The Last Bookshop in London

by Madeline Martin

  More so now than ever before, Grace found herself wishing to hear from Viv and George, to know they were safe in the face of such uncertainty and sorrow.

  * * *

  Grace was the only one moving about the townhouse the following morning as Mrs. Weatherford remained in bed. The older woman’s freshly washed teacup was absent from the strainer where it usually was drying by the time Grace rose. After an attempt to bring Mrs. Weatherford tea went unanswered, Grace set a small tray by her door in the hopes it would be of some comfort.

  Perhaps Grace ought to have telephoned Mr. Evans and begged off work that day, but she didn’t want to be trapped at home under the weight of her own thoughts and grief. They had been poor company through the night, burning in her chest like the fire inside the Italian café and heavy with the crushing blow of Colin’s death.

  She wanted her day to be filled with ordering new books and engaging in conversation with the customers of Primrose Hill Books. The day was already warm, the air dry against her gritty eyes, which still appeared red-rimmed and swollen despite an extra swipe of mascara and a pat more face powder.

  Mr. Evans looked up when she entered and immediately straightened from where he was bent over his ledger. “What is it?”

  “A telegraph.” It was all Grace could muster.

  His mouth set in a hard line. “Colin?”

  Grace nodded.

  Mr. Evans’s eyes closed behind his spectacles and stayed closed for a long time before he blinked them open. “He was too good for the likes of this bloody war.”

  Grace’s throat went tight with the familiar ache of mourning.

  “Go home, Miss Bennett.” The tip of his nose had gone pink. “I’ll cover your wages for the next week.”

  She shook her head vehemently. “I’d like to work. Please.” Even she could hear the desperate tremble in her voice.

  He studied her a long time and finally nodded. “But if you want to go, you need only ask.”

  She nodded, grateful for a chance for a reprieve from her grief.

  * * *

  As it turned out, such melancholy could not be outrun. It followed her like a shadow, slinking at her back and creeping through her thoughts every moment her mind was not occupied. It reminded her of Colin cradling a wounded creature in his big, tender hands and how the shattering of the Italian café’s window had crashed through the damp night air. It had reminded her again and again how she could stop none of it, that she was utterly and helplessly ineffectual.

  She was in the small back room for a spell, giving in to a cry when Mr. Evans came in. He stopped abruptly and stared at her, his eyes wide with uncertainty. Grace turned her face from him, wishing he would slip away as he had done the other day with the sobbing mother.

  Instead, his footsteps shuffled closer and a handkerchief appeared in front of her. She accepted it, having already soaked through her own, and wiped at her eyes. “I’m sorry—”

  “Don’t apologize for feeling.” He leaned against a stack of books nearest her. “Never apologize for feeling. Do you want to”—he opened his hands in an uncertain gesture—“talk about it?”

  She studied him to gauge his sincerity. He regarded her, unblinking, his expression earnest. He was serious.

  She nearly declined. For no amount of talking could possibly bring back Colin. Indeed, she didn’t even know if the grip around her throat could relax enough to put voice to such agony.

  But then, she recalled the Italian café, her silence, and the guilt lashed like fire at her insides. “Have you ever done something you’re ashamed of?”

  His furry brows lifted, suggesting of all the things she might say, he had not been anticipating that. “Yes,” he replied after a moment’s thought. “I think most people have.” He crossed his arms. “If this pertains to Colin, I know he would have forgiven you. He was that kind of man.”

  There was that ache at the back of her throat again. She swallowed and shook her head. Before she could stop herself, she told him about the night at the Italian café, the details tearing at her conscience and leaving her raw.

  He remained propped against the wall as she spoke, his arms folded in a relaxed state against his chest. When she was done, he slowly pushed to standing, scooted a large box of books toward the table and sat on it so he was nearly level with her.

  His eyes were clear and sharp, more fixed with intent than she’d ever seen them. “There’s a war going on, Miss Bennett. You are but one person, so sometimes that means a café is looted, yes, but that it didn’t burn. You can’t save the world, but keep trying in any small way you can.”

