The Last Bookshop in London: A Novel of World War II(5)

“Brilliant.” Grace smiled brightly to hide her apprehension. After all, she would make do. Anything would be better than working at her uncle’s store.

But how was she possibly supposed to sell something she knew so little about?



TWO


Grace’s first attempt with Primrose Hill Books did not go as planned.

Not that she’d harbored lofty expectations for success, but she had anticipated the owner would at least be prepared for her arrival.

She found the shop without issue, yet another testament to Mrs. Weatherford’s fine directional abilities. The narrow shopfront was not located on Primrose Hill as the name suggested, but rather was one of many in a line that ran along Hosier Lane, each with windows reflecting the dullness of the clouded afternoon sun. The bookshop’s first two floors had been painted black with a yellow stuccoed facade rising above it, cracked and faded with age. A white sign proclaimed Primrose Hill Books in a glossy black looping text. The effect was clearly meant to be elegant, but seemed to Grace as rather flat and cheerless.

The sentiment was echoed in the shop’s dingy windows, which were layered with lopsided strips of white scrim rather than displaying a purposefully set, enticing display. The tape wasn’t uncommon; many had adhered it to their glass windows in shops and at home for prevention against shattering in case of a bombing. Usually, however, it was done neatly and with care.

A pull of trepidation dragged at Grace once more. What if Mr. Evans asked after the last book she’d read? She drew in a deep breath to fortify herself and pushed into the shop. A little bell rang overhead, far too happy for a place so dreary.

There was a mustiness in the air, mingled with a scent reminiscent of wet wool. Layers of dust on the shelves indicated most of the stock had not been touched in some time, and piles of books on the scuffed wooden floors lent it all a sense of disarray. This effect was heightened by a counter off to the right, which was cluttered with what appeared to be haphazardly stacked accounts amid a chaotic sea of pencil nubs and various other bits of rubbish.

It was no wonder Mr. Evans required assistance.

“Call out if you need something.” The unseen voice was as dry and disused as the books.

“Mr. Evans?” Grace made her way deeper into the small shop.

Rows of unmarked shelves stretched high above her head, pressed so closely together she wondered how anyone might fit between them to peruse their contents. A second story balcony curled around the perimeter of the first floor, visible above the towering shelves and just as overcrowded and messy. Despite its external size, the shop’s interior had been rendered far too small and tight.

Footsteps shuffled toward her as a portly man with white hair and bushy brows squeezed from a narrow aisle with an open book framed between his hands. He lifted his head from the pages and regarded her for a long moment without speaking.

“Mr. Evans?” Grace stepped carefully around a knee-high stack of books.

His eyebrows crawled up over his glasses. “Who are you?”

Grace wanted nothing more than to navigate her way through the forest of shelves, back to the store’s exit. But she’d arrived with purpose and put an edge of steel in her spine as her mother had always encouraged. “Good afternoon, Mr. Evans. I’m Grace Bennett. Mrs. Weatherford sent me here to speak with you about a position for a shop assistant.”

His blue eyes narrowed behind his spectacles. “I told that meddlesome woman I didn’t need help.”

“I beg your pardon?” Grace asked, taken aback.

He looked down at his book and turned away. “There’s nothing for you here, Miss Bennett.”

Grace instinctively took a step toward the door. “I...I see,” she stammered. “Thank you for your time.”

He didn’t acknowledge her as he scooted between the bookshelves once more in a clear sign of dismissal.

She stared after him in shock. If he wouldn’t hire her, would there be more options without a letter of recommendation? She knew no one outside of Mrs. Weatherford, Colin and Viv. She was in a foreign city, away from a home where she no longer felt welcome. What else was she going to do?

A panicked urgency ran through her veins and left her palms prickling with heat. She should stay and fight for the job. After all, she needed it.

What if she couldn’t afford the reduced rent on the room in two months’ time? Certainly she couldn’t bring herself to ask Mrs. Weatherford for more assistance on top of what she had already given. Nor would Grace rely on Viv’s aid.

All at once the stuffiness of the shop became stifling, the towering shelves too pressing. She should stay and fight, but her emotions were too tumultuous. God how she missed her mother’s strength, her counsel and love.

Without another word, Grace found her way to the front door around tightly packed shelves and piles of books and left the shop.

She returned to Britton Street with brisk steps, wanting nothing more than to be alone. Solitude, however, was not to be had. Viv was in the parlor with Mrs. Weatherford, cooing over Tabby. Colin, who had worked all night at the Pet Kingdom in Harrods with a new baby elephant, was crouched beside the kitten with a bit of meat at the end of a spoon. Which meant all eyes turned to Grace the moment she closed the front door.

Though she knew her friends meant well, she wanted to slink from their stares rather than divulge how she’d run from the first sign of difficulty.