for London with unrealized anticipation of the war. All the preparation, all the expectation and fraying nerves had been for naught. There were no more air raid warnings, no rations put into place, no gas attacks and the news on the wireless seemed to report the same updates on a tiresome loop.
Grace had not heard from George. While she didn’t have an address to reach out to him, she’d hoped he might send her a letter to the shop.
Nonetheless, for Grace that time had passed in a frenzy of organizing books, shifting shelves and more cleaning than she ever thought possible. The work had kept her so busy for so long, one day she realized somehow it had become November.
Primrose Hill Books was far from perfect, but Grace still straightened with pride every time she walked into the store. Her accomplishment showed itself in the open, welcome space she’d created. New tables were set in the middle of the shop with the books facing the entrance to greet patrons, their genres clearly marked in black print on white pasteboard.
In truth, only about a quarter of the books in Primrose Hill Books were on display, for those were all she’d been able to sort through. That amount, however, was still considerable in light of Mr. Evans’s massive stock. The remaining inventory was piled in the back room, making it almost impossible to move in the already cramped space, and piled along the second floor, which had been blocked off while she sorted through the mess.
She carried a box down from the small spiral staircase one chilly morning when a ding announced a new customer. Quickly, she set the box aside in an alcove at the foot of the stairs, reattached the “Do Not Enter” sign to the railing and went to the front.
Mr. Pritchard skulked around the entryway, his head tucked low in his large jacket. Behind him, as had now become usual, was Tabby, trotting at his heels.
“Good day, Mr. Pritchard.” Grace smiled at him. “If you’re looking for Mr. Evans, he’s in the back by the history section.”
The older man scrunched his face as he read the signs. “These are new.”
“I put them up a few weeks ago.”
Mr. Pritchard scowled. “I hope they work better for you than this cat does for me.” He slid a glance toward Tabby, who was contentedly cleaning his paws. “The cat would sooner catch a nap than a mouse.”
In response to this, Tabby rubbed one tufted paw over his ear and face.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Grace said. “But he seems quite fond of you.”
“Doesn’t help my mouse problem.” Mr. Pritchard tutted. “It appears you’ve been rather busy, Miss Basset.”
She didn’t bother to correct him on her name as he squinted intently at a sign on the counter. It was one of the suggestions she’d made when speaking to George, stating “Lighten Your Blackout with a Good Book.”
She thought of him often, usually with a twinge of guilt at not having read more of The Count of Monte Cristo. In all of her wayward attempts, she had either been too distracted to concentrate, too tired to stay awake, or even a bit of both. And there it had remained on her bedside table, only several pages into the first chapter.
Except it was also next to a to-do list that seemingly had no end. She was either at the shop working or she was jotting down ideas for advertising or organizing at home. And when she finally did take a moment to catch her breath, it was to fall asleep and start over again the next day.
“I hear business has picked up for this place.” Mr. Pritchard straightened from the sign and peered down at her from his beak of a nose. “Do you think it’s these adverts?”
She lifted her shoulder in a noncommittal shrug, unsure if Mr. Evans would want any information divulged.
Mr. Pritchard stepped closer to her, bringing with him the scent of peppermint and mothballs. “I’ll pay you a shilling more an hour than what you’re currently earning if you come to Pritchard & Potts.”
“Mr. Pritchard.” Mr. Evans appeared behind them.
Before Grace could open her mouth to protest that she wouldn’t work for Mr. Pritchard for a pound more an hour, Mr. Evans continued in an even tone. “If you want to come and look at my shop, you’re welcome. Feel free even to tout your dissatisfaction with the world and make your radical claims about the war.” His blue eyes narrowed behind the thick glass of his spectacles. “But if you mean to come in here to lure away Miss Bennett, I shall ask you to take your leave.”
Elation prickled over Grace’s skin. Her uncle would have never stood up for her in such a manner.
Mr. Pritchard drew upright and clicked his tongue in annoyance, making the white wisps of hair on the top of his head tremble. “She would be better used in a book shop on Paternoster Row, a place far more prestigious than Hosier Lane.” He curled his lips at the last word. With that, he strode from the shop on his spindly legs with Tabby loping after him.
“I wasn’t going to accept,” Grace said.
“I imagine you wouldn’t.” Mr. Evans lowered his head to peer at her over the rims of his spectacles. “You’re already more than two months into your allotted time here.”
His dry wit was one of the things she’d come to appreciate about him over the last several months. She smiled in response. “Are you certain you won’t want me to stay longer?”
He waved his hand dismissively and shuffled toward the counter where he proceeded to go through the ledger she’d assembled several weeks prior. Yet another bit of organizing and tracking of sales and popular titles she’d implimented. He tended to look at it often and comment on the comparison of day-to-day sales.
When he paid her later that week, she noticed he had added a shilling more an hour to her wages. A kindness he took no thanks for, but merely reminded her of her six-month commitment. From which she would doubtless emerge with a brilliant letter of recommendation.
