Grace didn’t need a second offer and quickly fled the odiferous room. However, when she snapped on the set, the news greeting her was far worse than the smell of fish.
Lionel Marson’s rich voice emanated from the speakers. “Germany has invaded Poland and bombed many towns…”
Grace stood stock-still, her hand hovering over the metal knob. On he went, detailing how Poland had been attacked that morning, how major Polish cities had been bombed and France was mobilizing. With the Agreement of Mutual Assistance being signed with Poland only days before, there would be nothing for it: Great Britain and France would have to intervene.
The rest of the afternoon and evening were spent in the parlor as each new bulletin aired, everyone perched in a desperate bid for more information. Much of what was said they already knew, but listened intently regardless.
Through it all, Grace made curtains for the shop with Viv’s help once her friend came home from a successful first day at Harrods. With nerves on high alert, they picked at Mrs. Weatherford’s pork pie and prepared for the blackout before the sun had fully set.
Hitler could do to England what he’d done to Poland. Any sliver of light at a window could tell his planes where to drop their bombs.
A chill of anticipation squeezed down Grace’s spine. She’d been dreading the blackout and its strict rules. Now, she was grateful for the government’s foresight in keeping them from being a blatant target in the dark night.
Likewise, she was appreciative for the Anderson shelter in the back garden. Knowing they had protection in such proximity lent her a calming sense of security.
Amid the pure darkness of their first blackout, Grace had difficulty finding sleep. Especially when her mind was filled with talk of war and her thoughts kept returning to the children from that morning.
Apparently, the heavy curtains did their job too well. Grace did eventually fall asleep, but the next morning, she awoke nearly half an hour later than intended. Despite her rushed attempt to get ready, she still made it to the bookshop several minutes late.
Mr. Evans glanced up at her arrival, his face dour. No doubt a rebuke was coming.
Grace clutched her bag, the triple layer blackout curtains within.
“And here I thought you might have abandoned the place as a lost cause.” A smirk lifted the corners of Mr. Evans’s mouth as he wandered back toward the rear of the shop. “Not that I’d have blamed you.”
“I’m sorry for being late.” She called to his back and exhaled slowly. “I brought the curtains.”
He looked over his shoulder toward her bag and nodded once.
It was as much of a thank you as she’d expected. She tidied the shop first, cleaning the piles of receipts and bits of rubbish he’d left on the counter. Though she knew little of the books they sold, she chose covers with appealing fronts and displayed them in a curved arrangement in the large windows.
It was a start, at least.
She had just located a small ladder and was preparing to hang the heavy curtains when the jingling bell announced a visitor. An old man entered and caught her with his sharp gaze. “Who are you?”
“Miss Bennett.” She climbed down from the ladder. “The new shop assistant.”
At eye level, it was impossible to ignore how very much the man resembled a bird set against the bitter wind on a cold day. His downy white head was set low into the shrug of his hunched shoulders, and his spindly legs jutted from the bulk of his dark jacket. He glanced at the curtains waiting to be hung and tutted. “No need for curtains when tar would work just as well.”
Grace nearly cringed at the idea of smearing tar over the glass. “May I help you?”
“Where is Evans?”
“Pritchard, is that you?” Mr. Evans emerged from the forest of shelves, an ever-present book propped in his hands just over the paunch of his belly. He snapped it shut and pushed his glasses higher on the bridge of his nose.
“You hired an assistant?” The man looked around the shop, his beak of a nose exacerbating his birdlike appearance. “Are you doing all that well, then?”
“You never know what you’ll need when a war is on,” Mr. Evans answered wryly. “Comparing our bookshops again, Pritchard?”
The man clicked his tongue. “Bah! War hasn’t even been declared yet. And if this mess with Poland pushes us toward it, we’ll show Hitler and his ‘Nastys’ a battle that will send them scuttling back to Germany. Mark my words, this will all be over by Christmas.”
“I’ll still take my curtains.” Mr. Evans nodded toward Grace, releasing her from the need to be party to the conversation. “If nothing else, it’ll keep the bloody ARP warden from knocking at my door.”