The Last Bookshop in London

by Madeline Martin

  The bombings continued with such regularity that London no longer resembled her former glory. But even exhausted and war torn, she continued to shelter her people night after night, day after day. Lorries maneuvered around craters in the road, housewives queued for rationed food they made stretch into many meals and people brushed debris from their doorways in the morning when they collected their milk bottles. Life went on.

  The weather had been horrendous with heavy fog, intermittent snow and ice, but little sun to be seen. The people of Britain had come to love that abhorrent weather and the reprieve it promised from bombers.

  The Germans were so put out by the overcast skies, they’d come to do what was referred to as “tip and run,” in which they’d pass over the city, loose a few bombs without aiming and depart quickly. The damage from such haphazard attacks was often minimal and the loss of life far less than it had been in previous attacks.

  Grace continued to write to Viv and George, though finding posts that were still functional to mail them could prove difficult. Oftentimes, a postman stood with a sign stating simply “Post Office Here” with a counter lit by a candle thrust in a bottle. Telegram boys had it even harder, running about in their smart uniforms with pasteboard slung on a string about their necks declaring they were accepting telegrams. Those wishing to send one would then use the boy’s back as a makeshift table to write out their messages.

  Work with the ARP was no less taxing, but far less frightening. One could only see so many planes or be near so many bombs before the trigger of fear stopped firing. When air raids went off now, Grace and Mr. Stokes took their time, not bothering to rush until the drone of planes could be made out, or the cracking ack-ack gun informed them the Germans were near.

  April offered a new month to begin planting. This time, Mrs. Weatherford expertly labeled the garden before she began planting. Tabby had certainly found a close companion in Mrs. Weatherford as the two were nearly inseparable. So it was no wonder that when the older woman went out to the garden to plant, along came Tabby trotting after her, batting about at bits of dirt. “Don’t worry, Grace,” Mrs. Weatherford said after the seeds had all been sown into the rich soil. “I didn’t bother to plant any lettuce.”

  * * *

  In the days that followed, as shoots began to push up from the earth and the weather turned mild despite the rain, the bookshop continued to thrive with new customers. However, it was around then that Grace noticed Mr. Evans had begun to seem rather unwell. It started with a small box he brought from the back room. He staggered under the scant weight, huffing and puffing for breath by the time he arrived at the front counter. Grace had asked after him, but he’d waved her off.

  Several days later, she found him in the small back room with his hand to his chest, his face flushed a purple-red. She’d insisted he go to the doctor, which of course he did not, the stubborn man.

  Just after the first week of April, on a chilly morning that left frost dusted over the slate roofs like sifted flour, Grace found Mr. Evans leaning heavily over the counter upon her arrival.

  “Mr. Evans?”

  He didn’t look up. Instead, he issued a tight groan and flexed his left hand.

  Grace pushed the door open to scream for help from passersby on the street, dropped her handbag and ran around the counter as she shrugged off her jacket. Her body went through the motions that had been trained into her as a warden, even as her mind reeled that this time she was helping Mr. Evans.

  She eased him back to the floor, bracing herself against his weight. “Try to remain calm and breathe evenly.” She spoke in the soothing voice she used when working with bombing victims. Only this time there was a tremble there, a break in her composure.

  Mr. Evans flailed and gasped as though he could not find air, his face set in a hard grimace of pain. This man who had always been so strong, so unflappable. To see him in such a state, feeble and unable to breathe, it was too much. A tidal wave of emotion that threatened to drown her if she let her head go beneath the surface.

  A sheen of sweat glistened on his brow and his face was unnaturally white, his lips a pale blue. Whatever was wrong with Mr. Evans was happening inside his body, something that required a physician. The aid she was used to offering was for a visible trauma she could address.

  Powerlessness clawed at her with a frantic desperation. All the reassurances in the world wouldn’t help him.

  His hand caught hers, ice cold and damp with sweat. “Alice,” he ground out.