  His mouth lifted at the corners in an almost embarrassed smile. “Such as an old man collecting battered and singed books to keep voices alive.” He set his age-spotted hand on hers, its warmth comforting. “Or finding a story to help a young mother forget her pain.” He removed his hand and straightened. “It doesn’t matter how you fight, but that you never, never stop.”

  Grace nodded. “I won’t.” The determination inside her sent chills coursing over her skin. “I’ll never stop.”

  “That’s the young woman I know.” He rose from the box. “Speaking of which, I’ve been winning my own battle with a strategy I borrowed from you. Would you like to see?”

  Curious, Grace wiped self-consciously at her eyes to clear away any makeup that might have been smeared and followed Mr. Evans out to the store.

  “You may have seen it already.” He indicated the small table with Pigeon Pie set in the back corner.

  In truth, she’d avoided the table of her failure until that moment. What she beheld left her stunned.

  What had once contained a neat stack of one hundred books had only a handful remaining. The pasteboard propped in the center of the table proclaimed: “Written while Chamberlain was still prime minister.”

  Mr. Evans grinned at her. “They’ve been selling like butter ever since.”

  Grace laughed in spite of herself. “That was quite genius of you.”

  Mr. Evans’s old cheeks went red beneath his glasses as he tilted his head humbly. “I was rather proud of it. Nonetheless, it’s your idea. I only added my own stodgy twist.”

  As the march of time pressed on, they sold the remainder of their stock of the ill-fated Pigeon Pie, and Mr. Evans’s advice became all the more poignant.

  For those coming weeks brought the fall of France. And then, what they all had feared the most: the bombing of Britain.

  TWELVE

  German bombers descended on Cardiff and Plymouth first, targeting docks and prompting aerial battles with the RAF. London had not been hit as yet, but the expectation that it might happen hung forefront in everyone’s mind.

  The BBC broadcasts were listened to fastidiously and clung to every tongue, with people repeating what had been heard to analyze the potential for their own bombing.

  While Grace didn’t know where George was stationed, she was well aware being a fighter pilot would place him directly in the middle of danger.

  She’d received another letter from him, this one equally as sliced through for censorship as the last, leaving only half his message visible, but enough to be assured he was doing well. Viv’s letters only had periodic items run through with a black marker, but it was easy to make out that regardless of where she was, she appeared to be safe.

  The person she worried most over, however, was Mrs. Weatherford. For the entire time Grace had known the older woman, she had been one to push the world into action with her immeasurable energy. There wasn’t a solution she didn’t find, a problem she couldn’t fix.

  Now, she shuffled through the house with eyes that focused on nothing. No longer that bright, cheerful person with a bit of advice for everyone—whether they wanted it or not. She was a husk of herself, with her flat gray hair falling around her pallid face. Lifeless.

  No longer di
d Mrs. Weatherford attend the WVS or meticulously clean the house. Grace never thought she’d see the day when the foyer lost the residual scent of carbolic. And when Mrs. Weatherford found out about tea and margarine being added to the ration booklet, she didn’t crow with delight at her stockpiled trove, she simply replied with a resigned nod.

  The rest of London, however, hummed with energy in anticipation of a war that now seemed certain to strike their soil. It seemed a strange thing, to hope for action even after Dunkirk, but the “bore war” had seemed much like a freshly wound watch with no hands.

  Now something was finally going to happen.

  It was a sunny Saturday when Grace finally brought herself to remove the children’s book display from the front of the shop. With so many little ones relocated once more to the country, the prime window location would be best spent on more enticing reads for the adults who had remained behind. After she left the shop that afternoon, however, she didn’t immediately return home.

  Instead, she basked in the brilliant sun beaming down on her and enjoyed a seat outside at a café for tea and a confection. Restaurants followed different rations than the citizens of Britain and were allowed slightly more, meaning the tea was richer and sweeter, as was the pastry, nearly masking the margarine. Nearly.

