The Last Bookshop in London: A Novel of World War II(36)

She’d eventually received two letters from Viv in the time her friend had been gone. With Viv being stationed in England, they came with more frequency than those from Colin, who was stationed abroad. Though given the backed up postal service, that wasn’t saying much. At least the correspondence had let Grace know Viv appeared to be happily adjusting to her new tasks. Certainly with more ease than Grace had with the Women’s Volunteer Service.

“Miss Bennett, is that true you wish to join on as an ARP warden?” Mr. Stokes asked.

Grace straightened a copy of Bobby Bear’s Annual where the children’s book was on display by the register to attract housewives for one last impulsive purchase. “I’ve considered it.”

Mr. Stokes’s mustache twitched. “But you’re a woman.”

Grace stiffened, affronted by the blatancy of his demeaning implication.

“If you mean to imply she couldn’t do it, you’re daft.” Mr. Evans emerged from the history aisle, shooting a glare at Mr. Stokes from over his thick glasses. “Miss Bennett could do the job of any man, and far better at that.”

Mr. Stokes scoffed.

His dubious response, as much as Mr. Evans’s commendation of her abilities, notched her chin a little higher. “I’ll do it.”

Mr. Stokes’s forehead creases deepened. “You will?”

“Don’t act as though you’ve competition for the position, Mr. Stokes.” Mr. Evans smiled at Grace and melted back among his books.

“Very well,” Mr. Stokes said. “Go to the warden’s post this afternoon and inquire within.” He cleared his throat. “And I’d like another book if you would recommend one.”

Later that day, after Grace’s shift had ended, she did as Mr. Stokes said and inquired within the warden’s post. Several days later, she was awarded a tin hat with a white W painted on it to denote her role as a warden, a whistle, a gas rattle to alert the public in the event of a gas attack, an orange bound copy of the Air Raid Warden’s Training Manual as well as a CD mask. It was the latter that dismayed her the most, for the professional grade gas mask was far larger than her current one, having large glass eyes and a filter that was made to accommodate a microphone. How would such a monstrosity ever fit neatly in her handbag?

So it was that she ended up on her first shift four nights later alongside Mr. Stokes with her mask strung about her shoulder in its ungainly box rather than with a smart handbag at her side. She wore a light coat against the chill April carried in, and the blasted string refused to remain set against her shoulder. If nothing else, the metal ARP badge she’d pinned to her lapel helped tether the string into place.

By the time they stepped out of the immaculate office-like interior of the warden’s post, the blackout was in full effect. The moon’s face was nearly completely hidden, and any light it might have offered was rendered opaque with a veil of heavy clouds.

It was far too dark to see anything.

Grace’s palms prickled with sweat despite the night chill.

“Come on then.” Mr. Stokes’s steps strode confidently ahead.

Grace cautiously inched forward.

“Miss Bennett, we can’t linger in front of the post all night.” Impatience edged Mr. Stokes’s tone.

Regret lanced through her. She never ought to have signed on with the Air Raid Precautions unit. How could she face every night in pitch-darkness?

She shuffled closer to the sound of Mr. Stokes’s voice.

His laughter rang out. “You new wardens are all the same, blind as moles in the daylight. Find the white lines on the curbs, Miss Bennett, your eyes will adjust and you can follow them with ease.”

The direction was given with more condescension than instruction, but still Grace did as he suggested. True to his words, her vision did adjust to identify the thickly painted lines.

She and the veteran warden carefully made their way through the blackened streets of their allotted sector, once so familiar by day and completely unrecognizable in the dark. As they did so, he showed her where the shelters were located as well as any areas that might cause public issue if bombed.

As they passed people’s homes, he rattled off their names. In the event of a bombing, they’d need to mark each resident down as they entered the shelters.

Between names and locations, Mr. Stokes reiterated all the details that had already been presented to Grace in the Air Raid Warden’s Training Manual, albeit the passages on the effects of gas were not as vivid, nor were the descriptions of injuries anywhere near as gratuitous with gore.

If Mr. Stokes had been able to see her face, he would know his words had left her disgusted. But perhaps that was the point. She wouldn’t put it past him to encourage her to quit.

“The Taylors,” he muttered with hostility under his breath. “Do you see that?” he asked, more loudly this time, clearly put out.

Grace searched the darkness in front of them, trying to ignore how the heaviness of it seemed to press into her eyes. There, in the distance, a glow of golden light framed the square of a distant window.

Grace almost laughed. The light was barely visible. “Surely that can’t be seen by German planes.”

Mr. Stokes’s footsteps resumed at a clipped pace. “The RAF has already tested infractions such as this and confirmed they can indeed be seen from the skies at night. The Germans invaded Norway and Denmark only yesterday. We could be next. Do you want your house bombed because the Taylors didn’t cover their windows properly?”