The Last Bookshop in London
“The Last Bookshop in London is an irresistible tale which showcases the transformative power of literacy, reminding us of the hope and sanctuary our neighborhood bookstores offer during the perilous trials of war and unrest.”
—Kim Michele Richardson, New York Times bestselling author of The Book Woman of Troublesome Creek
“The Last Bookshop in London is a gorgeously written story of love, friendship, and survival set against the backdrop of WWII-era London. Madeline Martin’s beautiful novel is a poignant and emotional love letter to books and bookshops themselves, and ultimately a testament to the power of stories to sustain us in even our darkest hours.”
—Jillian Cantor, USA TODAY bestselling author of In Another Time and Half Life
“I devoured this story! I loved Grace and Primrose Hill Books! At its heart, The Last Bookshop in London is a love letter to the power of books to unite us, to hold the world together when it’s falling apart around our ears. This fresh take on what London endured during WWII should catapult Madeline Martin to the top tier of historical fiction novelists. I highly recommend it.”
—Karen Robards, author of The Black Swan of Paris
Also by Madeline Martin
Borderland Rebels series
Borderland Ladies series
The London School for Ladies series
Highland Passions series
Wicked Earls’ Club series
THE LAST
BOOKSHOP
IN LONDON
A NOVEL OF WORD WAR II
MADELINE MARTIN
Madeline Martin is a USA TODAY bestselling author of historical fiction. She lives in Jacksonville, Florida.
MadelineMartin.com
To the authors of all the books I’ve ever read. Thank you for the escape, for the knowledge and for shaping me into who I am.
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ONE
AUGUST 1939
LONDON, ENGLAND
Grace Bennett had always dreamed of someday living in London. Never did she imagine it would become her only option, especially not on the eve of war.
The train pulled to a stop within Farringdon Station, its name clearly marked on the wall inside a strip of blue set within a red circle. People hovered on the platform, as eager to get on as those within were to get off. They wore smartly cut clothing in the chic styles of city life. Far more sophisticated than in Drayton, Norfolk.
Equal parts nerves and eagerness vibrated about inside Grace. “We’ve arrived.” She looked at Viv beside her.
Her friend clicked the top on her lipstick tube closed and gave a freshly applied vermillion smile. Viv glanced out the window, her gaze skimming the checkerboard of advertisements lining the curved wall. “After so many years of wishing we could be in London.” Her hand caught Grace’s in a quick squeeze. “Here we are.”
Back when they were mere girls, Viv had first mentioned the notion of moving away from dull Drayton for a far more exciting life in the city. It had been a wild concept then, to leave their slow-moving, familiar existence in the country for the bustling, fast-paced pulse of London. Never had Grace considered it might someday become a necessity.
But then, there was nothing left in Drayton for Grace anymore. At least nothing she cared to return to.
The ladies rose from their plush seats and took hold of their luggage. Each had only one case with them, faded things, beaten down more by age than use. Both were stuffed to the point of near-bursting and were not only impossibly heavy, but awkward to manage around the gas mask boxes slung over their shoulders. The ghastly things had to be brought with them everywhere, per the government, to ensure they’d be protected in the event of a gas attack.
Lucky for them, Britton Street was only a two-minute walk away, or so Mrs. Weatherford had said.
Her mother’s childhood friend had a room to let, one she’d offered a year ago when Grace’s mother first passed. The terms had been generous—two months for free while Grace acquired a job and even then, the rent would be discounted thereafter. Despite Grace’s longing to go to London, and despite Viv’s enthusiastic encouragement, Grace had remained in Drayton for nearly a year after in an attempt to pick up the pieces of her broken existence.
That was before she learned the house she’d lived in since her birth truly belonged to her uncle. Before he moved in with his overbearing wife and five children. Before life as she knew it shattered even further apart.
There was no room for Grace in her own home, a point her aunt had been eager to note often. What had once been a place of comfort and love became a place Grace felt unwelcome. When her aunt finally had the temerity to tell Grace to leave, she knew she had no other options.
Writing the letter to Mrs. Weatherford the previous month to see if the opportunity still held was one of the hardest things Grace had ever done. It had been a surrender to the challenges she faced, a terrible, soul-crushing failure. A capitulation that had rendered her the greatest failure.
Grace had never possessed much courage. Even now, she wondered if she would have managed her way to London had Viv not insisted they go together.
Trepidation knotted through her as they waited for the train’s gleaming metal doors to part and unveil a whole new world.
“Everything will be brilliant,” Viv whispered under her breath. “It will all be so much better, Grace. I promise.”
The air-powered doors of the electric train hissed open and they stepped onto the platform amid the push and pull of people coming and going all at once. Then the doors shushed closed behind them, and the gust of the train’s departure tugged at their skirts and hair.