  “You’ll be fine,” Grace said firmly.

  But he wouldn’t be. She knew that and had no idea what to do to make it better.

  He stiffened suddenly and his eyes went wide, practically bulging from his face as though he’d been given a great surprise.

  “Someone will be here to help soon.” Grace’s voice broke on the words. “Someone will be here soon.”

  There was a light in everyone, one that dimmed when death took them, like a torch whose battery ran down. Grace had seen it once before in an old woman crushed by a collapsed building as she’d tried to cling to life.

  That light in Mr. Evans’s eyes, the one that shone with intelligence, kindness and dry humor—that light that had been so bright and so alive—went out.

  “No.” Grace shook her head as a knot lodged in her chest and ached in the back of her throat. She put her fingers to his wrist, but felt no pulse. “No.”

  Gingerly, she turned him onto his stomach and bent his arms so the backs of his hands braced his forehead on the carpet. She couldn’t fix what was broken inside him, but she had been well trained on the procedure to restore someone when they were no longer breathing. She put her palms between his shoulder blades and slowly pushed her weight onto him for the length of an exhale. Next, she pulled his arms back by the elbows as she inhaled, willing him to do so as well. Over and over she did this in an effort to force him into breathing once more.

  The doorbell chimed, a sharp, ugly sound in light of such unspeakable pain. “Is someone in need of help?” a man’s voice called.

  “Here,” Grace cried out.

  The man wore a suit and carried a black leather bag at his side. His salt-and-pepper hair was disheveled and exhaustion bruised the undersides of his dark eyes.

  Grace explained what had happened with the efficiency of an ARP warden relaying her efforts to medical staff. Only now, she knew the person. She loved him like the father she’d never had. And this time, that person was dead.

  The physician put a hand to her shoulder. “You did everything you could. There’s nothing more that can be done.” His brows pinched with genuine sincerity despite the many times he’d no doubt said those words. “I’m sorry.”

  Sorry.

  It was such a paltry word for the enormity of such an event. A life snuffed out, one that had been so integral in Grace’s world. He had been a mentor, a friend, a father figure.

  And now he was gone. Forever.

  Sorry.

  * * *

  Mr. Evans was taken away, leaving the shop unnaturally silent. For the first time since the start of the war, Grace closed Primrose Hill Books early and wandered home, her feet carrying her without thought.

  She opened the door to the townhouse to Mrs. Weatherford’s exclamation. “Dear me, where is your coat?” Mrs. Weatherford drew up short. “What is it, Grace? Is it Viv? Dear God, please tell me it isn’t Viv.”

  Grace shook her head, though she scarce felt the action of doing so. “Mr. Evans.”

  Mrs. Weatherford’s face crumpled, and the two women clung to each other through yet another devastating loss.

  Yet even so, Grace opened the store the next day, and the day after that, and the one following as well. Customers asked after Mr. Evans and while their concern showed their love for the man who had meant so much to Grace, each question dug into the open wound of her sorrow.

 
Her mind felt rubbery and unwieldy in its grief. Every time she unlocked the door to the shop, she expected to see Mr. Evans there, marking meticulous notes in the ledger while offering a distracted greeting. And every time the emptiness of that space behind the counter hit her like a fresh knock to the heart.

  No matter how much she failed to grasp the reality, no matter how much she didn’t want to believe it, Mr. Evans was gone.

  It took attending his funeral for her to finally accept his loss. That moment where his casket was lowered into the ground. It had rained that day and was as if the world was mourning the enormous loss of such a man as Percival Evans.

  She still did the readings every afternoon. Getting through them might not have been possible if he wasn’t in her head, encouraging her with that proud smile. Each night she closed, she put the money in a lockbox in the backroom the way she always did, not sure what would happen to it. She wasn’t even sure what would happen to the shop. Perhaps a cousin in the country he had never mentioned?

  It wasn’t until nearly a week later that she had her answer. After her reading one bleak afternoon, an older gentleman approached her.

