The Last Bookshop in London: A Novel of World War II(31)

The men continued on discussing how the ration had affected their enjoyment of food and how margarine could never fully replace butter. While they did so, Grace grappled with the dismal realization that soon she would no longer be employed at the bookshop.

After all the times she’d dreamed of being alongside Viv at Harrods, amid the colorful, stylish clothes and the air scented with costly perfume, never once had she considered how much she genuinely enjoyed her current position.

Her stomach clenched and she clutched George’s book more tightly in her hands, as though it could somehow help ground her spiraling emotions.

In only one month, she would have her letter of recommendation, and her employment at Primrose Hill Books would be done.

Mr. Evans had told her from the start not to get attached. Though she hadn’t meant to, somehow she had.

And now she didn’t want it to end.



NINE


Grace had not been able to dislodge her melancholy at the idea of no longer working for Primrose Hill Books. Yet in the three weeks that followed, she couldn’t summon the temerity to speak to Mr. Evans about the possibility of staying on. Not when he’d been so insistent that she not become attached.

She did, however, finish The Count of Monte Cristo and so thoroughly enjoyed it, she couldn’t stop recommending it to customers. So much that she’d had to order more than the five they had stocked, something Mr. Evans had commented on with enthusiasm.

She couldn’t wait to get to the last page to find out if Edmond had his revenge and if his life finally settled into happiness. But as much as she loved reading the story, no one had prepared her for the end being so bittersweet. No one told her finishing the book would leave her so bereft. It was as though she’d said goodbye for the last time to a close friend. When she mentioned it to Mr. Evans, he simply smiled and recommended she try another book. And so, she consoled herself with Emma, which was a most marvelous distraction.

Through it all, however, Grace couldn’t help but notice Viv had been rather out of sorts. It became most apparent during one of their afternoon teas in the sunny yellow and white kitchen at the townhouse. First Viv forgot to turn the stovetop on, which left the kettle sitting cold on its surface, and then she brought the tea over without any teacups.

All of it was very unlike Viv, who loved to add fanfare to any event, even something as common as afternoon tea.

Grace quickly acquired two cups and studied her friend. “Something is weighing on you. What is it?”

Viv sank into the opposite chair and sighed. Her gaze wandered to the barren garden outside where Colin’s planting efforts for Dig for Victory had been frozen over by the winter’s brutality. A mound humped up from the middle of the desiccated flower beds where the Andy was buried. Normally a garden would have been locked in winter dormancy, but now there was only bare earth, stripped to stark desolation.

“Do you ever feel like you don’t do enough?” Viv took a sip of her tea and left a red half-moon on the cup’s rim from her lipstick.

Grace wrapped her hands around the heat of her teacup. The last week had been cold enough to freeze a mix of snow and ice on the ground. Though the kitchen was the warmest room in the townhouse, Grace’s hands never seemed to thoroughly thaw.

“This war will continue until we do something.” Viv’s large brown eyes were apprehensive.

Whatever she had to say, she knew Grace would not like it.

Nervousness tightened in Grace’s stomach. “What are you going on about?”

Viv’s mouth twisted slightly, indicating she was biting her lip, a confirmation that she was indeed anxious. “I can’t do it any longer. You know I’ve never been one to sit around waiting for things to happen.”

Grace set aside her teacup. She did know. Viv had always run headfirst into life, ready for whatever she might face. “The ATS?” Grace surmised.

Viv nodded. “The uniforms are ghastly, I know, but the service suits my talents. And it’s far better than becoming a Land Girl.”

The Land Girls were part of the Women’s Land Army, a group of women who assisted with growing crops. While the service was voluntary, it didn’t mean people wouldn’t pressure Viv to join if they knew anything of her history with her parents’ farm.

She’d heard from her parents only once in the time since they’d arrived in London. In the letter, her mother had expressed her displeasure at Viv’s abrupt departure and told her to not bother returning. Viv had passed it off indifferently with a light jest, but Grace knew it had cut her deeply.

“You’d make a fine Land Girl,” Grace protested as she bit back a smile.

Viv’s mouth fell open in exaggerated offense. “You’re so wicked, Grace Bennett.” She nudged Grace’s toe with hers in a mock kick. “You could come with me, you know.” Viv’s auburn brows were finely arched, plucked each day to perfection. They rose now in invitation. “Imagine it, the two of us in the ATS, commiserating in those atrocious brown uniforms that make our bums look long and rectangular, sacrificing youth and fashion to do our bit for England.”

“Well, when you sell it like that...” Grace laughed. Despite her mirth, she knew she ought to do something for her country. The men were being called up, mothers had sacrificed their children to the country to remain safe, strangers were caring for those children, women were volunteering. And what was she doing?