  But the effort didn’t offer her the cheer that she’d hoped. Instead, it made her miss having Viv opposite her, laughing and sharing the latest gossip from Harrods. And it made her ache for Mrs. Weatherford, who couldn’t bring herself to enjoy such a fine afternoon, let alone any of life’s other pleasures.

  And how could she when Colin was dead?

  Determined not to fall prey to sadness on such a fine day, Grace found herself at King Square Gardens. Vendors stood by their wheeled carts painted in glossy, bright colors to attract patrons to their goods, and people lounged about on benches and canvas sling chairs set alongside the emerald green grass.

  All around the park were patches of vegetables as part of the Dig for Victory campaign, clusters of climbing sweet peas replacing the jasmine, and cabbages where roses had once bloomed.

  Grace settled into an available sling chair, the thick fabric warm from the sun, and tilted her head back indulgently. The air smelled sweetly of grass mixed with a spice of sausage from a nearby vendor, and the shuffles of footsteps and light conversation melted into the background in a soothing ambience.

  All at once, the peaceful quiet was interrupted by the nagging wail of the air raid siren.

  She remained where she was, reconciled to endure the blaring annoyance, as commonplace as sandbags at that point.

  At the beginning of the war, the warbling cry had made her heart leap into her throat. Now, it was simply a nuisance.

  Several people grudgingly rose from their chairs to seek shelter, though they were indeed the minority. Most remained where they were, luxuriating in the sunshine.

  After so many false air raids, the warning had become like the little boy crying wolf.

  It cut off eventually, leaving a lazy drone in the background of Grace’s awareness, like a bumblebee drunk on nectar as it bobbed its way through the air. Except the drone seemed to grow louder, more insistent.

  She peeked an eye open, squinting at the sky with its tufts of cottony white clouds.

  “What is it?” someone beside her asked, craning their neck to look at the sky.

  Grace blinked against the brightness of the sun. Dots of black flecked the cerulean blue. A distant whump echoed in the distance, followed by several others as puffs of black smoke somewhere in the city billowed upward.

  It took a stunned moment for her to realize those specks were planes. And they were dropping bombs on what appeared to be the East End.

  Ice frosted in Grace’s veins despite the hot day, prickling her skin so the tiny hairs along her arms stood on end.

  London was being bombed.

  She pushed up from her chair, her movements as slow as if in water. She ought to have run, to encourage others to a nearby shelter, take their names to ensure they were accounted for to notify their ARP warden. Something.

  Anything.

  After all, she’d trained the last several months for this very moment.

  But she was rooted to the ground as the thumping of bombs continued. On and on and on.

  A hand clasped on her shoulder. “You should get to shelter, miss.”

  Grace nodded, not bothering to look at the man who’d spoken. How could she when the horrific scene kept her gaze locked on the bombing planes?

  A woman screamed nearby, an ugly shriek pitched with fear. It was then Grace found her legs. But she didn’t go to the shelter. Not when Mrs. Weatherford would be home, most likely ignoring the warning as they all had.

  The man, a fellow warden with a limp that must have kept him from conscription, was already directing people toward the nearest shelter. He turned to Grace, his eyes wide in his pallid face, and indicated she should follow.

  She shook her head. “I’ll be home in minutes. We have an Anderson shelter.”

  His gaze slid to the swarm of planes still unleashing a merciless assault on the East End and turned away in silent assent. She wasted no time making the short trek back to Britton Street.

  By the time she arrived, the sky had turned from gray and black to an angry orange red, as if that part of London had become a roiling inferno. Grace pushed through the door of the townhouse, crying out for Mrs. Weatherford.

  Grace stepped over a pile of mail in the doorway, not bothering to pick it up and add it to the growing stack on the table as she normally did.

  The older woman’s feet were visible just beyond the wall of the parlor where she was most likely perched in the Morris chair.

