The Last Bookshop in London

by Madeline Martin

  “Go on home, Mr. Stokes, I’ll take it from here.” Mrs. Weatherford’s soft voice chimed into the conversation.

  He gave her a resigned smile. Even he knew better than to argue with her. With a final salute, he left the shop, no doubt to fall into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  “Grace, dearest.” Mrs. Weatherford took her arm.

  The support she offered was kind, but it was too much when Grace was so fragile. It would be too easy to fall into the comfort of Mrs. Weatherford’s maternal embrace and shatter.

  Instead she offered a grateful smile and shook her head.

  Every now and again, Mrs. Weatherford backed down when she knew it was best to do so. Fortunately, this was one of those moments. She lowered her head in acknowledgment and returned to the step where Jimmy and Sarah waited for her with wide, questioning eyes.

  Grace went through her large handbag with the gas mask tucked inside, and withdrew the book she’d been reading aloud, Jane Eyre.

  “Miss Bennett, you don’t need to do that,” Mrs. Kittering said. “Not today.”

  But her protest only steeled Grace’s spine more, as her mother had always encouraged. “Of all days, I think we need this now more than ever.”

  Or at least Grace certainly did. As a reminder of what she might hopefully rebuild again.

  Someday.

  Somehow.

  She made her way to the second step of the stairs, which hadn’t yet been brushed off, and swiped at it to clear the debris. A handkerchief appeared in front of her from Mrs. Smithwick. Grace smiled her thanks.

  The stair was near enough to the window that she could make out the type on the page well enough to read without the aid of her torch. She sat down and looked at the faces of those gathering around her with uncertainty. It was then she realized she ought to say something.

  But what? That she didn’t know how long it would take to repair such damage? Especially when another raid might crumble what little was left. Or the first downpour might leak through the flat above and destroy the entire shop.

  As if the cruelest of fates heard her thoughts, a low rumble issued forth from the broken windows, indicating the likelihood of a storm.

  Despair pulled at her like an undertow, threatening to suck her down in a dark abyss.

  “Thank you all for coming,” she said in an uncertain voice. Jane Eyre sat on her knees, an emblem of what had brought them all together, of what had unified them in the face of war and danger. Jane had courage, a considerable amount for all she’d faced, and Grace tried to draw as much from the book’s protagonist in that moment.

  “As you can see, Primrose Hill Books has been struck by last night’s bombing, as were many, many Londoners.” Grace folded her hand around the cover of the book. “I cannot tell you when we will be back in proper form again. I do not know—” Her voice caught and she cleared her throat. “I do not know if it will even be possible to continue.”

  She looked out at the sea of faces she’d grown to know so well. The professors who loved to gather in their philosophical debates, the housewives, like Mrs. Kittering, who found refuge from their empty homes between the covers of books, men from the heavy rescue who sometimes needed more than what could be found in a flask to make them forget what they’d seen. And even Jimmy, who sat with Sarah tucked protectively against him, both under the watchful gaze of Mrs. Weatherford. The older woman’s worried expression told Grace exactly how bad the shop truly looked.

  She nodded at Grace with the same kind of silent encouragement Mr. Evans once offered.

  “I appreciate what all of you have helped Primrose Hill Books become,” Grace continued. “Books are what have brought us together. A love of the stories within, the adventures they take us on, their glorious distraction in a time of strife. And a reminder that we always have hope.”

  Thunder grumbled once more in the distance. Louder this time.

  Several people glanced up with concern showing on their faces. With part of the roof missing, the upper floor would only block out the water for so long.

  Jack, the rough looking man who had been there from her first reading, turned his head and spoke to two others beside him. They glanced up at the ceiling with a frown, clearly of a similar mind.

  “Even if we don’t have Primrose Hill Books...” Grace cradled Jane Eyre to her chest. “Remember that we will always have books, and therefore we will always have courage and optimism.”

  The faces looking back at her were solemn as mourners at a funeral. A woman nearby pulled a handkerchief from her handbag and dabbed at her eyes.