An advert for Chesterfields on the far wall displayed a handsome lifeguard smoking a cigarette while another poster beside it called on the men of London to join the service.
It wasn’t only a reminder of a war their country might soon face, but how living in the city presented a greater element of danger. If Hitler meant to take Britain, he would likely set his sights on London.
“Oh, Grace, look!” Viv exclaimed.
Grace turned from the poster toward the metal stairs, which glided upward on an unseen belt, disappearing somewhere above the arched ceiling. Into the city of their dreams.
The advert was quickly forgotten as she and Viv rushed toward the escalator and tried to tamp down their delight as it effortlessly carried them up, up, up.
Viv’s shoulders squeezed upward with barely restrained happiness. “Didn’t I tell you this would be amazing?”
The enormity of it hit Grace all at once. After years of dreaming and planning, here they were in London.
Away from Grace’s bully of an uncle, out from under the thumb of Viv’s strict parents.
Despite all of Grace’s troubles, she and Viv swept out of the station like caged songbirds ready to finally spread their wings.
It was all Grace could do to keep from grasping her friend’s arm and squealing for her to look. Viv was taking it in too, with wide, sparkling eyes. She appeared as much an awed country girl as Grace, albeit in a fashionable dress with her perfectly styled auburn curls.
Grace was not as chic. Though she’d worn her best dress for the occasion, its hem fell just past her knees, and the waist nipped in with a slim black belt that matched her low heels. While not as stylish as Viv’s black-and-white polka-dot dress, the pale blue cotton set off Grace’s gray eyes and complemented her fair hair.
Viv had sewn it for her, of course. But then, Viv had always seen to both of them with an eye set toward grander aspirations. Throughout their friendship, they had spent hours sewing dresses and rolling their hair, years of reading Woman and Woman’s Life on fashion and etiquette and then making countless corrections to ensure they “lost the Drayton” from their speech.
Now, Viv looked like she could grace one of those magazine covers with her high cheekbones and long-lashed brown eyes.
They joined the flurry of people rushing to and fro, heaving the bulk of their suitcases from one hand to the other as Grace led the way toward Britton Street. Thankfully, the directions Mrs. Weatherford had sent in their last correspondence had been detailed and easy to follow.
What had been missing from the account, however, were all the signs of war.
More advertisements, some calling for men to do their part, with others prompting people to disregard Hitler and his threats and still book their summer holidays. Just across the street, a wall of sandbags framed a doorway with a black-and-white sign proclaiming it to be a Public Air Raid Shelter.
* * *
True to Mrs. Weatherford’s directions, they arrived at Britton Street within two short minutes and found themselves in front of a brick townhouse. It had a green door with a polished brass knocker and a flower box filled with purple and white petunias in the window. Based on what Mrs. Weatherford had written, this was unmistakably her house.
And their new home.
Viv charged up the stairs, her curls bouncing with each step, and rapped on the door. Grace joined her at the top, spurred on by the anticipation jolting through her. After all, this was her mum’s dearest friend, the one who visited them in Drayton several times in Grace’s youth.
The friendship between Grace’s mother and Mrs. Weatherford had begun when Mrs. Weatherford had lived in Drayton. Even after she moved, it had continued on through the Great War that took both their husbands’ lives and through the illness that had finally taken Grace’s mother.
The door opened and Mrs. Weatherford, looking older than Grace remembered, appeared in the widening doorway. She’d always been pleasantly plump with flushed apple cheeks and sparkling blue eyes. Only now she wore round spectacles and her dark hair was laced through with strands of sparkling silver. Her gaze homed in on Grace first.
She gasped softly and touched her fingers to her mouth. “Grace, you’re the spitting image of your mum. Beatrice always was so pretty with those gray eyes of hers.” The older woman opened the door wider, revealing her white cotton dress with blue sprigged flowers and matching blue buttons. Behind her, the entryway was small but tidy, filled almost entirely with a set of stairs that went up to another floor. “Please, do come in.”
Grace murmured her thanks for the compliment, downplaying exactly how much that praise tugged at the part of her that still mourned her mother.
She heaved her suitcase through the doorway and into the home that held the savory aroma of meat and vegetables in the warm air. Grace’s mouth watered.
She hadn’t had a proper homemade meal since her mother’s death. Not a good one, at least. Her aunt hadn’t been much of a cook, and Grace spent too many hours running her uncle’s store to prepare anything decent.
A rug underfoot softened Grace’s steps, cream colored with pastel flowers. Though clean, it appeared to be somewhat worn in patches.
“Vivienne,” Mrs. Weatherford said as Viv joined Grace in the entryway.
“All my friends call me Viv.” She offered a smile at Mrs. Weatherford with her one-of-a-kind Viv charm.
