The Last Bookshop in London

by Madeline Martin

  Grace could imagine herself there in that moment, the pull of the fierce coastal breeze at her own hair and clothes. “It sounds lovely.”

  “Maybe someday you’ll have to go.” He lifted his glass to her in a silent toast and drank a sip of wine.

  The waiter appeared then with the most decadent meal Grace had ever been served. While they ate, she recounted how life in London had changed and he told her about two other pilots he’d become friends with back in Scotland, sharing what bits and pieces of his life that he was allowed.

  Graced glanced at the blacked-out window beside their table. “It doesn’t even feel as though the war is on while we’re here.”

  George gazed around the room. “We could pretend, if you’re game?”

  “Pretend?” Grace smiled even as she repeated the word. She hadn’t pretended at anything since she’d been a child. It felt so silly and impractical that it immediately drew her appeal.

  “Oh yes.” He took a sip of wine, his head tilted in consideration. “As though the war never happened. You’re working at a bookshop, a lovely store assistant with a sharp mind and a keenness for good books.”

  Grace couldn’t help but chuckle. “And you’re a charming engineer with an affinity for literature and a wonderful sense of humor who always knows how to say the right things.”

  He gave a laugh that made his smile look almost boyish. “I’ll take it. Tomorrow, we’ll have plans to walk through the streets as snow sifts around us like down feathers, listening to the carolers singing at Hyde Park. I’ll have a handful of flowers for you.” He lifted a brow and eyed the small vase of purple-red dahlias pointedly. “Roses, I think.”

  “And we will find a theater that’s playing A Christmas Carol,” she added.

  “I love that book.” George paused as a waiter approached to ensure they had all they needed. “It might be a bit childish, but I read it every year around this time. I’m actually in the middle of it now.”

  “I am too,” Grace confessed. “I was saving it for just before Christmas.”

  “Charles Dickens always writes a thoroughly detailed and memorable tale.”

  Charles Dickens happened to be a particular favorite of Grace’s as well, and the mere mention made her sit forward with excitement. “Have you read The Pickwick Papers yet?”

  His eyes narrowed in thought. “I’m sure I have, only it’s been ages. I can’t say I remember it.”

  “Oh you must read it again.” Grace leaned closer to him in her enthusiasm. “Mr. Pickwick and several of his companions, the ‘Pickwickians,’ go on a journey through the English countryside. It’s quite the adventure with so many laughs, like—” She put her fingertips to her mouth to suppress the scene she’d been about to recall. “I don’t want to spoil it. You’ll have to read it and be surprised all over again.”

  His whole face smiled as her watched her, his eyes practically twinkling. “Consider it done. I’ll be sure to let you know some of my favorite scenes in my next letter.”

  On and on their conversation went, lush with descriptions of books they’d read and recalling things they had shared with one another in their letters, expanding on details that were too lengthy to write.

  It was so easy to put off the bombings in such company, in such a lovely room; to forget the ration’s meager meals when dining on fresh beef in a hearty, aromatic sauce, to dream away the world outside when she was so focused on George.

  All too soon, their date drew to a close as Grace needed to return for her ARP shift that evening and George had to catch one of the last tubes back to Kent to spend Christmas in Canterbury with his parents.

  As Grace and George rode home in a hackney, the flow of conversation ebbed to a companionable silence as if they were both savoring the connection between them one last time until their next meeting. George saw her out of the vehicle and up to the doorway where the full effect of the blackout cloaked the stoop of the townhouse in a curtain of privacy.

  Grace paused at the door, little more than half a step from him. It was the closest they’d been all night, save when they were side by side in the cab. She luxuriated in his clean scent and tried to sear every second of the magical night into her mind forever.

  “Thank you for the most wonderful evening,” she said, her voice breathier than usual. But then, how could she possibly speak normally when she could barely breathe.

  “I confess, I’ve thought of this night for many months.” George’s hand found hers. It was a gentle touch in the dark, followed by the intentional curling of his warm fingers around hers.

  Her skin tingled with anticipation like the moment of static in the air before a lightning storm. “As have I.”

  “I’ve enjoyed our letters,” he said, his voice low, intimate. “However, I know war can be difficult. If you would prefer to leave yourself open for a man in London—”

  “No,” Grace replied too quickly.

  They both laughed, shy, nervous chuckles.

  “I look forward to every letter you write.” She ran her thumb over the back of his hand, exploring the newfound closeness. “And whenever I encounter something quizzical or amusing, you and Viv are the first ones I think I must share it with in my next letter.”

  “I have no right to ask you to wait for me.” He closed the half step between them, and the air became nearly too thin to breathe. “We don’t know how long this war will go on.”

  “You’re worth waiting for, George Anderson.” Her pulse raced.

  He lifted his free hand, gently touching the left side of her cheek and lowered his mouth to hers. It was a sweet, tender kiss that robbed her of all thought.

  He wasn’t as eager as Simon Jones had been back in Drayton, and she was glad for it.

  George wasn’t that kind of man. He was thoughtful and careful and put his soul into everything he did. Though the kiss was gentle and light, it touched her in a deep place she knew would forever belong to him.

