The Last Bookshop in London: A Novel of World War II(27)

He looked out the window, studying the street below, and the mirth faded from his expression. “She’s going to need help while I’m gone, Grace.”

“I’ll be here,” she vowed.

He lowered his head. “I hate that I have to leave her. What if Germany does bomb London? The three of you won’t be safe.”

He could scarcely stop bombs from falling from the sky, but Grace didn’t say as much. “We have the Andy you buried in the backyard to protect us, as well as the taped windows. You’ve even secured us with a garden. And you know your mother is well stocked on goods.”

He lifted his head and gave a small laugh. “Ah, yes. To keep the hoarders from buying it all first.” He winked at Grace.

“Exactly.” Grace leveled a gaze at him. “We’ll be fine here, Colin. You see to yourself, and we’ll have the grandest welcome party you’ve ever seen when you return.”

His responding smile was so sweet, it made Grace’s heart splinter.

“I’d like that,” he replied.

The front door opened and closed, followed by the light bump and clatter of shoes being removed and a purse and gas mask hung.

Colin grimaced and glanced around the wall.

“Is it your mother?” Grace mouthed.

Colin nodded with a wince.

“Should we tell her?” Grace asked.

He shook his head so vigorously, Grace had to press her hands to her mouth to keep from laughing.

A door swung open at the rear of the house and clicked closed. That was when they both realized there was no need to tell Mrs. Weatherford about the sacrifice of her flower beds. Her discovery was announced in the form of a shrill scream.

The devastation of Mrs. Weatherford’s flower beds and the taped windows, which she referred to as “unsightly,” were hardly their greatest loss. That came in the form of Colin’s departure.

On the morning of Armistice Day, Colin left for his medical examination. Two days later, he had orders to report for duty.

It all flew by far too quickly, and they found themselves waking to the day of Colin’s departure in stunned shock.

He accepted a hug from Viv first, who could scarcely summon a smile to see him off.

Next, he embraced Grace. “Please take care of Mum,” he whispered.

Grace nodded against his chest. “I promise.”

When at last he said goodbye to Mrs. Weatherford, his eyes filled with tears. He blinked with a hard sniff and swiftly left the house with an unnaturally straight back. His mother had wanted to accompany him, of course, but in the end, Colin told her he needed to do it alone.

The door closed behind him and the house fell unnaturally silent, as though it too immediately mourned the loss of his presence. Mrs. Weatherford went to the front window of the parlor and watched him as he made his way down the street.

She didn’t leave from that spot for the remainder of the day, as if she could still see him walking away, continuing to bid him farewell.

Only days before, the war had been a true bore—a buildup to nothing. Yet now, its reality struck them where it caused the most hurt.

Already the sacrifice had been great. Yet it was only the start of so much more to come.



EIGHT


Despite more young men disappearing from the streets of London, patrons continued to frequent Primrose Hill Books. The housewives seeking a new novel, the elderly men who considered the rows of political books with shrewd expressions, the men and women too young for war and too old to be sent away to the country for safety, all of them occupied the shop and Grace was all too happy to lose herself in the aiding of their selections. What’s more, she found the customers who arrived in the newly organized store stayed twice as long and purchased three times more books than before.

What a difference it made when they could find what it was they sought. All except a retired professor who groused at the overly clean shelves, remarking that it lacked the authenticity of the haphazard chaos of their previous sorting system. His obvious appreciation for the shop’s former state brought a smile to Grace’s lips as it made her recall George’s affection for the old, dusty shop.

She’d even managed to convince Mr. Evans to engage in the National Book token system. It was a marvelous advertising opportunity where one could purchase the card as a gift and the recipient could redeem it for any book of their choosing. Grace had learned of the ingenious system from a trip to Foyle’s, the six-story bookseller who touted secondhand books and notable teas with celebrity guests. Once she’d seen the tokens there, she realized they were everywhere, which put Mr. Evans’s shop at a severe disadvantage.

Until now.

With Christmas soon upon them, Primrose Hill Books sold several dozen the first day Grace put out the advert announcing they had book tokens.

“I’ll give it to you, Miss Bennett,” Mr. Evans admitted in a grudging tone after the customer he’d rung up had departed. “That was a jolly good idea you had with those book tickets.”

She bit back a grin at his habit of calling them tickets rather than tokens.

“I’m pleased they’ve worked so well.” She tied a piece of twine around a bit of folded silver tissue and pulled it apart to make a decorative ball. Perfect for the new winter scene she’d assembled in the window.

“December is nearly over.” He made a note in the small ledger Grace kept beside the register, marking the sales with the same efficiency she’d begun. When he finished, he set the pencil—a proper one he didn’t need to pinch between his fingertips—neatly to the side and tossed a torn piece of paper into the dust bin near the counter.