The Last Bookshop in London Read online

  His jaw set. “I heard Clerkenwell was hit last night.”

  Grace couldn’t look at him. Not with the tears welling in her eyes. She would be strong. She was better than this.

  His steps thumped softly over the carpet as he came around the counter. “Grace,” he said softly. “Are you all right?”

  Brushing him off with a simple yes would have been easier, but the tenderness in his tone and her aching need for comfort was too great. Even as she shook her head, his arms went around her, like a father’s, pulling her into an embrace of comfort such as she hadn’t known since her mother’s.

  Tears fell, and the details from that night spilled from her lips while he held her. Her burden eased as she shared what she’d seen, leaning on his strength, not realizing how much she had needed it.

  “I was in the Great War,” he said as she wiped at her eyes with a handkerchief. “You never forget, but it becomes part of you. Like a scar no one can see.”

  Grace nodded at the logic of his statement, the roil of her emotions finally calm for the first time since she’d allowed herself to break apart.

  Perhaps his comfort and advice were what gave her courage later that afternoon when a particularly bad raid echoed over the tube station. The cacophony of war overhead came nonstop and with such intensity, it was impossible to differentiate one sound from the other. Without her wits about her, she might have surrendered to the flicker of panic racing in her mind with every whistle, every thundering boom that reverberated in her chest. They only made her read all the louder.

  Afterward, she learned just a mile away, during the height of rush hour, Charing Cross had been heavily bombed.

  That evening, Grace was far more successful in hiding her bruised face from Mrs. Weatherford as they ate a supper of fatty beef and a blend of beans and carrots from their garden. She did not, however, succeed in convincing Mrs. Weatherford to seek shelter.

  It was a discussion they had almost daily. At this point, Grace presumed Mrs. Weatherford had stopped listening to her carefully detailed reasons. Except now, Grace knew full well what could happen if a bomb struck Britton Street.

  Preparing for her ARP work that night took a considerable amount of fortitude. Even as she attached the pin to her lapel, her hands trembled. After all, she never knew what the night would bring.

  Mr. Stokes did not seem to act his usual self either. He didn’t bother to lord his knowledge over her, nor did he make any mention of the bombing of Charing Cross, which no doubt would have had gory details to regurgitate.

  For once, he was quiet.

  And as much as Grace thought such a thing would be a blessing, she discovered his silence dug at an uncomfortable place inside her until she recognized it as worry.

  For Mr. Stokes, of all people.

  After several hours of listening to the rest of London be bombed, a sound so commonplace, it faded to the background like static, and their own sector remaining quiet, Grace could stand it no longer. “I presume you heard about Charing Cross,” she said finally.

  He pressed his lips against one another in the moonlight. She marveled for a moment in his thoughtful pause at how adept she had become at seeing in the blacked-out London streets. She could even make out a slight nick on the side of his jaw that he’d sustained in the blast the night before.

  “I heard,” he said, his voice gravelly and hoarse. He swallowed. “Those poor people.”

  And that was it. No terrible details of dismemberment or smoke-belching destruction. No destroyed homes and victims blasted to gruesome states.

  They didn’t speak again for a long time. Not until they strode past Mrs. Driscoll’s townhouse. The widow’s remains had already been seen to by one of the rescue services and removed. Mr. Stokes stopped in front of the still-standing townhouse and looked at it for rather a long while, his hands thrust in his pockets.

  “I didn’t thank you, Miss Bennett.” He lowered his head. “For last night. I... I nearly forgot myself, and you reminded me what we were there for.”

  His humility struck Grace even more fully than had his silence earlier. “We’re partners.”

  “You kept a level head and people are alive because of you.” His gaze shifted toward Grace. “I admire your ability to stay so focused.”

  “I suspect,” she said slowly, unable to help herself, “it’s because I’m a woman.”

  A slow smile crept over his mouth. He gave a mirthless laugh. “I am a lout, aren’t I?”