Viv was doing equally well at Harrods where her boss had commended her ability to help women find just the right clothes to complement them. Grace and Viv had fallen into a routine upon returning home from work, both around four in the afternoon, to meet in the kitchen for tea to discuss their day, sometimes with the company of Mrs. Weatherford when she wasn’t off running errands.
They sat together one afternoon while rain pattered at the windows, a comfortable silence between them, when Viv gave a long, unexpected sigh. “Isn’t it just driving you to distraction?”
Grace looked up from where she’d been mesmerized by the raindrops melting into one another before trickling down the windows. “Isn’t what driving me to distraction?”
Viv looked longingly outside. “The boredom.”
Grace could have laughed. She’d been anything but bored with how busy she stayed at the shop.
Viv rolled her eyes. “You’re not bored, I know, but this war has been interminable.”
“But nothing’s happening,” Grace protested. After all, there hadn’t been any
more air raid sirens. Nor had there been any attacks or rationing. There were rumors, of course. But there would always be rumors and so far all had been unfounded.
“Exactly.” Viv’s eyes widened with exasperation. “I thought London would be all glitz and glam with theater tickets and late nights out dancing.”
“We could try to go to the cinema again,” Grace offered hesitantly.
Viv pinned her with a sullen stare, no doubt recalling the failure of their last attempt. The building had been black as death’s cloak, and they’d nearly fallen over several times as they tripped their way down the partition that formed something of a corridor leading to the paybox. It was so dark inside, they could scarce see the coins they counted out. Then on the way home, they’d nearly been struck by a car that was quite obviously exceeding the newly enforced speed limits.
The attempt to go to a theater had been an equal failure. They’d forgotten their gas masks, a common occurrence of late, and were turned away. While their return home had been uneventful, it had been met with a lecture from Mrs. Weatherford on the importance of gas masks and why they shouldn’t have been left in the first place.
Besides, Grace had had enough of venturing into the blackout. Between her terrible experience the first week, nearly being run down together after the cinema and all the reports of muggings and assaults in the newly darkened city, they had decided against risking going out later.
Still, Grace hated the idea of Viv being so painfully bored.
“They’ve added white paint to the curbs.” Viv smoothed the lapel on her suit, yet another new dress she’d sewn. There had been at least one every two weeks or so, not only for her, but for Grace and Mrs. Weatherford as well. “And I heard ARP wardens wear luminescent capes now.”
Grace stirred her tea, and the silt at the bottom kicked up into a small whirlpool. “Yes, and still over a thousand people have been hit by cars. It’s so dark at night, dock men are falling into the water and drowning.”
A flicker of lightning flashed outside the windows. Two months ago, they might have both jumped for fear it was a bomb. Now, they remained as they were without even a stutter to their pulses.
Viv was right; there was nothing going on with the war—or rather, as it was now being called, the bore war.
“I think...” Viv tapped a glossy red nail against the curved lip of her teacup. “I’m considering joining the ATS.”
Grace dropped her spoon where it clinked against the side of her cup. The Auxiliary Territorial Service was a women’s branch in the British Army, one that would require Viv to attend training and most likely be assigned somewhere other than London. “Why would you do that?”
“Why wouldn’t I?” Viv lifted a shoulder. “The women are being used as clerks and shopkeeps from what I hear. I’d be doing something similar to what I’m doing now, but at least I’d be helping end all of this.” She waved her hands in the air to imply the entirety of their current situation. “I’m ready for the war to be done, so we can go to cinemas and dances without fear of being run over on our way home. And maybe meet a handsome stranger once all the men come back from war, perhaps even go on a date. I want to stop worrying about the idea that bombs may drop or that we’ll be subject to rationing. I want life to be normal again.”
“But you love Harrods,” Grace protested.
“It’s exciting.” Viv dropped her hands to her lap. “Or at least it was in the beginning. So few women care about fashion right now. Those who do still come in tell me of their struggles. They’re all so anxious about their men who have been sent off to war and their children being cared for by strangers in the country. Some of the letters these women receive are just terribly sad. Little ones wanting to come home, swearing to be good so they aren’t sent away again.” She looked down at her hands. “I just want it all to be done.”
The quiet of the house on a rainy day was shattered suddenly by a choked cry.
Viv and Grace startled, met concerned gazes, then leapt up from the table to investigate what had caused such a sound. Mrs. Weatherford was by the front door with a cascade of envelopes scattered at her feet, her fingers pressed to her mouth. Colin stood in front of her with the sleeves of his white collared shirt pushed past his forearms, an open letter in his hands.
“What is it?” Viv asked.
“Are you all right?” Grace rushed to Mrs. Weatherford.
She didn’t even acknowledge Grace as she continued staring at Colin with wide eyes behind her glasses.
