The Last Bookshop in London: A Novel of World War II(37)
The question jarred Grace. “Of course not.”
“Missed the bus indeed,” Mr. Stokes groused, referencing Chamberlain’s recent claim. “If we lose this war, it’s because our government is too bloody slow to act.”
Grace had heard the broadcast as well, where Chamberlain claimed Hitler had “missed the bus” in that he should have attacked earlier in the war when he was prepared and Britain was not. The boast was ill-timed when days later, Hitler attacked Norway and Denmark. The latter fell in a matter of hours.
All of England had soured on Chamberlain’s response to the war.
Mr. Stokes darted up the front stairs at a pace Grace doubted she could ever grow used to in such pitch-blackness. “Mr. Taylor, put that light out. You know I told you there’d be a fine next time...”
Grace did her best to slink into the shadows. Certainly they felt great enough to swallow her up. She would be at the ready should they be attacked by Germany, but she refused to take such pleasure in fining the people of London for not tightly drawing their curtains.
Over the next month, Grace donned her tin warden’s hat three nights a week to grudgingly accompany Mr. Stokes as he terrorized the well-meaning citizens of London whose blackout efforts weren’t up to snuff.
In that time, Mrs. Weatherford had heard from Colin, who offered multiple assurances he was doing well and succeeding in his training. Grace had also received another letter from Viv. Her friend’s exuberance poured from the page with such vivacity that Grace had the comforting sensation of her friend’s voice in her head as she read. Whatever it was Viv had been assigned was noted in the letter and run through with the thick black band of a censor’s blot. Regardless, everything was right and tight with Viv, and that brought Grace incredible relief.
Through all the letters from Viv, Grace couldn’t help but wonder about George Anderson. In truth, she’d hoped to have received something from him and had been somewhat disappointed when nothing had arrived. Still, she never ceased to peruse the letters received at Primrose Hill Books from the post in the off chance that he might have written.
She was going through the most recent post delivery one afternoon when Mr. Pritchard pushed into the shop with a newspaper clutched in his bony hands. Tabby wound anxious circles around his ankles as he shouted his news into the store. “Evans! The Nastys are in France. Also Holland and Belgium. But, France, Evans—France!”
Fear shivered up Grace’s spine. Hitler hadn’t been so bold as to attack France yet, but now he was in all the countries bordering England. If France fell, there would be nothing but the Channel to keep Hitler away.
A chill crept over her skin and her thoughts immediately went to her friends in the war. Only later did she realize she ought to be equally terrified for herself and everyone else in London.
Mr. Evans came to the front of the store with more haste than Grace had ever seen. He didn’t bother to mark his place in his book as he closed it and set it aside on the counter. “Has Chamberlain resigned yet?”
Mr. Pritchard shook his head. “I can’t say.” He looked helplessly at the paper. It was half the pages now than it’d been in the previous year, another indication of the ration on paper.
“Heaven help us all if he hasn’t.” Mr. Evans took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose where the weight of his eyewear had left permanent indents in his aged skin.
The door chimed the merry announcement of a new visitor, a shrill, overly bright sound in the ominous quiet that had descended. A delivery boy from Simpkin Marshalls came in, a large box held in skinny arms.
It was the recent order of Pigeon Pie, the political satire of the “bore war” by Nancy Mitford.
Grace could have groaned.
Such a book would be in terribly poor taste now.
She’d wanted to order the book before its release several days prior, but Mr. Evans had vacillated on the idea, stating he was more of a classic book seller than a trend follower. Finally he’d relented, and now that risk was about to explode in Grace’s face.
The state of war escalated in the following days, and as expected, the book was a flop. Sales went down as people found themselves plastered to their sofas at home before their wireless sets, desperate for any news.
And little of it was anything good.
The only bright spot was when Chamberlain stepped down as prime minister, his perpetually defensive tactics tiring and now dangerous, and the First Lord of the Admiralty, Winston Churchill, assumed his place. Much to the profound relief of all of Great Britain.
War was on everyone’s lips, weighing heavily on all their minds, consuming conversation and occupying every aspect of their lives. The details carried on the threads of such gossip were horrifying. The worst of which was the bombing of Rotterdam, Holland, which had been rumored to have killed over thirty thousand people.
Mr. Stokes had informed Grace of that terrible figure with an edge of awed glee in his voice. Something was finally happening in the unending stretch of an actionless war, and it lit a fire inside him. His approach to people’s misdemeanors became practically militant, and he constantly reminded Grace of her duties should they be bombed.
The curious thing to all of it, however, was how delightful the weather had been. It was an odd thing to note, of course, but never had Grace seen such a beautiful May. The sun shone, the skies were clear and brilliantly blue and the garden’s sprouted shoots unfurled into healthy, broad leaves and flowers that promised vegetables soon.