The Last Bookshop in London: A Novel of World War II(35)
Viv set the cup on the table with such a firm hand, a few droplets sloshed over the rim. “I can’t take it. I’m going upstairs to put on old clothes to help her.”
Grace hid her smile and gathered up the tea. “I’ll clean up here then put on a set of trousers to join you.”
It took them the better part of the morning to section off an area of the garden for planting, ensuring to leave space for future seeds that could be sown in warmer months.
“I think you may be even better at this than Colin,” Mrs. Weatherford said to Viv when they’d finished. “I know you’re eager to join the ATS, but I dare say I believe you would make a fine Land Girl.”
Viv simply offered a tight smile to the compliment.
While the work had been hard and terribly messy, it had been enjoyable with the three of them chatting as they toiled. Little did they know it was the last time such joy would be had together, for that afternoon, Viv’s orders came with the post and she was to leave the following day for a training facility in Devon.
For the first time in her life, Grace would be without her dearest friend to face the wild unknown of London at war.
TEN
Life without Viv was lonely. Not only had Grace lost the companionship of her best friend, but she felt as though she’d missed out on something larger than herself by declining to join the ATS.
Rather than sign on as an ARP warden, Grace allowed Mrs. Weatherford to convince her to attend several WVS meetings.
There, Grace found herself among housewives, some older than her, but many her own age, with husbands and children. She helped them roll bandages while they lamented the toils of dirty nappies, the excruciating delay of the mail with the war on and the difficulties of getting by on their own. Through it all, they offered encouragement and swapped recipes to get through the ration any way they could. Especially after meat was added to the restrictions in March. After all, there was only so much one could do with four ounces of meat.
Viv had always been the outgoing, carefree one in their friendship. It had never bothered Grace before that she was more reserved. At least, not until Viv wasn’t there and Grace found herself in a room full of strangers who remained as such week after week.
And so it was that as April rolled in, Grace began making excuses for being unable to attend the WVS meetings—which Mrs. Weatherford thankfully never protested—and instead curled up in her bed with a book propped in front of her.
When she wasn’t assisting Mrs. Weatherford in their fledgling garden, Grace devoured the rest of Jane Austen’s works before moving on to several novels by Charles Dickens. Then came Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein and finally something more current by Daphne du Maurier.
Each and every book Grace enjoyed, she passionately recommended to the customers of Primrose Hill Books. The increase in sales was stunning. So much so that Mr. Evans began loaning Grace books to read. She’d resisted the suggestion at first, until she realized the financial impact of her newfound reading habit, then gratefully accepted Mr. Evans’s generous offer.
Grace had just recommended Rebecca, the latest Daphne du Maurier book she’d read, to a woman she recognized from the WVS—a woman who did not appear to remember her—when Mr. Stokes walked in. Mr. Evans no longer worried about blackout infractions when they saw the middle-aged man with his perpetually furrowed brow, not when he’d become a regular fixture at the store and had a propensity to go through books almost as quickly as Grace.
“We haven’t seen you in nearly three days,” she commented after she’d completed the WVS woman’s purchase of the book she’d recommended. “I assume The Count of Monte Cristo took some time to read?”
Grace didn’t bother to hide her smile. He had asked for a book that would last more than one night. The exhaustion shadowing the skin under his eyes indicated he had likely tried to get through the massive book with haste.
She knew what she’d been doing when she recommended the book to Mr. Stokes. No doubt George also had known what he was doing when he gave her his old copy of The Count of Monte Cristo. A sudden yearning to have another conversation with him struck her. How she longed to share how impactful his gift had been. If nothing else, she wished she had his address, to write her appreciation for the book.
“You were right about the story occupying a good portion of my time.” Mr. Stokes rubbed at the back of his neck. “It was far longer than others and equally as riveting.” He sighed. “The lad I was working with was conscripted so I’ve been carrying the load of two men in his absence. Do you happen to know of anyone who would be interested in joining the ARP as a warden?”
“Grace has been considering it,” Mr. Evans offered from somewhere in the history section.
Now that the store had been properly organized, it was easier to see the types of books that drew the shop owner’s attention. History and philosophy. A majority of Mr. Evans’s days were spent poring through his own stock, ensuring there were no printing inaccuracies, as he put it.
Grace grimaced at having been volunteered and busied herself at the counter, organizing the neat surface with such unnecessary effort, she reminded herself briefly of Mrs. Weatherford. Regardless, it was better than looking directly at Mr. Stokes and encouraging his entreaty that she join up.
After all, her attempt to help with the WVS had felt pointless. Worse than pointless, it made her feel awkward and socially inept. Would being an ARP Warden be any better? Air raids still came on occasion, all resulting in nothing more than a few hours in windowless, stuffy places until the all clear sounded. People seldom even bothered to seek shelter anymore.