  She tilted her head, declining to speak when he already knew the answer.

  * * *

  From that night on, they got on quite well with one another, finding something of a friendship amid the shared danger and tragedy they encountered together.

  And they had need of it, for just a week later, on a night heavy with fog and anticipation, more bombs fell in their sector. The damage was great, the casualties high. On and on the Germans dropped their explosives into the early morning hours.

  As slivers of sunlight jabbed through the smoky air, the all clear sounded. Grace paced before a fallen home, knowing the occupants had sought shelter in a basement beneath. There was a chance, however small, that they might still be alive.

  The men of heavy rescue pulled up in a battered lorry, though most vehicles were battered these days, and approached her with grim faces. Those men saw the worst the bombing had to offer. They were large, all of them, their bodies bulky from the weeks of shifting rubble, their eyes as hollow and empty as the gaping windows of blasted homes.

  She directed them where to dig and helped where she might, calling out the names of people she hoped to one day see again.

  “Miss Bennett.” A shrill voice cried out to her.

  She straightened from a pile of bricks to find a young man running down the path to her.

  “I’m glad I found you,” he said, gasping for breath from his haste. “There’s been a bomb. At Mrs. Weatherford’s—”

  Grace’s blood chilled.

  Mrs. Weatherford.

  She turned from the boy and the men and the rubble, sprinting down the streets toward the townhouse with an impossible speed. When she arrived, she found its face intact. But she knew better than to trust such things. One need only open a door sometimes to discover nothing there.

  She raced up the steps and wasted not a moment as she threw open the door and froze with shock.

  Everything was exactly as she had left it, the wooden floors gleaming beneath the fading carpet, the door to the kitchen propped open, revealing the cheerful yellow and white room.

  She shouted for Mrs. Weatherford as she stumbled into the parlor, finding it empty.

  She darted to the kitchen with another ready breath sucked in to call out once more and nearly ran headlong into none other than Mrs. Weatherford.

  “I was told there was a bomb,” Grace cried out.

  Mrs. Weatherford gave a tired smile. “There is, love. But it’s not gone off, you see?”

  She pointed from the kitchen window where a massive bomb had landed directly on their Anderson shelter, crunching in its center. It was an ugly thing, nearly as long as Grace was tall with a fin jutting from its back and a layer of grit over its dull metal body. Within that body, however, were enough explosives to reduce homes to ruin and chew through tender skin.

  Another shiver rattled down Grace’s spine.

  Had it gone off, Mrs. Weatherford would have been killed. Ripped to pieces. And Grace would have been the one to come upon her.

  “I’ve already notified the ARP post so a bomb disposal unit could be sent round.” Mrs. Weatherford spoke in a flat tone, as if she hadn’t a care. As if she didn’t acknowledge the danger.

  Grace shook her head. “You could have been killed. If it had gone off, if it does go off, the explosion would have leveled the house and you would be...”

  “But
that didn’t happen, dear.” Mrs. Weatherford motioned Grace to the table and poured her a cup of tea. The small chain bracelet Grace had given her recently hung from her limp wrist, the flat oval at its center printed neatly with her name and address.

  But even if she was wearing the wristlet, Grace wouldn’t be put off so easily. She pulled at Mrs. Weatherford, drawing her from the kitchen. “You could have been...” Grace’s voice faltered. “You cold have been hurt...like...”

  Like Mrs. Driscoll.

  “But I’m not.” Mrs. Weatherford sighed, almost appearing saddened by it. Regardless, she offered no protest as Grace nudged her out the front door.

  “You could have been.” Grace blew her whistle to the ARP wardens just coming onto their shift and directed them to clear out the area before the bomb removal unit arrived.

  When at last they were several streets away, with a cup of lukewarm tea from a WVS sponsored canteen, Grace managed to quell her panic and leveled a gaze at Mrs. Weatherford. “I know life has been difficult.”

