The Last Bookshop in London: A Novel of World War II(17)

“Should we put the door into place?” Viv indicated the steel door set to the side of the gaping entrance.

Mrs. Weatherford didn’t even bother to look back at it. “If we hear planes, we will. Otherwise it will be dark as the blackout in here.”

“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.”

“Mr. Stokes is our ARP warden.” Colin popped the top off a bottle of lemonade and handed it to Grace, who accepted it with an automatic numbness. He did likewise for Viv and his mother before finally taking one himself.

Mrs. Weatherford settled the top back on the box and took a sip from her bottle. “We fill the tubs and sinks to have a means to put a fire out if the water lines are compromised. The windows are drawn open to ensure any fires within can be seen in the hopes they will be put out by authorities. The gas main, well, I’m quite sure that’s self-explanatory.”

Some of Grace’s tension relaxed at Mrs. Weatherford’s nonchalant demeanor. Grace didn’t know that she could ever be as unperturbed about bombs as her mother’s friend, but at least the woman’s no-nonsense approach took the edge off her panic.

The bottle of lemonade was cool in Grace’s hand. She put the glass to her lips and tilted her head. The sweet, tangy drink filled her mouth with a tartness that zinged at the back of her jaw. She hadn’t realized how parched she’d been until the refreshing wash of liquid ran down her throat.

“What was it like in the Great War?” Viv asked.

They all looked to Mrs. Weatherford, including Colin. Grace knew her own mother’s experiences, of course, but surely life had been far different in London.

“Well.” Mrs. Weatherford glanced about at all their faces. “It wasn’t pleasant. Are you sure you want to know when we’ll likely be facing the same soon?”

“Having knowledge is the best way to fight off fear.” Viv grinned at her. “As you said.”

“How can I say no to such a cheeky reply?” Mrs. Weatherford smoothed her skirt, took a deep breath and told them how it had been years ago. How the rationing of food was so carefully monitored that people could be fined even for feeding pigeons at the park. She spoke of zeppelins and how the light aircraft soared over the city like balloons before dropping bombs, too high for the RAF to reach.

But she also spoke of victory, how the zeppelins were defeated with new planes that could climb to necessary heights, how women were accepted in roles for work and were allowed to vote and how the British people overcame the trying times with a mutual camaraderie.

“What was the worst part of it?” Viv cast a nervous look at Grace. “So we’re prepared.”

Mrs. Weatherford regarded Colin with a rare solemnity before looking away with a blank stare. “The men who didn’t come back,” she said in a quiet voice.

The alarm’s blaring wail pierced the air once more, startling them with its suddenness.

Even in Grace’s jittery state, she noted the siren’s call was different from the first, with a drone holding one long note rather than wavering up and down in inflection.

“That’s the all clear.” Mrs. Weatherford drank the last bit of her lemonade and set the empty bottle in the box. “You’ve all survived your first air raid warning. May there be no more after this.” She gathered up the gas masks while Colin hefted the box, and they all removed themselves from the dismal, cramped little shelter.

It was announced later that evening on the wireless that the air raid warning had been a false alarm.

But what if the next one was not?

Such concerns edged to the forefront of Grace’s mind as she tried to sleep, the silence luring fear from its darkest corners.

The unending string of news on the radio the following day didn’t offer any more information before Grace had to make her way to the bookshop.

Mr. Evans didn’t lift his head when she entered. She knew better than to expect as much at this point. Detritus littered the countertop, the blackout curtains were still drawn tight against the daylight and several new piles of books had sprung from the dingy floorboards like weeds.

“It appears we’re at war,” Grace said softly.

Mr. Evans looked up with an elevation of his brows. “It should be done by Christmas according to Mr. Pritchard.”

“What do you think?” Grace asked.

“War is unpredictable, Miss Bennett.” Mr. Evans nestled a strip of paper between the pages of his book and closed the ledger, leaving another scrap behind.

She picked up the errant bit of paper to return it to him.

Mr. Evans put a hand up to stop her. “Those are some of the books sold here and how they might be sorted according to topic.”

She gave a little gasp of excitement and focused on the list. A neat row of handwritten titles with categories beside them. “Where might I find these books?”

He shrugged. “But once you’ve located them, it’s as good a place as any to start sorting out this mess, is it not?” With that, he turned toward the back of the shop. “Make sure you leave by two,” he said over his shoulder as he strode away. “I’ll not have you staying until evening again and going home in the dark. And I’ll certainly not be subjected to another call from Mrs. Weatherford on the matter.”