The Last Bookshop in London: A Novel of World War II(10)

“I’m looking forward to the challenge,” Grace replied, realizing the truth behind her words. If nothing else, putting the shop in order would help fill her time over the next six months.

“It will be a challenge indeed.” The man glanced behind him with an exaggerated grimace. “Especially if you’re a book lover. Mysteries could easily be thrillers, classics could easily be love stories, and on and on with all that.”

“I’m not,” she confessed. “A book lover, I mean. I haven’t had much time for books.”

He drew up slightly, almost as though affronted by her admission, though his smile did not waver. “Well, if you were to start with any of them, I’d suggest The Count of Monte Cristo. It’s a classic I’ve always enjoyed.” He tilted his head. “Though it could also be a love story.”

“I’ll take it into consideration.” Grace lifted the last book to ring up. “Thank you for the recommendation.”

He took out his wallet and paid for the books. “May I be so bold as to ask your name?”

“Miss Grace Bennett,” she replied.

“Miss Bennett.” He nodded politely. “I’m George Anderson. I look forward to seeing what you do to the shop.”

She nodded mutely and Mr. Anderson departed, walking backward as he did so to cast her one last devestating grin.

Heavens!

She put her hand to her chest as though she could slow its rapid beat. Just then the chime sounded at the door once more and Mr. Evans filled the shop with his cranky disposition.

His gaze scoured the organized countertop and his furry eyebrows wriggled with apparent consternation. “What the devil happened here? Have we been robbed?”

“I tidied up,” Grace replied.

Mr. Evans scowled and glared around the shop. “That’s why it’s so dusty in here.” He waved in front of him with a folded newspaper as though the air itself issued great offense.

She tensed, waiting for cutting words such as those her uncle had so often thrown at her. In all the years she’d worked for him, from the first day she’d completed the final year offered at the schoolhouse in Drayton until when she’d left for London, he had pointed out, in great detail, all of her many failures. Her work ethic was not on par with what he expected. She wasted product that could still be used. She could have sold more items with her suggestions if she’d been smarter, more intuitive, more driven. Less incompetent.

She clenched her hands into fists and squeezed, bracing herself for the emotional blows on her personal deficiencies.

“I suppose it does need a good scrubbing down,” Mr. Evans grumbled in begrudging acquiescence.

Her fists relaxed. “I beg your pardon?”

“The place is a bit dusty, and I haven’t the time to muddle with it.” He slapped the paper on the countertop and took the stack of receipts, ignoring several that fluttered free. “I’d thank you not to go looking through my accounts.”

“I’d never presume.” Grace bent to retrieve the scraps of receipts and handed them to Mr. Evans, taking care to keep her gaze averted from the neat print.

He tucked them into the pile of papers and disappeared into the little room at the back of the shop. He did not emerge for some time, and when he did, he remained at the rear, sifting through the books, more like a customer than the shop’s owner.

Grace spent the remainder of the afternoon finishing her dusting and polishing the counter. It was really quite nice underneath years of grime, with carved scrollwork at its corners and a lovely chestnut hue. Fortunately, no other patrons sought her help with their selections and her only task with the customers involved gathering their payment.

When at last it was time to take her leave, her announcement to Mr. Evans was met with a grunt of acknowledgment and little else.

Though dirty, exhausted and feeling like she hadn’t done nearly enough, Grace eagerly rushed home in anticipation of hearing how Viv’s interview went.

She flung open the front door upon her arrival. “Viv, did you—?”

The wireless was turned to full volume and a voice crackled throughout the parlor, informing listeners that a fleet had been mobilized.

A fleet of what?

Mrs. Weatherford and Viv sat before the radio, listening intently. Viv shot her a distracted glance and waved her over.

Grace quickly joined her friend on the blue mohair sofa. “What’s going on?” she whispered. “Why is the broadcast on? It’s not six.”

Viv cast her a nervous glance. “News came this afternoon. The reserves have been called. We were informed earlier that we shouldn’t conclude war is inevitable. But how can we not when they’re telling us that fleets are mobilized and all naval reservists and remaining Royal Air Force personnel should report for duty?”

Grace fell back against the couch in stunned shock. How had she heard nothing about this? But then, she’d been in her own world busily cleaning, her mind set to task with determination and her customers few and far between.

The anticipation vibrating in the air now hummed in Grace’s veins. This was it.

War.

Mrs. Weatherford said nothing, her face a stoic mask. She stood abruptly and snapped off the wireless. “That’s about enough for one day.” She drew in a deep breath and turned to Grace. “I trust your first day went well?”