  Mrs. Weatherford closed her eyes in a slow, painful blink.

  “Please,” Grace pleaded, her voice thick. “I have seen some terrible sights. I’ve witnessed what these bombs can do to people.”

  Mrs. Weatherford’s stare drifted to Grace’s coat, now exposed in the daylight to reveal the grit and blood.

  Things Mrs. Weatherford had never noticed before.

  Several other people lingering near the mobile canteen unit appeared in a similar state, volunteers as well as bomb victims.

  “Do you know what it would do to me to find you in such a state?” Grace’s voice was hoarse with the strain of her whisper. “I can’t—” Tears stung her eyes.

  Mrs. Weatherford touched a hand to her mouth. “Oh, Grace. Dear, I’m so sorry.”

  They said nothing else in the hours that dragged on before the disposal unit could come to take the unexploded bomb safely away.

  That night, however, when Grace had a night off from her ARP shift and was readying herself to join the queue at Farringdon Station’s entrance, Mrs. Weatherford wordlessly joined her with a small bundle of belongings packed at her side.

  From that night on, Mrs. Weatherford slept in the tube station without argument.

  As the month of October went on, the bombings continued, peaking midmonth when the moon was full and bright. A bomber’s moon, they called it. And aptly so.

  By the brilliant lunar aura, the Thames was lit like a silver ribbon curling through London’s blackout, and the Germans could clearly make out their targets.

  Hundreds were killed, far more injured, thousands were left homeless and so many fires raged within London that the ARP wardens were deployed to assist the firemen in their seemingly endless fight.

  Despite London’s flesh being peeled back night after night to reveal more of her skeleton beneath, Churchill still sought to keep as much information from Germany as possible. This meant the casualty numbers listed on the broadcasts in the evening weren’t given a location. It meant stores that had been bombed could reopen in a new area, but not state where their previous location had been. Worse still, it meant the dead could not receive a proper obituary in a timely manner, but were listed at a delay and with simply the month of their death.

  Through it all, life in the battered city went on, its people taking whatever pleasure wherever they could and trying to savor the final vestiges of fine weather before the ice and snow swept in. Especially if the upcoming months were to be as frigid as the winter before.

  So it was that sometime past the middle of October on a particularly lovely day with almost no clouds or rain, Grace found herself longing to forego an extra wink of sleep for a chance to walk in the vestiges of a sunny day. An order from Simpkin Marshalls failed to arrive that afternoon, and she found her opportunity.

  When she’d suggested to Mr. Evans that she go by and check, he’d smiled with understanding and told her to take her time. And take her time she did. Grace strolled to Paternoster Row, making the short walk last a few extra minutes more than necessary. There was a nip in the air, yes, but nothing the sunshine couldn’t warm away.

  Grace had been back to Paternoster Row many times after that fateful first visit. The bustle of foot traffic hadn’t diminished since the start of the war; if anything, it was busier with more people seeking books to entertain them through the long nights in their shelters.

  The glossy red buses once so prevalent had suffered heavy losses due to the frequent bombings. She’d witnessed far too many on the sides of bombed roads, crumpled like discarded children’s toys. One was still visible from time to time, amid the green, blue, brown and white coaches sent to replace the ruined public transportation.

  The vendors along the pavement still sold their fare made with recipes altered to accommodate the ration. And though patrons complained the food was never quite up to snuff, they still queued to buy.

  She knew all the vendors by now, as well as the shop owners and publishers. She entered the shops at a leisurely pace, greeting the owners by name and perusing their new arrivals, not as a competitor, but as a reader. It was a glorious thing to walk down a street devoted to books, where lovers of literature could congregate and indulge in their passion with like-minded souls.

  And though she now understood everyone’s insistence that Mr. Evans relocate his shop to Paternoster Row, she could not imagine Primrose Hill Books anywhere else than in its present location, tucked amid a row of townhouses on Hosier Lane.

