The Last Bookshop in London: A Novel of World War II(4)

The kettle gave a shrill cry and emitted a cloud of steam from its nozzle. Mrs. Weatherford pulled it from the stove, immediately cutting short its scream, and set it on a trivet.

She tsked as she scooped a spoonful of leaves into the tea ball before adding the boiled water to the teapot. “That’s a shame, a terrible shame.” She muttered something under her breath about Horace and settled the teapot on a silver tray with three teacups and a sugar and creamer set. She offered Grace a resigned frown. “They won’t take you at a department store without one.”

Grace’s stomach dropped to her toes. Perhaps she ought to have allowed Viv to forge her a letter after all.

“However,” Mrs. Weatherford added slowly as she carried the tray to the table and poured them each a steaming cup. “I have a place in mind where you could work for six months to obtain a proper letter of recommendation.”

“Grace would be ideal for whatever you’re thinking.” Viv took a lump of sugar from the bowl and let it plunk into her tea. “She always had the highest marks in school. Especially in maths. She practically ran her uncle’s entire shop on her own and improved it greatly while doing so.”

“Then I think this will work out wonderfully.” Mrs. Weatherford took a sip of her tea.

Something nudged against Grace’s shin. She looked down to find a young tabby cat gazing imploringly up at her with large amber eyes.

Grace stroked her hand over the soft fur behind the kitten’s ears and a purr vibrated to life. “I see you have a cat.”

“Only for a few more days, I hope you don’t mind.” Mrs. Weatherford swept her hand to shoo the cat, but it remained stubbornly at Grace’s side.

“The rascal won’t leave my kitchen anytime he smells food.” Mrs. Weatherford cast a chagrined look down at the little animal who regarded her without guilt or shame. “Colin is a wonder with animals. If I allowed him to keep every wounded creature he brought home, we would have quite the menagerie.” Her chuckle interrupted the steam rising from her tea.

The cat rolled onto his back, revealing a small white star on his chest. Grace scratched at the spot, and his rhythmic purr rumbled under her fingertips. “What do you call him?”

“Tabby.” Mrs. Weatherford playfully rolled her eyes. “My son is far better at rescuing animals than naming them.”

As though summoned, Colin entered the room at that very moment. Tabby leapt to his feet and trotted over to his savior. Colin lifted the kitten into his large hands, his touch gentle with the small creature who nuzzled affectionately against him.

This time, it was Colin Mrs. Weatherford shooed away. “Out of the kitchen with him.”

“Sorry, Mum.” Colin gave a quick, apologetic smile to Grace and Viv, then ducked from the room with the cat cradled to his chest.

Mrs. Weatherford shook her head with affectionate amusement as she watched him depart. “I’ll visit Mr. Evans to see about getting you secured in that position at his shop.” She settled back into her chair and gazed out to the garden with a sigh.

Grace glanced out the window where a gaping hole showed in the earth alongside a sad pile of uprooted flowers and a stack of what appeared to be sheets of aluminum. Most likely the beginnings of an Anderson shelter.

Grace hadn’t seen any in Drayton where the chances of being bombed weren’t high, but she’d heard of several cities where the Andys had been distributed. The small shelters were to be buried in the garden as a refuge if Hitler attacked Britain.

A tremor of unease rippled down Grace’s spine. Of all the times to finally make their way to London, it was at the start of a war. Now they were in the prime target for bombings.

Not that returning to Drayton was an option. She would rather face the possibility of danger where she was wanted than contend with her uncle’s hostility.

Viv peered out the window curiously and promptly looked away. After a lifetime of farming, she was—as she put it—“jolly well done with dirt.”

Mrs. Weatherford sighed again and took a sip of tea. “It was a fine garden once.”

“It will be again,” Grace reassured her with more confidence than she felt. For if there were bombings, would any garden ever be the same again? Would any of them for that matter?

Such thoughts nipped at the back of her mind and cast them in an eerie shadow. “Mrs. Weatherford,” she said abruptly, no longer wanting to think of war or bombings. “May I inquire as to what sort of shop Mr. Evans runs?”

“Of course, dear.” Mrs. Weatherford set her teacup in its saucer with a clink, her eyes lighting up with enthusiasm. “It’s a book shop.”

Grace masked a twinge of disappointment. After all, she knew very little about books. Any attempts at reading had been quashed by countless interruptions. She’d been far too busy at her uncle’s store, trying to earn enough money for her and her mother’s survival, to bother with reading. Then her mother had become ill...

Uncle Horace’s store had been easy enough to manage, especially as the household wares were items she personally used. Selling tea kettles, towels, vases and other goods she was familiar with came naturally. But she knew nothing about literature.

Well, that wasn’t entirely true.

She could still recall her mother’s copy of Grimm’s Fairy Tales with an elegant princess painted on its front. How she’d loved letting her gaze wander over the colorful illustrations while her mother’s voice spun magic with those fanciful tales. But outside of Grimm’s Fairy Tales, she’d never had time to read.