  No doubt they suspected the shop could not continue.

  And they were probably right.

  Jack and the two men with him quietly left the shop as another crash of thunder echoed overhead.

  “I’ll continue our readings until Jane Eyre is finished.” She indicated the book where the scrap of paper she’d tucked between the pages, a place marker, closer to the back cover than the front. “And after that—”

  “Please don’t stop your readings,” someone called from the back.

  “You’re the last bookshop in London,” another youthful voice cried out.

  Jimmy.

  Mrs. Weatherford put a hand on his shoulder and pressed her lips together, appearing very near tears.

  Grace shook her head. “I’m certainly not the last.” After all, she imagined Foyles would undoubtedly be around forever. Its owner was rumored to have lined his roof with copies of Mein Kampf in an effort to keep all six stories of discounted books safe from the Germans. It worked, although Foyles did have a near miss at one point that left a massive crater in front of the bookshop that they continued to operate around.

  They all made do in such times.

  “Though certainly there will never be another bookshop like ours.” The sentiment clogged in her throat and she opened the book to remove the scrap of paper. If she didn’t start reading soon, she might lose her courage. “And we still have a few more chapters yet.”

  Before she knew it, she lost herself to Jane’s story, feeling the character’s suffering, but reveling in her strength and bravery. All at once, the two chapters Grace had meant to read became three and she knew she must stop.

  But she didn’t want to. She wanted to continue reading. Jane’s mettle in the face of homelessness and starvation after leaving Thornfield in Jane Eyre was far easier for Grace to lose herself in than facing her own hardships.

  But people had to return to their obligations and so must she.

  It was with much regret that she lowered the book to find it had begun to rain outside. Surely it would not take much before water would seep into the walls and the damage became irreparable.

  Then Primrose Hill Books would be no more, and everything she’d worked for would truly be gone.

  Several men had arrived outside the broken shop windows with Jack in the lead. He entered the store, his cap clutched in his large hands. “I’m sorry I missed your reading.”

  The other men came in behind him, shining torches along the walls and ceiling as they spoke together in low murmurs.

  They couldn’t be there to—

  “I had to get my crew,” Jack said. “So we can fix the shop for you.”

  “I beg your pardon?” she whispered, unable to believe her ears. Surely she hadn’t heard him properly. Surely he didn’t mean—

  “We’re here to fix up your shop.” He called out several orders to his men.

  One of the men layered a sheet of waxed linen on the inside of a blown-out display window and nailed it to the frame. The room darkened somewhat at the blocked light.

  “We’ll fix up the shop, then you can keep reading.” He winked. “These blokes haven’t heard your readings yet. Now they’re interested.”

  Grace gave a little laugh that was somewhere nearer to a sob than she
cared to admit. “I’ll read them any book they’d like.”

  “They were hoping you’d say that.” He turned to his men and issued a series of instructions before turning back to her. “Please get some rest, Miss Bennett. Your shop will be in safe hands. We’ve worked out a system to keep watch so looters can’t come in, even through the night.”

  “Jack.” Words stuck in her throat then, all the gratitude and genuine awe at such kindness. “Thank you.” It was all she could manage of the welling praise and appreciation she wished to say instead.

  Mrs. Weatherford approached and put an arm around Grace’s shoulders, gently guiding her home where she gave Grace a warm meal and saw her safely tucked into bed.

  Mind reeling at the twists and turns of that day, Grace gave in fully to the weariness that felt as though it was leaching her bones.

  * * *

  She woke to the gray glow of a rainy day limning the blackout curtains. Her mouth was dry as wartime cake, and her brain was fogged over with blurred memories. The severity of her fatigue had left her more addled than the French 75s she’d had with Viv at Grosvenor House Hotel months ago.

  Suddenly she remembered everything. The bombed bookshop, Mr. Stokes helping her clean and salvage, reading amid the ruination. And Jack bringing his crew to help.