  “Good evening, my beautiful Grace.” He swept his forefinger down her chin, lingering a second before regretfully falling away. “I look forward to your next letter. Promise me you’ll be safe.”

  “Only if you do as well.” She gazed into his eyes, already lost in them. “I’m eager for your return already.”

  He grinned at her, a flash of white teeth in the darkness. Grace pushed through the front door, startling Viv and Mrs. Weatherford, who had been curiously close in the entryway.

  Mrs. Weatherford looked guiltily at the ceiling as Grace shut the door.

  “Taking tea in the entryway?” Grace teased.

  “Oh, do stop.” Viv waved her hand. “You know full well we were trying to listen in on you. It was quite rude of you both to speak so softly that we couldn’t hear a word.”

  The hack’s engine outside rumbled, carrying George away. Who knew when they’d see one another again? Months, if they were lucky.

  She touched her fingers to her mouth where the warmth of his lips still lingered. She would wait those months happily for him. Years even, if that’s what it took.

  There wasn’t another man like George Anderson.

  “Well.” Mrs. Weatherford puffed with impatience. “Do tell us.”

  With the older woman being in better spirits than Grace had seen her since before Colin left for war, she couldn’t help but share all the details. Well, nearly all. She left that kiss tucked closely against her heart. For her and her alone.

  * * *

  Christmas lacked many of the luxuries Grace had enjoyed in London the previous year. Carolers were absent from the streets due to the constant bombing. All the theaters that might have once been open were now few and far between, many having been rendered inoperable by damage.

  But by some miracle, Grace and Viv managed to squeeze into a show for a pantomime on Christmas Eve, a festive play that recalled them back to their childhood
, though the production was far better than what they’d had in Drayton. On Christmas Day, Mrs. Weatherford, as always, followed the rules to conserve fuel by cramming the oven full of crockery in an attempt to cook all their food at once, which was quite the accomplishment in light of the feast she’d prepared.

  As everything Mrs. Weatherford did when it came to rationing in the kitchen, she made it work beautifully. The government had doubled their tea and sugar rations in preparation for Christmas, and Mrs. Weatherford put those to good use as well, in addition to her secreted stores.

  There was treacle tart and figgy pudding and Christmas cake, though the latter was missing most of the dried fruit usually prevalent through the confection. All of it was adorned with frosted bits of holly, made by soaking the waxy green leaves in Epsom salts—a festive suggestion from the Ministry of Food.

  Though Mrs. Weatherford remained seemingly in high spirits, Grace could see the cracks in her forced joviality. It came in the moments she thought no one was looking, when the smile wilted from her lips and a pained look pinched at her features in a sudden onset of agony.

  Grace knew that hurt.

  Loss.

  For Colin.

  His absence was felt like a missing limb. No—a missing heart.

  His smile, his kindness, his light—no Christmas would ever be the same without him. And no amount of frosted holly leaves or painted newspaper garland could make that go away.

  Though they’d agreed to no presents that year in light of conserving for the war efforts, they all had a little something for each other. Mrs. Weatherford had procured scented soaps for both Grace and Viv. Viv had knit them both thick mufflers, and Grace had managed to get Mrs. Weatherford and Viv a bit of chocolate. It was wrapped in wax paper as the foil was now needed for materials, and the chocolate was crumblier and less sweet than it was before. But seeing them beam with delight upon opening their gifts told Grace that chocolate would still always be chocolate, no matter how it came.

  Dinner was as delicious as it was lovely, the addition of sugar a magical touch in such restrictive times. Mr. Evans came with a bottle of wine he’d been saving for just such an occasion, and he and Mrs. Weatherford spent a good part of the afternoon bickering with each other like siblings, each with a good-natured twinkle in their eye.

  Jimmy and his sister, however, did not join them, and their absence was very much felt. Most especially by Mrs. Weatherford. The package under the unlit tree with Colin’s old clothes, altered to accommodate Jimmy’s skinny frame, was left where it lay alongside another bundle of several girls’ dresses and a coat Viv had tailored for his sister.

  Viv had to return to Caister the following day. It was a sad realization that sifted like ash over the fleeting joy Christmas had brought and left the townhouse feeling darker and more alone than ever.

  * * *

  Mrs. Weatherford, especially, was affected by Viv’s departure, as though she were losing Colin all over again. The only time she managed to rouse herself from the house was the day after Boxing Day when she went to Grace’s afternoon reading at Primrose Hill Books with a great box of leftover Christmas cake, several rolls and the children’s presents.

  Jimmy arrived, albeit shamefaced when he saw Mrs. Weatherford, but didn’t run from her and Grace after the reading.

  “They were feeding us at the rest center.” He took his cap off, his expression heavy with remorse. “I didn’t want to take your rations.”

  The boy’s consideration, in a devastated world when he had nothing and they had so much by comparison, needled into Grace’s chest.

  “You needn’t ever worry about us,” she said.

  “We had far more than we could possibly eat.” Mrs. Weatherford set the box before him and lifted the top.

  She’d set the Christmas desserts in a large glass bowl nestled beside the wrapped presents for Jimmy and his sister.

