The Last Bookshop in London

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.

“Mr. Evans and his wife, God rest her soul, met on Primrose Hill. They propped their backs against the same tree and discovered the other reading from the very same book. Can you imagine?” She took a tea cake from the tray and held it pinched between her fingers. “When they opened the shop, they said it was the perfect name for a bookshop they shared. Quite romantic, isn’t it?”

She tensed, waiting for cutting words such as those her uncle had so often thrown at her. In all the years she’d worked for him, from the first day she’d completed the final year offered at the schoolhouse in Drayton until when she’d left for London, he had pointed out, in great detail, all of her many failures. […]

“I suppose it does need a good scrubbing down,” Mr. Evans grumbled in begrudging acquiescence.

Her fists relaxed. “I beg your pardon?”

“I can make curtains. Mrs. Weatherford has quite a bit of fabric on hand already. We’ve some to spare.”

[…] Grace didn’t know why she was offering to help Mr. Evans. Especially when he was implying he soon may not have the business to support hiring an assistant. But they had the fabric to spare, and anything she could do to remain useful enough to glean a letter of recommendation would work in her favor.

“How can you be so calm?” Grace asked.

“This isn’t the first time London has been bombed, my dear.” Mrs. Weatherford extended the tin to Viv and received another silent no. “Having knowledge is the best way to fight off fear. I’ve spent quite a bit of time bending Mr. Stokes’s ear about how to properly prepare.”

“Reading is […] going somewhere without ever taking a train or ship, an unveiling of new, incredible worlds. It’s living a life you weren’t born into and a chance to see everything colored by someone else’s perspective. It’s learning without having to face the consequences of failures, and how best to succeed.” He hesitated. “I think within all of us, there is a void, a gap waiting to be filled by something. For me, that something is books and all their proffered experiences.”

Grace stared down at hers once more as a shroud of dread brushed over her. “An identification wristlet?”

“In case we get bombed.” Viv’s mouth twisted to the side and Grace knew she was biting the inside of her lip, a habit she’d had since she was a girl. “These are far sturdier than our identity cards. So they can know who we are.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Viv lifted a shoulder. “The women are being used as clerks and shopkeeps from what I hear. I’d be doing something similar to what I’m doing now, but at least I’d be helping end all of this.” She waved her hands in the air to imply the entirety of their current situation. “[…] I want to stop worrying about the idea that bombs may drop or that we’ll be subject to rationing. I want life to be normal again.”

Yet through it all, she couldn’t dislodge The Count of Monte Cristo from her head. Edmond had only just crawled through the tunnel toward the abbé’s prison cell.

What would he find in there? What if they were caught? […] After ordering new stock for the returning children, she slipped the thick book from her handbag and snuck between two large shelves near the rear of the store. Immediately, she fell into the story and the fog of exhaustion in her brain cleared away.

“Don’t join the ATS, Miss Bennett. Stay here.”

“In London?”

“At Primrose Hill Books.” He put his hands in his pockets and lowered his head. “I know you’ve a mind to go to Harrods and it’s not fair of me to ask.” He glanced up at her, his expression hesitant. “I’m grateful for what you’ve done with the shop and would like you to at least consider staying on.”

“Cease this at once,” she shouted into the night.

Her order was met with laughter and jeers.

“Mind yourself lest you be seen as a Nazi supporter.” Mr. Stokes’s voice was low and filled with enough caution to give her pause.

She clenched her fists as tears leaked hot down her cheeks in anger for her crippling helplessness. She shoved Mr. Stokes away from her. “How can you stand this?”

“There’s a war going on, Miss Bennett. You are but one person, so sometimes that means a café is looted, yes, but that it didn’t burn. You can’t save the world, but keep trying in any small way you can.”

His mouth lifted at the corners in an almost embarrassed smile. “Such as an old man collecting battered and singed books to keep voices alive.” He set his age-spotted hand on hers, its warmth comforting. “Or finding a story to help a young mother forget her pain.”