  She leapt from the bed then, rushing to dress and go see what they’d managed to accomplish in the afternoon. If nothing else, hopefully they would have the tarpaulin on the roof to prevent any more leaking into Mr. Evans’s flat.

  She freshened up and went downstairs where Mrs. Weatherford was sitting in the parlor with Tabby nestled comfortably in her lap.

  “I wondered when you might finally wake.” She chuckled and scratched the little cat behind his ears. He leaned into her ministrations as his eyes lazily closed. “I’m glad we were able to make it through the night without a single air raid.”

  “The night?” Grace asked, startled.

  “Yes, dear. You’ve been asleep since we came home yesterday afternoon.” Mrs. Weatherford looked up. “And good thing too; you’ve been in dire need of rest. Jack said it was for the best. He’s a lovely man, isn’t he? He said to assure you that the shop—”

  “The bookshop.” Grace hastened to the front door.

  “Do eat something before you go,” Mrs. Weatherford called.

  But Grace was already rushing out the front door, practically running to Primrose Hill Books. Once more, her feet skidded to a halt before the shop in shock. She’d hoped for a tarp on the roof and saw now there was none.

  There was slate.

  Mismatched and oddly shaped bits that came together to form a solid roof. The windows were covered in waxed linen, stretched taut in their frames like drum skins.

  Even the soot streaking the stucco from the fires had been painted over.

  It was all as if it had never happened. Grace strode toward the door—the door!

  Its trim suggested it might have been cut down from a larger size, but a fresh coating of black paint gave it a fine look. She put her hand to the dented brass knob and entered the shop.

  A familiar ding cheerfully welcomed her.

  Along with an extraordinary sight.

  Shelves of various heights and colors, pieced from odds and ends of repurposed wood, once more offered an array of books lining the walls, and the shelves stacked at the shop’s center had been dusted and filled as well. Pasteboard signs in a neat script hung once more where they ought to, and even several advertising displays had been replaced.

  It was too much in the most wonderful way. An absolute miracle.

  And many of the faces she recognized from her book readings were there, watching her with tired, bright smiles.

  “I...” Grace’s words caught. “You did all of this?”

  “We worked through the night and most of the day,” Mrs. Kittering said. “Lucky for us there wasn’t a single air raid.”

  “It isn’t all organized yet,” Mrs. Smithwick said apologetically, fingering the pearls at her neck. “But we’re working on it.”

  “You’ve done a fine job, Mrs. Smithwick,” Jack said to her with a nod.

  She beamed broadly, the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes crinkling.

  “This is incredible,” Grace breathed. If she looked for hours on end, she still might not believe that her shop was back in working condition.

  “We had to use scraps to put it all together.” Jack glanced about, his eyes squinted in assessment. “But it’s a sound shop, so long as the Germans don’t try bombing it again.”

  “I don’t know how I can ever repay you.” Grace put her hand to her chest. Her heart felt too large to fit within its confines.

  “Everyone wanted to do their bit to help,” Jack said with a nod to the group.

  He moved back and little Sarah took a step forward. Grace recognized the blue-and-white polka-dot dress as one Mrs. Weatherford had sewn from some of Viv’s spare fabric.

  Sarah sucked in a deep breath and announced in a very loud voice, much like an actress, “Every day you read to a crowd. But they’re not just stories, for many of us, they’re a sanctuary.” She said the last word slowly and Jimmy gave her a thumbs-up. She twisted with apparent pride as children are wont to do and took a deep breath again, meeting Grace’s eye. “And you’re not just someone who reads to us. You’re a hero.”

  Such words rendered Grace speechless. She wavered on her feet, light-headed with gratitude.

  Jack approached her. “You saved my life, Miss Bennett. Were it not for your readings, I’d have been blown to bits at Marble Arch. Thank you.”

  He didn’t wait for a reply and stepped back, lowering his head with gratitude. Mrs. Kittering replaced his position at Grace’s side. “I was in a dark place when you found me sobbing in your store. You gave me the light to keep going. Thank you.”

