The Last Bookshop in London: A Novel of World War II(8)

“It was my pleasure, dear.” The slight puff to the older woman’s chest indicated that it had indeed been her pleasure to do so.

Grace paused. “Might I ask why it’s called Primrose Hill Books when it isn’t on Primrose Hill?”

Mrs. Weatherford gave a dreamy smile that told Grace the reason was a good one. “Mr. Evans and his wife, God rest her soul, met on Primrose Hill. They propped their backs against the same tree and discovered the other reading the very same book. Can you imagine?” She took a tea cake from the tray and held it pinched between her fingers. “When they opened the shop, they said it was the perfect name for a bookshop they shared. Quite romantic, isn’t it?”

It was almost impossible to imagine the stodgy old shop owner as a young man in love, but the shop name was indeed charming. As was the story. Perhaps working at the store would not be so terrible.

And anyway, it would only be for six months.



THREE


Grace arrived at Primrose Hill Books at ten minutes to eight the next morning with perfect curls and jangling nerves. Viv had helped set her hair the night before and rose early to wish her luck despite her own interview with Harrods not being until that afternoon.

Grace would need all the luck she could get.

Mr. Evans was behind the cluttered counter when Grace entered. He wore a tweed jacket with a collared shirt underneath and didn’t bother to look up at the ding of the bell. “Good morning, Miss Bennett,” he said in a bored drawl.

Grace smiled at him, determined for a fresh start with her best foot forward. Or her other cheek turned, depending on how one looked at it. “Good morning, Mr. Evans. I truly appreciate you giving me the opportunity to work in your shop.”

He lifted his head and regarded her through the thick glass of his spectacles. His wispy white hair and overgrown eyebrows appeared as tamed down as they might ever be. “I don’t need help, but that woman wouldn’t let me be until I finally agreed.” He wagged a stubby finger at her. “And don’t you be locking your heart into this task, Miss Bennett. It’s only for six months.”

Grace’s shoulders relaxed somewhat with her relief. At least he wouldn’t expect her to be at the shop for the rest of her life.

“I won’t become attached,” she answered truthfully. How could she possibly with a place so dusty and desolate?

She scanned the shop and was struck anew with how cramped the space seemed. Shelves were crowded against one another like big teeth in a small mouth amid errant piles of scattered books. All without any sense of rhyme or reason.

At least when Grace had begun at her uncle’s shop, there had been some semblance of order. What was she do with this haphazard chaos?

A sense of hopelessness crept in. After all, where was she even to start? Did Mr. Evans already have expectations he wanted her to meet?

She stood awkwardly in a state of uncertainty with her purse and gas mask box on her shoulder, still wearing her hat. Mr. Evans did not appear to notice as he scrawled a series of numbers into a ledger. The pencil tip was carefully pinched between the pads of his fingertips. One more sharpening and the thing would be nonexistent.

Grace cleared her throat. “Where am I to set my belongings?”

“Back room,” he muttered as his hand continued to move against the paper.

She glanced to the rear of the store and saw a door, presumably where she was being directed. “Then what would you like me to do?”

The lead of the pencil snapped, and Mr. Evans hissed out an exhale of frustration. He leveled a stare at her. “I told you, I don’t need help. You can sit in the back room and sew or settle into a corner with a book to read or file your nails. I don’t care.”

Grace nodded and slipped down the misaligned aisle of shelving toward the door he’d indicated. Above it was a dingy brass placard with “Primrose Hill Books” engraved at its top and a small line of words beneath—“where readers find love.” Hopefully it was an omen that her six months might not be all bad.

The room was narrow and dimly lit by an uncovered bulb, with a flimsy table and chair. Boxes lined every wall, sometimes layered two and three deep, minimizing the space so that one could barely move. It was far less welcoming than the shop itself, which Grace hadn’t thought possible. She located several hooks on the wall where she hung her effects and went back to the main area of the shop.

She’d never been one for sewing—that was Viv’s area of expertise—and wouldn’t know where to start with which book to read, let alone how to shelve them. A glance at her nails, however, had her lamenting having forgotten her nail file at home.

There was nothing for it but to find something to do. The thick layers of dust on the shelves begged to be wiped clean. Granted, dusting the shop hadn’t been on the list Mr. Evans had recommended, but the shop was in sore need.

Three hours later, nearly choking on dust motes in the air, she regretted her choice. Her white shirtdress with sprigs of pink flowers, one of her favorites, was streaked with grime, and Mr. Evans glared in her direction every time he coughed. Which was quite often.

Through it all, several customers had come and gone. She’d tried to linger near them as she worked, employing considerable care to not send dust clouds in their direction, but still close enough should they require help.

Not that she would know what to do if they asked her a question. Fortunately no one did, at least not until five minutes after Mr. Evans departed to a nearby café for tea.