She left small gifts of food where he sat, an apple or a bit of bread, but he never so much as looked at it, clearly assuming it belonged to someone else. He required help. And she knew just the one to give it.
She waited until she and Mrs. Weatherford sat down at the kitchen table that evening for a bit of Woolton pie, a vegetable concoction with a potato pastry crust. Mrs. Weatherford had made the meal several times since she’d heard the recipe on The Kitchen Front, which she listened to religiously every morning after the eight o’clock news on the BBC.
Grace poured a bit more gravy on the tasteless crust and decided then was as good a time as any to broach the topic. “I wonder if you’ve thought about doing more work with the WVS?”
Mrs. Weatherford touched the napkin to her lips. “I haven’t.” There was a crispness to her tone Grace had expected. “I cannot say I could do anyone a bit of good in my state.”
“You do a considerable amount for me.” Grace took an appreciative bite of the pie.
Mrs. Weatherford gave a purse of her lips that almost resembled a smile. “Well, you do enough for the two of us. You must keep your strength up.”
“What if someone needed you?”
“Nobody needs me.”
“I do,” Grace protested. “And there’s a boy who could use some help.”
“A boy?” Mrs. Weatherford regarded Grace with tired, barely tethered patience.
Grace explained how he’d come to listen to her read and the state he was in. “I don’t believe he has parents to care for him, and he’s too old to go to an orphanage.”
Mrs. Weatherford sat back in her chair. “The poor dear.”
Sadly, many children were in such a state. Although orphanages were filling up with those who actually went, it wasn’t uncommon for the older kids to take their chances on the streets instead. They didn’t need anyone, or so they thought. The state of them suggested otherwise with their tattered clothing and hollowed cheeks.
Mrs. Weatherford shook her head. “But what can I possibly do?”
Grace lifted a shoulder. “I hoped you’d know. I haven’t a thought how I can help, but I feel like someone must do something before he wastes away. There are too many other people in need for anyone to care for the likes of him.”
Mrs. Weatherford went silent at that. But Grace saw her eyes narrow, flickering with a hint of the spark that once gleamed there. Though the older woman carried on with disinterest, her mind was clearly winding through possible solutions.
* * *
The ARP shift that night was difficult. There were so many bombs, one Grace and Mr. Stokes had narrowly avoided, and far too much death. The Germans had begun implementing the use of landmine bombs, which floated down on parachutes and whose explosions caused damage that could spread as far as two miles.
No matter how many victims Grace saw to, she still found herself affected by every one. Each name scored on her heart, each memory burned into her brain. She was not alone in how death had affected her. The heavy rescue service, the men who dug through rubble for bodies, or whatever was left, passed a flask around as they worked, unable to perform their grisly tasks without the aid of spirits. They too never would grow used to what they witnessed.
So, when Grace, weary and soul-worn, came home that morning to the scent of baking bread, it did much to lift her downtrodden disposition. Especially when it had been half an age since Mrs. Weatherford had baked, putting to use the secret bags of flour. It was a good thing she had so frugally tucked them away. The months had shown them that just because something was not rationed did not mean it was any easier to come by.
And Grace thought she knew who would receive that coveted loaf.
In the afternoon, Mrs. Weatherford arrived just before Grace’s reading, her gaze sharp as she scanned the surrounding faces. The boy arrived just before Grace began and settled in to listen. As she finished the last passage, the boy rose and so too did Mrs. Weatherford.
Grace gave part of her attention to the paragraph in front of her as she watched Mrs. Weatherford out of the corner of her eye.
The older woman approached the boy in his secluded corner. He stiffened and regarded her quietly with his large eyes as she offered the bread. He stared at it for so long that Grace thought he might decline.
Mrs. Weatherford nodded, saying something Grace couldn’t hear. Then, quick as a bullet, he grabbed the loaf, tucked it under his jacket and skittered out of the shop.
Mrs. Weatherford met Grace’s gaze and offered a proud nod. She had done it. If nothing else, the boy would have food for one day.
Except Grace knew Mrs. Weatherford better than that. There would be many more days after this one. At the townhouse that afternoon, the mail wasn’t on the floor where it usually remained after being pushed through the slot by the postman. It had been added to the stack near the door, which appeared noticeably smaller as though it had finally been sorted.
At the top was a letter addressed to Grace from Viv. And beneath that one, another from George. Such a double blessing was indeed good fortune, for when Grace opened them, she found they both contained a similar message that sent her squealing with girlish delight.
Both Viv and George would be returning to London for Christmas.
SIXTEEN
It had been the end of October when Grace received the letters from Viv and George stating they’d be visiting in time for the festivities. A week later, London experienced its first night without a single bombing.
The weather had been terrible. Rain lashed sideways, thunder growled like a beast and lightning streaked the cloudy sky. Grace had been on duty with Mr. Stokes, both anticipating the air raid that blessedly never came. The hours of that shift had stretched on for an eternity, boredom after so much excitement and an unending assault of blistering rain.
The next morning, those who had sheltered in the tube station emerged with bright eyes and well-rested smiles. It had been hard not to envy their night of solid rest and dry clothing. But the following evening when Grace was off from her ARP work, she had her turn.