  Her mood was so fine that day, she even chanced a visit to Pritchard & Potts where she found Mr. Pritchard dangling a string before Tabby. The cat raked a paw through the air with fanatical determination, so set on his prize, he didn’t even turn at the sound of the bell. Mr. Pritchard, however, startled and dropped the string, which was immediately pounced upon by Tabby.

  “Miss Basset.” Mr. Pritchard cleared his throat and gestured toward the cat now tangled in the length of string. “I was...ehm...trying to hone his reflexes to help him learn to catch mice.”

  Grace smiled despite his perpetual inability to recall her name and seeing through his poorly crafted ruse. “I’m sure it’s quite helpful.”

  Mr. Pritchard’s shiny gaze darted about his shop, and she realized he was no doubt seeing the chaos through her eyes. He tucked his head deeper into the bulk of his dark jacket and tutted. “I am impressed with what you’ve done with Mr. Evans’s shop.” He shoved his hands into his pockets, his thin lips pressing thinner still. “If you’ve any suggestions...”

  Primrose Hill Books was well established now and far enough away that Pritchard & Potts would never be considered legitimate competition. And so it was that Grace offered the older man several tips on advertising and how far a bit of organization could go. While he scowled at the latter suggestion, he nodded intently to her advice on adverts.

  She spent far longer at Pritchard & Potts than she’d intended. Indeed, far longer than she’d ever thought she could endure. On her way rushing home afterward, however, she was not in too great a hurry to miss the large pasteboard in the window of Nesbitt’s Fine Reads touting “Live Readings Every Afternoon.”

  Just like the ones Grace had continued to do.

  She bit back a laugh at such a blatant copy from her austere neighbor. Truly, she wasn’t even cross about it. After all, if it offered more people books to bring joy in such dark times, who was she to be offended?

  Certainly, Mrs. Nesbitt’s afternoon reading did nothing to decrease the crowds in Primrose Hill Books. During bomb raids, Farringdon Station’s platform was nearly spilling over with people. Those whose jobs didn’t allow them the ability to come to the shop during afternoons without air raids quickly asked others what they’d missed as everyone pressed in close to hear her over the sounds of war.

  They had finished Middlemarch, of course, then had moved onto several other classics
, including A Tale of Two Cities and Emma. The latter had been at Mrs. Kittering’s insistence.

  The afternoons when sheltering wasn’t necessary were Grace’s favorite. Mr. Evans had procured a thick pillow for her to use as she sat upon the second step of the winding stairs, and she never once had to compete with a whistling bomb. It was on one such quiet, rainy afternoon she first saw the boy in the back as she read South Riding. The book had resonated with her after she’d read it on George’s recommendation.

  It is through books that we can find the greatest hope, he had written in his tight, neat script. Words the censor had no cause to cut away. You remain ever in my thoughts.

  The letter, as all the ones he’d sent before, were precious to her. But those two lines specifically scored themselves on her mind, repeated multiple times a day.

  And truly, South Riding was a book of great inspiration. Set after the Great War as communities came together and a headmistress inspired hope in a place where there was little to be had. It was an empowering tale about people who could overcome whatever life threw at them.

  The same as the British did now.

  The boy who attended the reading was tall and slim with a cap shoved low over his mussed dark hair. He wore a men’s jacket that hung on his skinny adolescent shoulders and pants that swung about his ankles. All of which were filthy.

  He slipped into the reading after it had started, sitting in the shadows of a towering bookshelf. His attempts to not be seen, however, only made him more noticeable. Grace was keenly aware of him, how he’d tucked those long legs beneath him and raised his cap to reveal his dirty, gaunt face while listening intently. He remained where he was all the way up to the last word of the story, then departed as quickly and quietly as he’d arrived, once more tugging his cap low.

  It was not the only time Grace had seen him. He showed up every day after, wearing the same ill-fitting attire, just as grimy, just as determined to remain unseen.

  But how could one not see a child in such sore need?