  She departed and Jimmy stepped forward. “I couldn’t have cared for Sarah the way you’ve done along with Mrs. Weatherford. You gave us food and clothes when we had none.”

  “And now a home,” Sarah said as she peered shyly from his side. “Thank you.”

  “That makes me so happy,” Grace said, realizing the children had agreed to come live with her and Mrs. Weatherford.

  They left together, hand in hand, and Mrs. Smithwick stepped forward. “My Tommy was killed in the war and so was my Donald.” She looked down and discreetly glanced over her shoulder. “You don’t know it, but you saved my life as well,” she said so softly Grace nearly didn’t hear. “By my own hands. You showed me that when all seems lost to the enemy, one can always find a friend.”

  On and on they all came forward. A man whose leg Grace had bound after a blast with whom she’d shared by memory the details from The Count of Monte Cristo, distracting him from the pain. A professor who had been seeking a welcome place to find fellow readers, having discovered them at Primrose Hill Books. A shop owner who had lost everything with the Paternoster Row bombing. And even Mrs. Nesbitt, who apologized for her past transgressions and offered her thanks for everything Grace had done.

  Last came Mrs. Weatherford who stepped forward with a watery smile. “You saved me, Grace Bennett. When I lost Colin and thought I had nothing left, you reminded me there was a purpose to my life. What’s more, you pointed me in the direction I should go.” She glanced at Jimmy and Sarah, the latter of whom waved with vigorous affection. “I knew your mother better than anyone on this green Earth and I tell you right now—she would have been so proud. Of your sacrifice and your courage and your strength.”

  She caught Grace in an embrace. “And I’m proud of you too, my dear,” she whispered.

  When they broke apart, Jack was standing at Grace’s side with his hands jammed in the pockets of his overalls. “Begging your pardon, but we need your approval on something.”

  Grace shook her head, overcome wit
h affection and appreciation for the effort so many had gone through, not only with her shop, but for making her feel so valued. She followed him outside where two men in working overalls waited, weary and paint-smeared. They held a large beam of wood lengthwise between them.

  “We know the bookshop is Primrose Hill Books,” Jack said. “But we all thought this seemed more appropriate for the time being, given the circumstances.”

  He nodded and the men flipped over the board, revealing a painted sign, reading The Last Bookshop in London.

  Grace laughed, giddy with love and friendship and joy. It was indeed a perfect name, and she knew Mr. Evans would agree if he was still alive.

  “It’s brilliant,” she said. “With one small modification. If I may?”

  Jack lifted his brows in amusement, and Mrs. Kittering brought over a pot of paint and a brush. Grace wrote in a small, cursive script beneath the beautiful title, “All welcome.”

  “Well done, Grace.” Mrs. Weatherford clapped her hands.

  “Wait—one more thing.” Before anyone could stop him, Jimmy ran forward and plucked the brush from the pot. He turned around, blocking what he’d written and stepped aside with a cheeky grin.

  Below Grace’s welcome to all was a roughly scrawled statement, defiantly proclaiming, “Except Hitler.”

  They all had a fine laugh at that while the men put the new sign above the door to the shop.

  Sarah tugged at Grace’s skirt.

  “What is it, dearest?” she asked of the child.

  Sarah gazed up at her, bright blue eyes imploring. “Will you read to us now?”

  But it wasn’t only Sarah who looked at Grace with expectation, so did everyone else, tired but eager.

  “Nothing would make me happier.” Grace led them all to the glossy black door. “Ladies and gentlemen, it gives me great pleasure to welcome you to The Last Bookshop in London.”

  Amid the cheer that rose up, she led them into the store where she took her place on the second step up. She hesitated a moment there, scanning all the faces who had made not only the bookshop whole, but also her heart. Her gaze flicked to the history section where Mr. Evans had often sequestered himself, and for a fleeting moment she felt him then as surely as if he truly was there.