It was a beautiful thing to sleep the night through, without the all-too-present cry of the air raid siren.
It wasn’t to last, of course, but the bombings did become more sporadic.
If nothing else, the rare nights offered a chance to rest and a welcome relief after weeks of onslaught. Farringdon Station had no doubt saved the lives of the many people who slept safely tucked underground beneath its fortified ceiling, but it was not ideal lodging. The floor was hard, the tea sold below was twice the cost of what a café would charge outside and the sounds of so many people shifting, talking, coughing and snoring echoed around at all hours. Not to mention the smells, which were best left without elaboration.
While it wasn’t the luxury of sinking into the softness of one’s own bed, sleeping a night without the interruption of a wailing siren, even on the floor of a tube station, was better than nothing.
As the season changed, the weather in England turned abysmal and never had Londoners been gladder for it. Fog, rain and high winds kept the Germans grounded often. Unfortunately, that only made the nights of attacks all the more brutal.
Newspapers were filled with information on bombed areas that offered censored details, citing a blanket statement of tragedy when they could not. And all the while they reminded Londoners their children could still be relocated to the country free of charge.
Grace could not imagine what it must be like for a child to experience the constant bombings. Like the boy who came to her readings.
The adolescent slowly became less skittish around Mrs. Weatherford. Her patient kindness reminded Grace of Colin, handling the frightened child with the care he’d shown with wounded animals. It was recollections such as those that struck the tender place inside Grace she knew would never heal.
Nothing could replace Colin.
But it was good to see Mrs. Weatherford slowly coming back to life.
It wasn’t until midway through December that her perseverance finally paid off as the boy lingered after the reading to speak with her. Grace approached the two cautiously, worried she might run him off.
“He knows you’re with me.” Mrs. Weatherford waved her over. “Come meet Jimmy.”
The boy doffed his cap and lowered his head, revealing the sorry state of his greasy hair, dark with dirt. His eyes lifted and met hers, brilliant, clear blue and large in his skinny face. “Thank you for all the readings you do. And for the food.”
Behind the boy, Mr. Evans lifted his furry brows, as if to ask if his assistance was needed, but Grace gave a discreet shake of her head.
“It’s our pleasure to help,” Mrs. Weatherford replied. “Might I inquire as to where your parents are?”
Jimmy shifted from one foot to the other. “Dead.”
Though Grace had been expecting the answer, she couldn’t help the squeeze of sorrow. He was too young to be on his own.
“What happened to them?” Mrs. Weatherford prodded.
The boy lifted a shoulder. “They went out one night, just before an air raid, and never came back. Bombs, I suppose,” he replied in a soft, almost childish voice. He rubbed his jaw where a sprinkling of soft, dark hair had begun to show. “They told us—” His eyes bulged at his slip. “Me. They told me they’d be back soon and never returned.”
But Mrs. Weatherford never was one for part of a story. “Us?” she pressed. “Come now, Jimmy. You know we mean you no harm.”
He toed the floor with his scuffed shoe. “My sister, Sarah, and me.” He flicked a bashful glance at Grace. “She likes your stories too. I worry bringing her out, with her being so young. But I share what you read when I go home.”
“Come to our home for Christmas,” Mrs. Weatherford said. “Bring your sister. I have some clothes you can have.”
The latter part of her statement was said flippantly, but Grace knew it to be poignant. Those weren’t simply “some clothes”; they had been Colin’s.
The boy glanced about with obvious unease. “I’ll think on it.”
“Please do,” Mrs. Weatherford said, and gave the address. “We’ll have a lovely Christmas pudding and maybe some treacle tart.”
Jimmy swallowed, as though he could already taste the sweetness. He nodded, murmured his thanks and quickly dashed from the store.
“You must join us too, Mr. Evans,” Mrs. Weatherford called. “Better to be with us on Christmas than to be alone.”
Mr. Evans stuck his head out from a shelf he’d sequestered himself behind. “Are you being meddlesome, woman?”
“Are you being a curmudgeon?” She pursed her lips and studied him expectantly.
He scoffed in reply.
“Arrive at two then?” she asked in a light tone, her eyes sparkling in a way Grace loved to see.
Mr. Evans disappeared behind a shelf. “Fine. Two.”
Several days later, Grace was off from the bookshop and curled up on the sofa as she read A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens. She’d read several of his works, but had specifically saved that one for Christmas.
The townhouse parlor had been decorated, but not in the usual fashion. The ornaments on the tree had lost their sparkle since the lights were required to be off during blackouts, and rather than boughs of fresh evergreen, they had to make do with painted newspaper garland. The festive cards had also been affected by the paper ration and wilted on the mantel, smaller than before and too thin to be properly propped upright.
It wasn’t the kind of Christmas she’d had as a girl with her mother, but then no one had that kind of celebration anymore. Most people weren’t even in London for the holiday. Not with the war on.
Anyone with relatives in the country found excuses to go see them. Well, anyone but her.
She was interrupted in the beginning pages of her book when a rattle sounded at the door before it swung open.
