The Last Bookshop in London: A Novel of World War II(16)

The prime minister made a special broadcast at 11:15 the next morning before Grace could leave.

She sat on the mohair sofa with Viv as Chamberlain’s voice filled the small parlor. Colin was no longer on the floor as Tabby was now with Mr. Pritchard. Instead, the young man perched tensely at the edge of the Morris chair beside his mother’s seat.

A tea tray sat on the center of the small table beside a vase of dahlias, untouched.

The prime minister relayed that Germany had ignored requests to pull free from Poland. Grace held her breath and prayed silently that Chamberlain wouldn’t announce the news they had been dreading.

But all the listeners in London holding their breath couldn’t stop his next words. “...consequently, this country is at war with Germany.”

Even though the declaration was expected, it hit Grace like a blow. How could something so expected carry such visceral impact?

She was not alone.

Viv dabbed at her eyes with a pretty lace-lined handkerchief she’d sewn before they left Drayton, and Mrs. Weatherford sucked in a breath. Colin immediately reached for his mother’s hand.

They were at war.

But what did that mean? Would they be bombed? The men conscripted? Food rationed?

Grace remembered her mother’s stories from the Great War and how difficult it had been. But those had simply been tales to Grace, ones without context for a life she could scarce imagine. And now that unfathomable world was about to become their new reality.

A shrill wail cut through the silence, the blaring of the air raid horn that had no end as its warbling cry rose and fell. The blood in Grace’s veins froze. She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move.

They would be bombed. Like Poland. Overtaken by the Germans.

“Grace.” Mrs. Weatherford said her name with an insistence that broke through the haze of her fear. “Go fill the tub and sinks with water. Viv, open all the windows. I’ll fetch our masks and supplies while Colin turns off the gas at the mains.”

“B-but the bombs,” Viv stuttered, looking more terrified than Grace had ever seen her.

“They’ve only just seen the plane.” Mrs. Weatherford pushed to her feet and snapped off the wireless. “We have at least five minutes to get to the Andy if not more.”

There was a calm authority to her tone as she spoke, and it pulled each one of them to the task she’d assigned. Though Grace didn’t know why she had been told to fill the tub and sinks, she did as asked, letting the gush of water accompany the siren’s wail.

Never had the taps run more slowly.

By the time the last sink filled, she ran to the Andy on legs that threatened to give out. There was little to the shelter, merely a curve of metal buried beneath a bit of dirt to form a submerged upside down U. How such a contraption could possibly keep them protected from a bombing was beyond her, a consideration that hadn’t crossed her mind until that moment.

She stepped down through the small entrance, squeezing her way into the shelter. It smelled of dirt and damp metal, and blotted out the sun overhead, leaving the interior dim. Viv was already there, sitting in the near darkness on one of the small benches Colin had set on either side of the narrow space. Her arms were hugged around her middle and she looked up sharply, her long-lashed brown eyes wide with worry.

The siren cut off. An ominous silence replaced the warbling cry.

Grace sat beside Viv and took her friend’s hand in hers. But she could offer no words of comfort. Not when every muscle in her own body was tensed for an explosion.

This was it. Like Poland. They would be bombed as surely as had Warsaw.

She didn’t know what a bomb might sound like, or even what to expect. Let alone what to do if they were struck in their tin of a shelter.

Colin joined them in the Andy and folded his large frame on the bench opposite them. His head bowed forward somewhat to accommodate the low arching ceiling. Mrs. Weatherford entered the shelter last with four gas masks dangling from one shoulder and a large box clasped in her hands. The clatter of her movements echoed against the steel frame and reverberated in their ears.

Colin immediately reached up to take the box from his mother. She smiled her gratitude and handed everyone their respective mask.

Grace accepted hers with hands that wouldn’t stop shaking. “Should we put it on?”

“Only if you hear the wooden rattle outside.” Mrs. Weatherford sat on the bench beside Colin. “The ARP wardens are all equipped with one for such a purpose. And I’ve purchased some Anti-Gas Ointment from the chemist. We have approximately one minute to smear it on our exposed skin, which is plenty of time. So you see, there’s no need to worry.”

She lifted the top from the plain box, revealing myriad supplies within. A yellow-topped tin of No. 2 Anti-Gas Ointment, a container of Smiths crisps, a couple bottles of what appeared to be lemonade and a bit of yarn and knitting needles.

“Did you turn off the gas, Colin?” Mrs. Weatherford’s voice was smooth and calm, as if they were not all sitting about waiting to die.

He nodded.

“And the sinks and tub?” She looked to Grace.

Grace nodded also. Viv did likewise beside her before Mrs. Weatherford could ask if she’d completed her task.

“Brilliant.” Mrs. Weatherford edged the box toward Grace and Viv. “Would you like some crisps?”

Grace’s mouth was too dry to swallow her own saliva, let alone any food. Not that her knotted stomach would tolerate anything. She stared down at the teal tin of potato crisps and shook her head.