“I don’t like it, Miss Bennett.” Color blossomed in his face. “I think you ought to resign from your post with the ARP.”

[…] “The ARP needs me now more than ever,” Grace replied in a low voice.

“So does the store.” Mr. Evans snatched up his ledger, sending the pencil flying from its spine, and strode toward the rear of the shop without another word.

Hopelessness welled in Grace, exacerbated by the tired fog clouding her mind. Mr. Evans was evidently worried that she would be sacrificing her focus on the store for her efforts with the ARP.

Her tongue tripped over the first couple of sentences, and she was awkwardly aware of how many people were witnessing her missteps. […] But as she continued to read, the crowd around her faded away and her mind focused only on the story. Her world curled around Dorothea’s experiencing that miserable honeymoon in Rome.

“M’name’s Jack,” he said. “I wanted to thank you, not only for reading to us from your book, but also for saving my life.”

“Saving your life?” Grace repeated in surprise.

He nodded. “I was in the area the day you started reading, rather by accident. Usually, I’m near Hyde Park in the afternoons, repairing some of the buildings there.” He tilted his head in a humble gesture. “Much as I can. But lately I’ve been finding jobs around here to make sure I’m in the tube to hear you read during air raids. Had I not, I’d have been in Marble Arch Station where I sheltered before.”

“Mr. Stokes,” she said sharply.

He turned his head to her slowly, his gaze wide and distant, in a dreamlike state. A single, silent tear spilled over his lower lash line and crawled down his cheek. He blinked, as though startled to see her standing there.

“We can’t do anything for her now,” Grace said in a matter-of-fact tone she didn’t know she could possess in such circumstances. “We need to see if there are survivors we can help.”

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.

“You are working yourself ragged. You needed the distraction, at least for one evening, and I’m glad you took it.” She looked around in horrified awe before turning her attention back to Grace. “Good God, the things you must see.”

Then she threw her arms around Grace and squeezed her in a hug that smelled like the old Viv, all sweet floral perfume that overwhelmed the acrid odor in the air. “You’re so brave,” Viv whispered. “So very brave.”

“I look forward to every letter you write.” She ran her thumb over the back of his hand, exploring the new found 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.”

Once they were away from the inferno of London’s center, Grace had covered Tabby with the blanket to ensure he’d remain warm. Now, she peeled the thin layer of cloth back, revealing a sleepy-eyed cat who had experienced just as terrible a night as them all.

Mrs. Weatherford put her fingers over her lips. “That isn’t…is that…?”

[…] “You were the last—” Her voice caught. “You were the last wounded creature Colin saved.”

“You saw how Ebenezer’s unhappy childhood made him who he was. Imagine how he might feel if his business burned to the ground.”

It was an apt comparison between Ebenezer Scrooge and Mrs. Nesbitt to be sure. One Grace had never thought to put together before that moment. But it was true how anger could be used to mask hurt, especially when hurt was such a very vulnerable emotion.

“Are you truly so arrogant to assume that God would have London bombed just to take a jab at you for a selfish act?” Mrs. Weatherford heaved a sigh. “Mrs. Nesbitt, I suggest you put some sense into your head and take advantage of a good offer when it’s sent your way.”

Grace nearly choked on her tea.

“I’ve considered going through the necessary channels to adopt Jimmy and Sarah.” Mrs. Weatherford set Tabby down amid a puff of dispelled cat hair. “I wanted to see where your thoughts might lie on the matter of them living with us.”

The children had been doing so well, their progress noticeable with each week that passed. Not only did they both attend the readings now, but they were often at Mrs. Weatherford’s townhouse, either for supper or to help out in the garden. They brought laughter back into a house that had gone far too silent.

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. […] “And you’re not just someone who reads to us. You’re a hero.”

She straightened and clapped in delight. It had become tradition, after all, for them to exchange books with one another. His were often battered, well-read copies that had been shared between countless soldiers, but the stories within were always captivating.