Grace looked to Colin, who didn’t flush at their entrance for the first time, his expression fierce where it remained fixed on the letter. He swallowed and his sharp Adam’s apple bobbed at his slender throat. “It’s finally happened.”
He turned the correspondence toward them, showing the bold typeface at the top displaying “National Service (Armed Forces) Act, 1939” from the Ministry of Labour and National Service. Saturday, November 11th was stamped in blue ink for him to report to the Medical Board Centre for evaluation.
“I thought yours was to be deemed a reserved occupation.” Mrs. Weatherford shook her head, her eyes falling on the orders with apparent disbelief.
“They only said they would try, Mum,” Colin replied patiently. “There was never a guarantee. I can’t stay here while the other men are off fighting.”
Mrs. Weatherford’s eyes sharpened. “Did you volunteer?”
“No.” He turned the letter toward himself once more and set his jaw. “I know you don’t want me to go, Mum. And I know you were trying to keep me here. But I can’t ignore it. I won’t.”
Grace studied Colin as he and his mother spoke, the paper in his large, gentle hands trembling ever so slightly, despite the way he’d squared his shoulders with determination to do what was right. And her heart broke.
Men like Colin were not meant for war.
“They’re calling you up on Armistice Day.” Mrs. Weatherford smoothed her hands down the blue flowered dress that Viv had sewn for her. The action was one Grace had seen before, when Mrs. Weatherford fought to control her emotions.
“Your father died to make that day possible,” she continued. “How could they call you up then of all days?” Her voice pitched high with fear and hurt.
Grace reached for Mrs. Weatherford again, but the older woman brushed her off. “I must call Mr. Simons. He told me he submitted for you to be an essential employee. He’ll be able to—”
Colin stepped toward his mother to stop her. Mrs. Weatherford finally stilled and looked at him with wide, wet eyes.
“I’ll do my bit, Mum.” He lifted his thin chest. “Our country needs me.”
Emotion burned in Grace’s throat. This young man who was so tenderhearted and kind, who still carried elements of his adolescence with his naive sweetness, displayed such bravery.
She couldn’t imagine the townhouse without him any more than she could imagine Mrs. Weatherford existing without her son. Not when she doted on him with such adoration or how she watched him with eyes that shone with pride and love.
Mrs. Weatherford’s chin trembled. She pressed her lips together, but it didn’t stop, nor did the rapid blinking of her eyes. “Do excuse me,” she choked out. “I...” She quickly fled up the stairs.
Her bedroom door on the second level clicked shut a moment later and a wail cut through the silence, sharp with raw pain.
Colin lowered his head, hiding his expression.
Grace put a hand to the soft cotton of his sleeve. “Go to her. I’ll put a fresh kettle on.”
He nodded without looking at her and went up the stairs with slow, heavy steps as Grace led Viv back into the kitchen. As soon as they were alone, Grace pressed her hands to her chest where a dull ache had begun.
Colin. At war.
First George. Now Colin.
Would all the men in London be gone soon?
She
looked to Viv and the weight of sorrow settled over her. Viv would soon leave too.
As if hearing her thoughts, Viv shook her head emphatically, sending her red curls bobbing around her face. “I shouldn’t have said what I did, Grace.” She sucked in a hard inhale. “I won’t join the ATS. Not with Colin gone.”
Viv’s arms wrapped around her and the sweet floral perfume of Viv’s latest scent It’s You joined their embrace.
“I won’t leave,” Viv promised. “Mrs. Weatherford will need us both now.”
Grace nodded against her friend’s shoulder, grateful to not lose Viv along with George and Colin. Truly, it would be too much to bear.
* * *
In the following days, Colin remained busy in his efforts to ensure the house was up to snuff before his departure. He immediately gave notice at his job at Pet Kingdom and spent his time fixing every creaking stair and squeaking hinge. He’d even gone so far as to show Grace and Viv how to perform minor repairs in his absence in case a faucet leaked, or a knob came loose.
Grace returned to the townhouse one day to find him crouched beside a window in the parlor, painstakingly applying scrim in an artful pattern to ensure any potential bomb blasts might keep the glass from shattering. Not that there appeared to be much likelihood of bombs anymore.
Viv had warned Grace she’d be late that day with an errand to run, so Grace set aside the list of potential advertising lines she’d been considering and knelt beside him. She didn’t bother to ask if she could help, knowing he would decline. Instead, she cut a strip of the tape, moistened the back and slicked it onto the glass, following his same careful pattern.
He looked at her, studying her a moment with his tender blue eyes, then gave a grateful smile.
“I thought your mum couldn’t abide taped windows?” Grace cut off another length of scrim.
“It will ensure you all remain safe.” Colin smoothed his large hand over the piece Grace had attached, pressing out the tiny bubbles of air. “You should see what I’ve done to her remaining flowers.”
The Last Bookshop in London Page 8