The Last Bookshop in London: A Novel of World War II(7)

But Viv had turned away to examine a pair of stockings and merely acknowledged Grace’s careful statement with a hum. Viv set the item aside, her hand splayed over its crinkly pink package.

“You know what we haven’t done yet?” She spun toward Grace with such enthusiasm, her green skirt flared out around her knees. “We haven’t gone to Hyde Park.”

Grace grinned. How many countless summer days had they lain in the sun-warmed grass, breathing in its sweet scent as they pretended to be in Hyde Park? “It’s only just up the road,” she said with a lift of her brows.

Viv glanced around the brightly lit rows of endless elegant displays. “If we can find the way out.”

Grace craned her neck, searching without success. It took longer than either cared to admit, and they became lost somewhere between the bedding department and braziers, but they were finally able to locate the exit and went up the street into Hyde Park.

What they had been expecting were clusters of deck chairs filled with extravagantly dressed people, the expanse of the Serpentine catching the sunlight like winking diamonds, and a lawn of endless green grass so soft it would tempt them to remove their shoes. They had not anticipated the trenches gouged into the soil like open wounds, or—worse still—the massive guns.

The hulking metal bodies rose taller than a man, supported by wheels so large, they came up to Grace’s waist. A long barrel protruded from each beast, jutting toward the sky, ready to take down any threat.

Grace looked up into the heavy gray clouds, half expecting to see a fleet of aircraft in its murky depths.

“Don’t trouble yourself worrying about Germany, ladies.” An older man paused before them. “Those anti-aircraft guns will shoot them out of the sky before they can touch us.” He nodded with self-satisfied assurance. “You’ll be safe.”

Grace’s stomach clenched and robbed her of any words. Viv seemed similarly affected and merely offered a weak smile. The man touched the brim of his hat and resumed his path across the park with a newspaper under his elbow.

“The war really is coming, isn’t it?” Viv said softly.

It was. They all knew as much, even if they didn’t want to admit it.

Already holidays had been cut short when teachers were asked to return home early to begin preparation for the likelihood of the evacuation of thousands of children from London. If they were planning to remove the children to the country, war would surely be soon upon them.

Still, there was a resignation in Viv’s statement that plucked at a guilty string in Grace’s chest.

“You don’t need to be here, Viv. It isn’t safe. You only came to help me. Because I was too scared to come on my own. You could—”

“Go back to Drayton?” Viv’s lips curled up with mirth. “I’d rather die than go back and bury myself up to the elbows in dirt again.”

We just might, even still. Grace didn’t verbalize the macabre thought, but she did glance back once more at an anti-aircraft gun, dark and ominous where it rose against the afternoon sky.

“War hasn’t even been declared yet.” Viv adjusted the balance of her purse strap and the string of her gas mask box on her shoulder. “Come, let’s return to Mrs. Weatherford’s and see if she was able to talk some sense into Mr. Evans.”

Grace made a sour face at her friend. “He doesn’t want me there any more than I want to be there. The shop is old and dusty and filled with books whose titles I’ve never even heard of.”

A sparkle lit Viv’s eyes. “That’s why it’s perfect for you, Duckie.”

Grace couldn’t help but smile at the endearment. Her mother had first called her that as a toddler when her blond curls flipped out at the base of her neck. Like a little duck’s tail, Mum used to say. The moniker stuck. With her mother now dead, Viv was the only one who still remembered, and used, the nickname.

“Your uncle’s shop was a dusty bit of nothing before you stepped up.” Viv put her hands on her hips. “And something tells me Mrs. Weatherford will strong-arm Mr. Evans into a letter of recommendation in six months if he dares to refuse.”

The image of Mrs. Weatherford haranguing Mr. Evans into submission was almost laughable. “Now there would be a battle of wills.”

“I know who I’d put my money on.” Viv winked. “Let’s go see what she’s accomplished.”

By the time they returned to Britton Street, Mrs. Weatherford was already in the parlor with a cup of tea as the scent of roasting meat filled the air. Yet another delicious meal, no doubt. Mrs. Weatherford had quite the talent in the kitchen, the same as Grace’s mother.

Mrs. Weatherford looked up from her teacup and waved the fog of steam from her glasses. “Ah, there you are. Mr. Evans will pay you a fair wage and would like you to start tomorrow morning promptly at eight.”

Grace slid her low heels off and, without bothering with her slippers, padded onto the thick pile carpet in the parlor. “You mean...?”

A victorious smirk touched Mrs. Weatherford’s lips. “Yes, dear. You are the new assistant at Primrose Hill Books.”

Relief wrestled with trepidation. It was a job, one that would guarantee Grace a livelihood in London. With it, perhaps she could finally put Drayton and her uncle successfully behind her.

“Thank you for speaking with him, Mrs. Weatherford,” Grace said gratefully. “It was so considerate of you.”