  He looked up in surprise. “You’re sharing too much.”

  Mrs. Weatherford waved him off. “I made it for you both, and you weren’t there to eat it.”

  “Open the larger package,” Grace urged, knowing what it would mean to Mrs. Weatherford to see him unwrap the gift.

  Jimmy hesitated only a moment before drawing the parcel from the box. He didn’t rip into the package as children often do. Instead, he untied the string holding the parcel together, wound it around his hand into a neat bundle and set it inside the box. Only then did he gingerly fold back the paper so as not to cause a single tear.

  It was the care of someone who had nothing, someone who knew they might have need of such materials later. It wasn’t only the item inside that was the gift, but the wrapping as well.

  He stared for a long while at the clothes. Three collared shirts, three pairs of trousers, two pullovers and a thick coat.

  All at once, he sniffed hard and swiped at his nose with the sleeve of his dirty jacket.

  “It’s too much,” he croaked in a thick voice. He lifted a watery gaze at them, his mouth pressed hard together.

  Mrs. Weatherford shook her head. “It’s not nearly enough.”

  That afternoon, Mrs. Weatherford cast off the weight of her sorrow and marched back to the WVS to resume her aid. This time she homed her focus in on seeing to the orphans of the Blitz. She went at the task with fire and purpose, which was as true a Christmas miracle as Grace had ever seen.

  Two evenings later, Grace was preparing herself for another shift for the night period with Mr. Stokes when the air raid siren screamed through the peaceful quiet. The sound of it nearly startled Grace. The nights since Christmas Eve had been quiet in London, an unspoken ceasefire. Overhead, the thick clouds indicated the night was not ideal for bombing, especially not so early in the evening.

  Though it was only a few minutes past six, Grace led Mrs. Weatherford to Farringdon Station to join the queue of people waiting to get in and rushed to the ARP post. After all, there was no sense in being in the shelter for less than an hour, especially when an opportunistic entrepreneur might claim her spot on the tube station floor and try to sell it to a tardy soul later for two shillings.

  Mr. Stokes was already at the post when she arrived, clearly having had the same idea. He smirked when he saw her, his thin lips stretched beneath his mustache. “The German planes are early tonight.”

  “It would have been polite to at least wait until our night shift started.” Grace buckled her tin hat under her chin with a leather strap.

  Mr. Stokes grumbled his agreement.

  Outside, the vibration of passing planes reverberated with such intensity, Grace could feel the engines humming through the soles of her shoes.

  This night would be bad.

  She left the safety of the sandbag-laden post and went out into the wet chill of a late December night. However, it was not blackness that met her eyes, but a glow of orange in the distance, where a nearby part of London was on fire. Close to the Thames. By St. Paul’s Cathedral.

  The planes rattled by overhead, emptying their bellies to strike an area several streets over. As objects fell, they spilled out small cylinders and a familiar sound met Grace’s ears. A swish, followed by the tapping of dozens of these sticks crashing through roofs and striking the pavement, violently sputtering flames upon impact.

  “Incendiaries,” Grace called out to Mr. Stokes as she slung the coil of tubing for the stirrup pump over her shoulder.

  She didn’t have to look behind her to know he followed closely. They both knew there were mere minutes between them and the many new fires that could easily flare out of control.

  Two streets over, they found the first incendiary, sparkling with white splinters of light as it furiously expelled its magnesium innards. Nearly all doorsteps now had either a bucket of water, sand or even sandbags set out in preparation. Grace grabbed a sandbag, hefting its weight before her face to protect herself, and dropped i
t atop the glare of light. As the bag burned, it would spill out the sand and douse the sparks before they could do any damage. There was no need to wait to see if it would be effective. Not when there were so many more.

  “Miss Bennett,” Mr. Stokes called. Already he had his foot set on the stirrup pump beside the bucket with the hose extended to Grace.

  She grabbed it and ran toward the nearest house where several bushes were on fire, pressing the switch on the nozzle to go from jet to spray until the flames were extinguished.

  As always, they had to have a care to avoid the magnesium, which would explode upon contact with water. This was only a concern in the beginning of the fire when the incendiary was casting out its brilliant green-white sparks, but one that was exceedingly dire.

  On and on they repeated their actions down the length of the street, putting flames out with sandbags and spray, alternating at the stirrup pump lest one of them tire too quickly. Finally, they managed to control all the fires. Panting, they sagged against the wall of a building they’d just extinguished, tired and hot despite the December night, but victorious.

  Another barrage of planes buzzed overhead.

  Swish.

  Grace’s stomach slithered to her toes.

  Plop.

  The first incendiary struck the pavement several yards from their feet and sputtered to life with a hiss of sparks.

  Plop.

  A second fell not even a breath later.

  It was no longer possible to identify an individual incendiary falling, not when so many clattered around them, like kirby grips being dumped from a tin.

  All at once, Grace and Mr. Strokes were fighting a fresh wave of magnesium flames that lit up the street like daylight. They turned the corner of the block as they battled the blaze, and Grace realized they were on Aldersgate Street, near the fire station. Except it too was on fire, its firefighters outside the burning walls with water jetting from a wheeled water tank.