Mrs. Weatherford was already home, in the kitchen, preparing supper, working miracles with the things that passed as sausage these days. Which meant it could only be the one other person who had a key to the townhouse.
Viv.
Grace squealed with delight and bolted from the chair. Viv dropped her kit and responded in kind, bright vermillion lips parted in a wide smile.
Still lovely as ever with her red hair in rolled curls under her service cap, she managed to look far more chic in the khaki uniform than others did in their most stylish outfits.
“Grace.” Viv threw her arms around her. The embrace was still scented with a sweet perfume, though no longer as strong as it’d once been, and now harboring traces of damp wool and the nip from the air outside.
Grace squeezed her arms around her dearest friend. “It is so good to see you.”
“It’s been far, far too long.” Viv put her icy hands to Grace’s cheeks. “How I’ve missed you, Duckie.”
“Viv?” Mrs. Weatherford pushed through the kitchen door and stared for a moment with tears gathering in her eyes. “Oh, it’s so good to see you, love.”
Viv grinned. “It’s good to see you too.” She went to Mrs. Weatherford and enfolded her arms around the older woman for a long moment. It reiterated her shared pain at Colin’s death in a way that couldn’t be conveyed in letters alone.
The agonized expression on Mrs. Weatherford’s face against Viv’s shoulder said she understood exactly. The older woman pushed back and dabbed at the corners of her eyes with a handkerchief. “You go get settled now and I’ll put the kettle on. You can stay...” She swallowed. “You can stay in whatever room you like.”
She rushed out before explaining what she meant. But then, no explanation was truly necessary.
Colin’s room.
“I’d still like to share our room.” Viv pulled off her service cap and set it on the hat shelf by the door. “After all, I’ve been sharing a room with three other ladies in the ATS all this time. That is, if you haven’t become too used to having all that space to yourself.”
“It’s been far too lonely.” Grace picked up Viv’s kit before her friend could grab it, and carried it up the stairs.
Once in their shared room, Grace set her bag on the metal rail bed Viv slept before, still immaculately made since its first washing after her departure.
While Viv unpacked, the two picked up right where they had left off, as if the gap of time between them had never passed.
Grace told her about gardening and their experience with cutworms, which made Viv laugh. She told Viv about Mrs. Weatherford and Colin and Jimmy, which made Viv cry, and she told her about the ARP warden position and working with Mr. Stokes. Grace omitted, however, the dangers of the job and the horrible sights she’d witnessed.
Not that it mattered when Viv knew her so well. After she’d finished sharing how things had gone on in London, Viv approached and gently touched the wristlet on Grace’s arm. “It’s worse here than I thought,” she said softly. “You can try to mask it, but I know what the ARP wardens do. I know your job has great dangers.”
“We all do our bit,” Grace said, not wishing to delve into such matters on so happy an occasion as finally seeing her friend safely returned. “What of you? Everything you try to say gets blotted out by censors, so I’m left to supply my own details.”
Viv’s smile returned. “Oh? Then pray tell what it is I do in the war.”
“You’re a spy,” Grace said. “You went to France and rescued several boats full of men during Dunkirk, then flew over to Germany in a mink stole to personally pry the secrets from Hitler himself. You did such a fine job of it, we have all the intelligence we need and the war will soon be over.”
Viv laughed. “Oh, if only that were the case. I’ve actually been working as a radar operator, if you’d belie
ve it.” She folded a pink cardigan and tucked it into a drawer. “As it turns out, I’m better at maths than I realized.”
“I’m not surprised,” Grace said earnestly. Her friend had always underestimated her own intelligence. “How is it working with radars?”
Viv sat back on her heels in front of the chest of drawers. “It’s exciting, but it’s also sad. We see the men off as they go to Germany to bomb. Some of the women are married to the men who fly out.” Her mouth twisted as she appeared to bite the inside of her lip.
A lot went unspoken in this war. Far too much was easily assumed in the silence.
Grace had seen enough German planes shot down to know that whatever Britain gave to the Nazi bombers, they received right back. Not all of those men came home.
“The dance halls have been divine though.” Viv got to her feet and pulled a bottle of red nail lacquer from her bedside table drawer where she’d left it before departing for the ATS. “The men there practically line up to dance the night away and dawn arrives before you know it.”
She unscrewed the top, and a familiar sharp odor filled the room. It smelled like late nights at the farmhouse in Drayton, summer afternoons in a field, picking flecks of floating seed from the glossy polish surface and talks of someday going to London.
Grace smiled softly at the memories. Never would they have thought they’d be here, her working as an ARP warden as well as at a bookshop and Viv performing the task of radar operation with the ATS.
“Men have always lined up to dance with you,” Grace teased.
“Not like this.” Viv ran the brush over her thumbnail, leaving a cherry red streak down its center. “Do you ever go to the West End?”
The West End of London, where hotels opened their basements as dance halls through the duration of the long nights. It was easy to get there, but not to return home since the tube stations closed at night for shelters and so many taxis refused to run amid the bombs. As a result, most people going to the dance halls would bring a fresh change of clothes and paid a fee that covered their entrance to the hall, a night in a room and a quick breakfast the following morning.
The Last Bookshop in London Page 19