The Last Bookshop in London: A Novel of World War II(34)

“And offer friendly service.” Mr. Evans gave what appeared to be a kind smile in Grace’s direction. “On that note, Mrs. Nesbitt, I’d like you to take your leave lest you scare off my customers.”

Her mouth fell open with apparent offense. “I’ve never...”

“Heard of such a thing?” Mr. Evans’s brows lifted. “Well, if you haven’t, then I wager it’s far overdue.” He indicated the door.

Mrs. Nesbitt sniffed, lifted her head so high she most likely couldn’t see properly and swept from the bookshop.

Mr. Evans frowned at Grace.

She flinched inwardly, anticipating a rebuke for having caused such a row in the store where they might have been heard by customers.

“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.”

Grace stared at him, unable to believe her ears. Surely she was dreaming.

“With a raise, of course,” he added.

She grinned at him. “Who could say no to such an offer?”

“I’m glad to hear it.” He nodded, more to himself. “Quite glad indeed.”

That afternoon at tea with Viv, Grace happily shared she wouldn’t need the good word put in for her at Harrods after all. With Viv having gathered all the information required to begin her application for the ATS, the two had much to celebrate.

As it turned out, women who volunteered for service were not sent away for training with the same haste as the men. Between the time it took Viv to finally fill out the application, complete her medical test and wait for her paperwork informing her where she would report, January melted into late February and the icy chill in the air softened the ground enough for a new season of planting to begin.

It was a Wednesday morning when Mrs. Weatherford appeared in the sunny kitchen, wearing a baggy pair of brown trousers belted under her bosom with the legs rolled several times to flop over her ankles. This was matched with an old moss-colored pullover whose neckline had begun to unravel.

The attire was sloppy and large, clearly belonging to Colin. It was far from Mrs. Weatherford’s usually neat attire comprised of floral, pastel prints.

Both Grace and Viv paused in eating their morning meal of toast and greasy margarine, which they could never fully get used to, and gaped at Mrs. Weatherford.

“Colin tore up my flowers for this garden of his, and I’m going to make certain it grows.” She nodded toward the window where the earth outside was still blank and bare. “I intend to plant my own vegetables since the ones he sowed froze over with this wretched winter.”

“Do you know how to plant?” Grace asked.

“I know flowers.” Mrs. Weatherford tugged the trousers up a little higher with a confident air. “And Colin always did the planting. But truly, how hard could it possibly be?”

Viv choked on her tea.

Mrs. Weatherford thrust out a leaflet, with images of brightly colored plants alongside what appeared to be a chart. “According to this, I ought to plant onions, parsnips, turnips and beans in February.”

“Not turnips,” Viv said reluctantly. “Those do better when planted in the summer. And truly, you ought to wait until March.”

Mrs. Weatherford flipped the leaflet back to her face and squinted at its small script.

Grace lifted her eyebrows at Viv, curious to see if her friend would help Mrs. Weatherford. Viv shook her head firmly once. No.

“Ah, yes, you’re quite right on the turnips.” Mrs. Weatherford set the paper aside and slapped a wilting straw hat on her head. “Well then. I’m off to plant. Proper this time. Or at the very least, my level best.”

She marched out the door with the determination of a soldier.

“You’re truly going to let her go about it on her own?” Grace scolded.

Viv’s face crumpled into a petulant pout. “You know I’m bloody well done messing about in the dirt.” She glanced out the window where Mrs. Weatherford set aside a stack of materials for planting before assuming her task.

The older woman started in the middle of the yard and poked a hole into the earth with a gloved finger.

“Do you think she knows what she’s doing?” Grace asked.

Viv sipped her tea, her gaze fixed on Mrs. Weatherford who was now making holes in a circular pattern. “She does not.”

Grace tilted her head imploringly at Viv.

Her friend settled back in her seat, teacup stubbornly locked in her hands. “I’m not helping.”

Outside, Mrs. Weatherford inspected three pouches of seeds before putting a little of each into the poked earth.

“Is she planting them all together?” Grace leaned on the thin-cushioned seat for a better view.

“I’m not going out there.” Viv crossed her legs and sipped her tea.

Mrs. Weatherford brushed the dirt back over the holes where the seeds had been deposited and scooted over two feet. She punched her finger into the soil and began with a second spiral.

Grace frowned. “She didn’t even mark the plants.”