The Last Bookshop in London: A Novel of World War II(2)
Grace was not as chic. Though she’d worn her best dress for the occasion, its hem fell just past her knees, and the waist nipped in with a slim black belt that matched her low heels. While not as stylish as Viv’s black-and-white polka-dot dress, the pale blue cotton set off Grace’s gray eyes and complemented her fair hair.
Viv had sewn it for her, of course. But then, Viv had always seen to both of them with an eye set toward grander aspirations. Throughout their friendship, they had spent hours sewing dresses and rolling their hair, years of reading Woman and Woman’s Life on fashion and etiquette and then making countless corrections to ensure they “lost the Drayton” from their speech.
Now, Viv looked like she could grace one of those magazine covers with her high cheekbones and long-lashed brown eyes.
They joined the flurry of people rushing to and fro, heaving the bulk of their suitcases from one hand to the other as Grace led the way toward Britton Street. Thankfully, the directions Mrs. Weatherford had sent in their last correspondence had been detailed and easy to follow.
What had been missing from the account, however, were all the signs of war.
More advertisements, some calling for men to do their part, with others prompting people to disregard Hitler and his threats and still book their summer holidays. Just across the street, a wall of sandbags framed a doorway with a black-and-white sign proclaiming it to be a Public Air Raid Shelter.
True to Mrs. Weatherford’s directions, they arrived at Britton Street within two short minutes and found themselves in front of a brick townhouse. It had a green door with a polished brass knocker and a flower box filled with purple and white petunias in the window. Based on what Mrs. Weatherford had written, this was unmistakably her house.
And their new home.
Viv charged up the stairs, her curls bouncing with each step, and rapped on the door. Grace joined her at the top, spurred on by the anticipation jolting through her. After all, this was her mum’s dearest friend, the one who visited them in Drayton several times in Grace’s youth.
The friendship between Grace’s mother and Mrs. Weatherford had begun when Mrs. Weatherford had lived in Drayton. Even after she moved, it had continued on through the Great War that took both their husbands’ lives and through the illness that had finally taken Grace’s mother.
The door opened and Mrs. Weatherford, looking older than Grace remembered, appeared in the widening doorway. She’d always been pleasantly plump with flushed apple cheeks and sparkling blue eyes. Only now she wore round spectacles and her dark hair was laced through with strands of sparkling silver. Her gaze homed in on Grace first.
She gasped softly and touched her fingers to her mouth. “Grace, you’re the spitting image of your mum. Beatrice always was so pretty with those gray eyes of hers.” The older woman opened the door wider, revealing her white cotton dress with blue sprigged flowers and matching blue buttons. Behind her, the entryway was small but tidy, filled almost entirely with a set of stairs that went up to another floor. “Please, do come in.”
Grace murmured her thanks for the compliment, downplaying exactly how much that praise tugged at the part of her that still mourned her mother.
She heaved her suitcase through the doorway and into the home that held the savory aroma of meat and vegetables in the warm air. Grace’s mouth watered.
She hadn’t had a proper homemade meal since her mother’s death. Not a good one, at least. Her aunt hadn’t been much of a cook, and Grace spent too many hours running her uncle’s store to prepare anything decent.
A rug underfoot softened Grace’s steps, cream colored with pastel flowers. Though clean, it appeared to be somewhat worn in patches.
“Vivienne,” Mrs. Weatherford said as Viv joined Grace in the entryway.
“All my friends call me Viv.” She offered a smile at Mrs. Weatherford with her one-of-a-kind Viv charm.
“What beauties you both have become. I reckon you’ll set my boy blushing.” Mrs. Weatherford motioned for them to rest their bags on the floor. “Colin,” she called up the polished wood stairs. “See to the ladies’ effects while I put the kettle on.”
“How is Colin?” Grace asked politely.
Like her, he was an only child, left without a father after the Great War as she had been. Though he was two years Grace’s junior, they’d played together as children. She recalled those memories with great fondness. There had always been a gentleness to Colin, a genuine kindness behind the sharp intelligence of his eyes.
Mrs. Weatherford threw her hands up in exasperation. “Trying to save the world one animal at a time and bringing them all home.” The good-natured chuckle that followed implied she didn’t mind it as much as she claimed.
Grace took a moment to admire the entryway as they waited on Colin. A table sat beside the stairs with a glossy black telephone atop it. The wallpaper was a cheerful blue-and-white brocade, somewhat faded, and matched the white painted doors and doorframes. While simple in design, everything appeared immaculate. In fact, Grace was certain she would be hard-pressed to find a speck of dust on anything her mother’s friend owned.
A creak sounded, followed by footsteps coming down the stairs as a tall, slender man appeared. His dark hair was combed neatly, and he wore a collared shirt and brown trousers.
He gave a shy smile, which softened his features and made him appear even more youthful than his twenty-one years. “Hullo, Grace.”