“What beauties you both have become. I reckon you’ll set my boy blushing.” Mrs. Weatherford motioned for them to rest their bags on the floor. “Colin,” she called up the polished wood stairs. “See to the ladies’ effects while I put the kettle on.”
“How is Colin?” Grace asked politely.
Like her, he was an only child, left without a father after the Great War as she had been. Though he was two years Grace’s junior, they’d played together as children. She recalled those memories with great fondness. There had always been a gentleness to Colin, a genuine kindness behind the sharp intelligence of his eyes.
Mrs. Weatherford threw her hands up in exasperation. “Trying to save the world one animal at a time and bringing them all home.” The good-natured chuckle that followed implied she didn’t mind it as much as she claimed.
Grace took a moment to admire the entryway as they waited on Colin. A table sat beside the stairs with a glossy black telephone atop it. The wallpaper was a cheerful blue-and-white brocade, somewhat faded, and matched the white painted doors and doorframes. While simple in design, everything appeared immaculate. In fact, Grace was certain she would be hard-pressed to find a speck of dust on anything her mother’s friend owned.
A creak sounded, followed by footsteps coming down the stairs as a tall, slender man appeared. His dark hair was combed neatly, and he wore a collared shirt and brown trousers.
He gave a shy smile, which softened his features and made him appear even more youthful than his twenty-one years. “Hullo, Grace.”
“Colin?” she said, incredulous. He was almost a foot taller than her, towering over her as she once had over him.
He blushed.
His reaction was endearing, and it warmed her to know he hadn’t lost his sweetness in the years that stretched between them.
Grace gazed up at him. “You’ve certainly grown since I saw you last.”
He shrugged his skinny shoulders, looking perfectly bashful before offering a slight nod to Viv, whom he’d played with as well since the two girls had always been inseparable. “Viv. Welcome to London. Mum and I have been looking forward to your arrival.” He slid a grin at Grace, then bent to grasp the two suitcases the ladies had set aside. He hesitated. “May I take these for you?”
“Please,” Viv said. “Thank you, Colin.”
He nodded and took one suitcase in each of his hands, carrying them easily up the stairs.
“Do you remember visiting with Colin?” Mrs. Weatherford asked.
“We do,” Grace said. “He seems as kind as he’s always been.”
“Only much taller,” Viv added.
Mrs. Weatherford looked up the stairs with adoration shining in her eyes, as if she could still see him. “He’s a good lad. Come, let’s have some tea and I’ll show you around.”
She motioned for them to follow and pushed open the door that led into a kitchen. Light spilled in from the window above the sink and at the back door, filtering in through parted gauzy white curtains. Everything was as pristine in her narrow kitchen as it had been in the entryway. The sun shone off clean white countertops, and a few dishes had been neatly set in a rack to dry. Towels the color of lemons were draped on a rack, and the scent of whatever she was cooking was even more tantalizing.
She indicated the small table with four white chairs to Grace and Viv and lifted the kettle from the sto
ve. “Your uncle picked a fine time to lay claim to your home with a war soon upon us.” She carried it to the sink and turned on the tap. “And so very like Horace,” she said with evident distaste over the rush of water. “Beatrice was worried he might attempt such a thing, but her illness was so sudden—”
Mrs. Weatherford flicked a glance from where she’d been watching the water level in the kettle to Grace. “I shouldn’t be going on like this, what with you just getting in from traveling. I’m so pleased to see you here. I only wish it was under better circumstances.”
Grace bit her lower lip, uncertain what to say.
“You have a lovely home, Mrs. Weatherford,” Viv said quickly.
Grace cast her a grateful look, which she answered with a conspiratorial wink.
“Thank you.” The older woman cut the tap and scanned her sunny kitchen with a smile. “My Thomas’s family owned it for several generations. It’s not as fine as it once was, but one makes do.”
Grace and Viv each slid into a chair. The lemon-printed cushion was thin enough to feel the hard wooden seat beneath. “We appreciate you allowing us to stay with you. It’s very generous.”
“Think nothing of it.” Mrs. Weatherford set the kettle on the stove and spun the knob to turn the burner on. “There’s not a thing I wouldn’t do for the daughter of my dearest friend.”
“Do you think finding employment will be difficult?” Viv asked. Though she kept her tone light, Grace knew how much her friend longed to be a shop assistant.
In truth, the idea was appealing to Grace as well. It seemed so glamorous to work in a department store, something fine and grand like Woolworths with floors of items that extended the length of an entire block.
Mrs. Weatherford gave a secretive smile. “It just so happens I’m well acquainted with quite a few shop owners in London. I’m sure I can do something to help. And Colin works at Harrods. He can put in a good word as well.”
Viv’s eyes lit up as she mouthed the store name to Grace with barely restrained excitement.