Many mothers would have empty arms this night.
A heaviness lay in Grace’s chest for those women and the little ones they had to send off to another’s care. She quickened her pace, unable to endure the sight any longer.
She all but threw herself into the bookshop, earning her a sharp look from Mr. Evans upon her arrival. “Has the war already started?” he asked dryly and returned his focus to the book in front of him.
“It might as well have.” Grace glanced out to the street as a mother hastened her two young children in the direction of the tube station. “The children are all being sent away.”
He hummed in distracted agreement.
She peered up to the sky, seeking the large silver objects. “And those balloons—”
“Barrage balloons.”
She turned back to him. “What on earth are those?”
Mr. Evans sighed without patience and set his book down. “They’re affixed to steel cables and prevent aircraft from flying too low. They’re there for our protection.”
“So they can’t bomb us then?” Grace asked hopefully.
Mr. Evans snorted. “Oh, they can bomb us well enough. The balloons prevented it in the Great War when planes couldn’t fly as high, but now at least it forces them up into the range of the anti-aircraft guns.”
Chills prickled over Grace’s skin. She wanted to ask more questions, but he’d already lifted his book and resumed reading. Few customers entered the store that day. It was easy to see why when the children were being shipped off, the men were leaving for war and all the mothers were left behind with their heavy sorrow.
Grace had thought to try organizing the books, but could not clear the image of those children from her mind. Not when there had been so very many of them. Not when their mothers had been so strong in the face of what they must do to have their children protected.
She recalled the time her mother had gone to visit Mrs. Weatherford once when she was a child. Though Grace had stayed with Viv’s family for the week, she still remembered how missing her mother had left her feeling bereft. And that had been only a week.
Those poor children.
In the end, Grace applied herself to the messily placed scrim on the windows, peeling away first the tape, then picking at the adhesive that remained in sticky patches along the glass. The task was mindless, which suited her well, for her mind was entirely overfull already.
When there were only two strips left and she was debating whether or not she had time to reapply more tape with proper care, Mr. Evans came to her. “Go home, Miss Bennett. There’s not enough business to even bother staying open. Not today. Besides, I haven’t anything to black out the windows when it grows dark.” He folded his arms over his chest, and his inhale whistled through his nostrils as he looked about his shop. “War is coming and books aren’t what people will be shopping for.”
Grace gathered the discarded tape and stood. “But surely they need entertainment.”
He nodded to the windows. “I’ll bring in newspaper tomorrow.”
Grace hid her grimace of distaste at the thought of layering the wide windows with plastered news sheets. “I can make curtains. Mrs. Weatherford has quite a bit of fabric on hand already. We’ve some to spare.”
Indeed, Mrs. Weatherford had been quite elated to crow over her victory at getting so many yards of heavy black sateen at only two shillings a yard.
Grace didn’t know why she was offering to help Mr. Evans. Especially when he was implying he soon may not have the business to support hiring an assistant. But they had the fabric to spare, and anything she could do to remain useful enough to glean a letter of recommendation would work in her favor.
Grace quickly gathered her purse, hat and gas mask, eager for the extra time off.
Mr. Evans met her at the entrance and flipped the sign from Open to Closed. “Good afternoon, Miss Bennett.”
He closed the door behind her and locked it. The children were gone from the streets by that point, almost as if their organized departure hadn’t happened. On her walk home, Grace pushed her thoughts from the painful recollection and instead considered how to draw more customers into Primrose Hill Books.
She’d done it with her uncle’s shop. Several signs in the window and a few items placed strategically on sale had made all the difference. Soon customers had come with regularity.
Of course, there were fewer patrons at Primrose Hill Books, and the ones remaining perched on tightly strung nerves. But books served a purpose. Distractions were always needed. Most certainly in times of strife.