  It wasn’t uncommon. Many new listeners liked to speak with her about the book, or see what others she might suggest. Usually she would welcome such discussions. But not today. Not when her chest threatened to cave in.

  “Miss Grace Bennett?” the man asked.

  “May I help you?”

  “I’m Henry Spencer, solicitor with Spencer & Clark.” He smiled at her. “I’d like to have a word with you if I may.”

  Grace looked to Mrs. Weatherford, who was standing near enough to have overheard. The older woman made a shooing motion with her hands, indicating Grace should go with the man.

  Grace waved him to follow her to the back room and apologized for the cramped space. Not being able to order from Simpkin Marshalls meant they were finally using their stockpile of books. Though many of the boxes had been cleared out, the tidy space was still rather small.

  “I generally do not come to the establishment of my clients,” Mr. Spencer said. “However, Mr. Evans was a friend. I wanted to ensure I had a chance to speak with you privately.”

  An ache clenched in Grace’s throat.

  “Mr. Evans had no family, as you know.” Mr. Spencer reached into his pocket and withdrew several keys. “He has left it all to you. The shop, the flat above it, everything he owned is now yours.”

  Grace blinked in surprise. “Me?”

  “Yes, Miss Bennett. From what I understand, you’ve made Primrose Hill Books what it is. I’m sure he knew no one would care for it like you.” He handed her the keys and had her sign a document, which she did in a trembling script caused by hands that shook too hard.

  She recognized the key to the shop, which was a mirror of her own. “What are these other two for?” she asked.

  He indicated the larger one. “This is for the flat. I’m not sure about the other.”

  No sooner had he said it than Grace realized she knew exactly what it was for: Mr. Evans’s safe.

  She could recall the day he’d shown her those precious books that had been salvaged from Nazi flames. It had been months ago. It felt like it had been a lifetime. And yet, it also seemed like it had been only yesterday. With him imparting his wise words, sharing a greater piece of himself not only with her, but with the world.

  The bookshop was now hers, and she found herself more determined than ever to make Primrose Hill Books shine—no longer for herself, but for Mr. Evans.

  TWENTY

  Grace closed the cover on The Odyssey, one of the books she’d seen Mr. Evans thumb through often when he was alive. And one she now read aloud in the afternoons.

  Were it not for the bookshop, the passing of the last month would have been much more difficult to endure.

  She had lost herself in books. In the selling of them and the reading of them.

  “Are you getting on well, dear?” An older housewife, who always wore a string of pearls at her throat and was called Mrs. Smithwick, put a hand on Grace’s arm.

  Grace nodded. The same as she always did when asked how she had been faring. “Reading through the books I know he loved really helps,” she replied honestly. “Thank you.”

  “I never thought books that ancient could be so interesting.” Mrs. Smithwick gave a conspiring wink.

  “Nor did I.” Grace smiled lightly to herself. “Mr. Evans had loved them all though. I’m glad we’ve given this one a go.”

  “Keep reading them all,” Mrs. Smithwick said with encouragement. “And we’ll be here to listen.”

  Grace nodded her thanks and set the book behind the counter to ensure it wouldn’t become mixed up with the others. It was one she had taken from the massive bookshelf in Mr. Evans’s flat above the shop.

  The pages were worn soft at the edges from the countless times he’d read through them. One corner of the cover was dented and the ink inside had several smears as if he had rested his fingers over a certain passage. It was careworn and precious.

  There had been little time to clean out his flat between her running of the shop and her long hours as an ARP Warden at night. The bombs fell with less frequency now, but her efforts were still needed. She’d been too exhausted to do much with Mr. Evans’s effects, let alone prepare the small residence to move in to. Truthfully, she had been glad for the option to stay on with Mrs. Weatherford for a spell longer. Grace didn’t feel strong enough to be on her own just yet.

  There had been so much death.

  Too much.

