If she made one store successful once, by God, she could do it again. And this time, she’d jolly well make sure she recieved a glowing recommendation for her efforts.
She met Mrs. Weatherford just outside the townhouse, the older woman’s arms laden with bags.
Mrs. Weatherford waved her over with half of a finger, which appeared the only appendage she had to spare. “Your timing is impeccable, Grace. Come here, child.”
Grace rushed over and pulled several totes from Mrs. Weatherford’s arm. An unexpected weight tugged at Grace’s hand with such force, she nearly dropped the parcel. “What do you have in here? Sandbags?”
Mrs. Weatherford cast a conspiratorial glance around before leaning in and whispering, “Tea.” She lifted one shoulder to heft another sack. “And sugar. Now come, let’s get this inside quickly.”
She didn’t speak again until they spirited the packages into the house and safely tucked them in the kitchen. The heavy dark curtains hung from the windows in the otherwise cheerful kitchen, a reminder of the blackout starting that evening. There had been several test runs the previous month, but this time would be in earnest.
Mrs. Weatherford dropped her burden with great care and issued forth a relieved sigh. “Heavens, but that was heavy.”
“This is all tea and sugar?” Grace surveyed the bags, which were stuffed to the seams.
“Some of it is flour too.” Mrs. Weatherford wagged a finger. “Don’t you go looking at me like that, Grace Bennett. The war is coming and you mark my words, there will be rationing. I had to get to these items before the hoarders.”
Grace regarded the trove of dry goods. “The hoarders?”
Mrs. Weatherford set to work, unpacking her wares. “Mrs. Nesbitt had at least twice as much, and she’s a woman on her own.” Mrs. Weatherford bent over the counter to rearrange objects in the cabinet, making space for her new purchases. “You know her, the proprietress of Nesbitt’s Fine Reads, one of the many illustrious bookshops along Paternoster Row.” She glanced at Grace for confirmation.
Grace shook her head.
Mrs. Weatherford’s brows furrowed. “Surely Mr. Evans has mentioned Paternoster Row?”
“He hasn’t.” Grace stacked several bags of sugar in a cleared spot in the open cabinet.
Mrs. Weatherford shifted aside some boxes and replaced them with tins of tea. “Well, that street is where most booklovers with good money go. I’ve told Mr. Evans a dozen times he should relocate.” She took a step back and inspected the stacked cabinet with a satisfied nod. “You should go sometime. See what a proper bookshop looks like. I can give you directions.”
A proper bookshop. It was exactly what Grace needed to study to see how to improve Primrose Hill Books. “That would be wonderful,” she said. “While we’re on the topic, would you mind if I took some of the black sateen to make curtains for the shop?”
Mrs. Weatherford cast a proud smile at her, the kind her own mother once gave. It touched a wounded place inside Grace, somewhere buried deep, and soothed it in the gentlest way.
“Of course, you may, dear,” the older woman said. “Mind that you do at least three layers or it won’t block out a bit of light. I’m sure he’s very appreciative of your efforts.” She filled the kettle with water from the tap. “Even if he doesn’t say as much.”
Colin came into the kitchen with Tabby following at his heels, mewing insistently. “Hullo, Grace.” His cheeks colored with a slight blush, as always happened when he entered a room Viv or Grace were in. “We received a baby cheetah this morning. There’s almost nothing to him, just a bit of fluff and a fierce personality.” He made the shape of a ball with his fingers to indicate the animal’s size.
“I imagine he must be darling.”
“You’ll have to come by and see him next time you’re at Harrods.” He glanced to his mother. “Can you hand me a tin of tuna, Mum?”
Mrs. Weatherford’s mouth pinched, but she handed him the tin regardless. “I think Tabby is large enough to find a home. Soon we’ll be sore pressed to feed ourselves, let alone a cat.”
Colin took the can with a rueful smile.
“You both think I’m mad, but I tell you, everything will be rationed.” Mrs. Weatherford folded the now empty totes and put the full kettle on the stove while Colin peeled the top off the tin with a can opener.
A pungent fish odor filled the small space and sent Tabby in a frenzy of emphatic cries. Mrs. Weatherford waved at the air. “Save yourself, Grace. Put the wireless on while I fetch our tea.”