  “London is being bombed.” Grace tried to keep the fear from her voice as she went to her mother’s friend. “We must go to the shelter at once.”

  But Mrs. Weatherford wouldn’t go, preferring to stay where she sat, her stare distant with despondency. After several failed attempts to nudge her to safety, Grace left her in the parlor and stood on the front steps of the townhouse, watching the German planes. If they drew closer, she would make sure Mrs. Weatherford took shelter, even if she had to drag the older woman.

  But the planes didn’t come closer. Eventually, the residents of Britton Street joined her on their front steps, all watching in silence as the German planes continued their relentless assault through the burning sky.

  Through it all, Grace could not stop thinking of the people. Had the residents there avoided the shelters as so many in the rest of London had? Would shelters even protect them in the face of such an onslaught?

  How many would die?

  She shuddered to even consider the casualties.

  At long last, the rumble of falling bombs ceased and the all clear sounded. Grace turned to go into the townhouse once more and found Mrs. Nesbitt standing rigidly on the stairs next door. She lifted a brow at Grace. “Well, that’s that, I suppose.”

  Grace said nothing and went into the townhouse to find Mrs. Weatherford in the Morris chair, exactly where she had left her.

  That night, Grace wasn’t scheduled to perform her ARP work, doing so only three times a week. But before she could even prepare for bed, the wail of the air raid siren came again.

  A spike of adrenaline shot through Grace, and this time she didn’t take no for an answer from Mrs. Weatherford. After opening the windows, cutting the mains and filling the tub, Grace forced Mrs. Weatherford down to the Andy. They stumbled in the near darkness, upsetting pots and gardening supplies on their way into the shelter.

  The shelter smelled of wet metal, earth and disuse. More a shed than a place to remain for any length of time. The siren’s call cut short, and silence filled the emptiness in its place. It was an expectant kind of quiet, one that promised more of what London had taken earlier that day. Every
muscle in Grace’s body remained tense, and her skin felt as though its fit was suddenly too tight.

  She struck a match and lit the candle she’d brought along with their gas masks. The flame was small, but filled the cramped interior of the Andy like an electric light. In the distance came the familiar drone of planes, their ominous one-note tone amplified by the metal frame so it practically vibrated in Grace’s chest.

  Again came the thumps that meant more bombs. It was all Grace could do to keep from flinching with each distant whump.

  “Do you think these are the last sounds Colin heard?” Mrs. Weatherford mused, her stare locked on the flickering candle flame. “Do you think he was frightened?”

  “I think he was brave,” Grace replied with confidence. “Knowing Colin, he was probably trying to save someone.”

  “I’m sure.” Mrs. Weatherford nodded, and tears shone bright in her eyes. “It was me who killed him, as surely as it was the Germans.” She sniffled. “I let him grow up to be too kind, too sweet. I never should have allowed him to be so...so sensitive.”

  Grace sat up from where she leaned against the rippled metal wall. “You would have been forcing him to be someone he wasn’t.”

  “Yes,” Mrs. Weatherford snapped. “But he would be alive.”

  “Not as the man we loved so dearly.”

  “I know.” Mrs. Weatherford put her face into her hands and began to softly weep. “I know.”

  “You did right by him, Mrs. Weatherford.” Grace shifted onto the other bench and gently rubbed the older woman’s shoulders as she grieved the loss of a man far too good to die so young. “You let him be who he wanted to be, and you supported and loved him. He would not have had it any other way.”

  Grace paused, aware that her next words would sting, and that they needed to be said regardless. “And you know he would hate to see you like this.”

  Mrs. Weatherford ducked her head.

  They didn’t speak again for the rest of the night. Eventually Grace returned to her seat on the opposite side of the shelter. Somehow she managed to fall asleep despite the distant bombing, with her head cocked at an awkward angle and her bum tingling with numbness where it pressed to the hard surface. The all clear woke her early the following morning, nearly startling her from the narrow bench.