  Her mother. Colin. Mr. Evans. Mr. Pritchard. All the bombing victims she’d seen in those harrowing months.

  There had been so much loss in so little time. It built up inside her like a tidal wave battering at a weakening dam. The more it swelled, the harder Grace worked.

  Mrs. Weatherford didn’t like what she saw and commented often on Grace’s worn-down appearance, always shoving food toward her to get her to eat more. But Grace didn’t have an appetite for anything. Not Woolton pie, which they’d taken to calling Le Woolton Pie ever since her date at the Ritz, not even poultry when it could be found.

  How could she with so much destruction and loss around her? Every day homes were destroyed and people were killed. The nights were blanketed in darkness, their food was bland and marbled with gristle. Through it all was the ever-present wail of the air raid siren, reminding them that this state of things would continue on and on and on with no end.

  The war had been interminable and felt as though it would last forever.

  After announcing Mr. Evans’s death, Grace had been slow in her replies to Viv and George. The only words that she could summon were far too heavy for war letters. It wouldn’t do to weigh them down with her burdens.

  She went through the motions of reorganizing the display in the front window, letting her focus drift to the aesthetic where she didn’t have to consider the numbness inside her.

  A familiar face appeared at her side.

  Mrs. Nesbitt’s gaze skimmed the neatly arranged books amid paper flowers made from painted newspapers. They were meant to represent the incoming spring despite the dull, drizzling weather.

  “Are you putting up another display?” She sniffed. “Is that not your second this week?”

  Grace lifted a shoulder. “It may bring in more customers, which will benefit us all.”

  Mrs. Nesbitt hummed with an argument she was too disinterested to share and picked at a stray bit of string on her WVS jacket. “Having you drop dead from exhaustion will benefit none of us.”

  Grace offered a mirthless chuckle.

  “I don’t speak in jest,” Mrs. Nesbitt said dryly. “But with sincerity. Miss Bennett, no amount of work you do will bring him back.”

  Of all the hurtful things Mrs. Nesbitt had thrown at Grace, this bite had the sharpe
st teeth.

  Tears burned in Grace’s eyes. “Please leave.”

  “You’ve told me things I needed to hear in the past, and I’m now returning the favor.” Mrs. Nesbitt’s demeanor softened. “Though it does pain me to do so, whether you believe it or not.”

  As much as her barb had stung, the sudden compassion of the irascible woman only made the ache in Grace’s chest grow worse.

  “I can assist you if need be, by working a day or two until you hire an assistant.” Mrs. Nesbitt sighed at the great sacrifice she was suggesting. “But you can’t keep going on like this.”

  It was the same thing Mrs. Weatherford had said to Grace. It struck her suddenly where Mrs. Nesbitt’s true motivation must have originated—Mrs. Weatherford herself.

  “Did Mrs. Weatherford put you up to this?” Grace asked.

  Mrs. Nesbitt scoffed. “I have eyes, my dear. And you are a stiff wind shy of collapsing.”

  Grace diverted her attention from the woman, not wanting to acknowledge what had been said. Mrs. Nesbitt offered nothing further and instead turned on her heel to leave.

  That evening, Grace was fit to be tied with frustration over Mrs. Weatherford sending Mrs. Nesbitt—of all people—to chastise her for working too much. She pushed open the door, ready to confront the woman she’d always known to be a friend.

  “Grace,” Mrs. Weatherford called out in a morose tone. “Grace, is that you?” Her footsteps sounded in the kitchen, followed by a cooing change to her voice that indicated Tabby was close at her heels.

  Mrs. Weatherford pushed through the kitchen door. “Oh, Grace,” she lamented. “They’ve added cheese to the ration list now. Cheese!” Her eyes shifted heavenward.

  “Did you send Mrs. Nesbitt to speak with me?” Grace asked, trying her best to keep the sharpness from her voice.

  Mrs. Weatherford snorted. “I’d never send that woman to see to my personal business.”