Grace didn’t bother to hide her smile. He had asked for a book that would last more than one night. The exhaustion shadowing the skin under his eyes indicated he had likely tried to get through the massive book with haste.
She knew what she’d been doing when she recommended the book to Mr. Stokes. No doubt George also had known what he was doing when he gave her his old copy of The Count of Monte Cristo. A sudden yearning to have another conversation with him struck her. How she longed to share how impactful his gift had been. If nothing else, she wished she had his address, to write her appreciation for the book.
“You were right about the story occupying a good portion of my time.” Mr. Stokes rubbed at the back of his neck. “It was far longer than others and equally as riveting.” He sighed. “The lad I was working with was conscripted so I’ve been carrying the load of two men in his absence. Do you happen to know of anyone who would be interested in joining the ARP as a warden?”
“Grace has been considering it,” Mr. Evans offered from somewhere in the history section.
Now that the store had been properly organized, it was easier to see the types of books that drew the shop owner’s attention. History and philosophy. A majority of Mr. Evans’s days were spent poring through his own stock, ensuring there were no printing inaccuracies, as he put it.
Grace grimaced at having been volunteered and busied herself at the counter, organizing the neat surface with such unnecessary effort, she reminded herself briefly of Mrs. Weatherford. Regardless, it was better than looking directly at Mr. Stokes and encouraging his entreaty that she join up.
After all, her attempt to help with the WVS had felt pointless. Worse than pointless, it made her feel awkward and socially inept. Would being an ARP Warden be any better? Air raids still came on occasion, all resulting in nothing more than a few hours in windowless, stuffy places until the all clear sounded. People seldom even bothered to seek shelter anymore.
She’d eventually received two letters from Viv in the time her friend had been gone. With Viv being stationed in England, they came with more frequency than those from Colin, who was stationed abroad. Though given the backed up postal service, that wasn’t saying much. At least the correspondence had let Grace know Viv appeared to be happily adjusting to her new tasks. Certainly with more ease than Grace had with the Women’s Volunteer Service.
“Miss Bennett, is that true you wish to join on as an ARP warden?” Mr. Stokes asked.
Grace straightened a copy of Bobby Bear’s Annual where the children’s book was on display by the register to attract housewives for one last impulsive purchase. “I’ve considered it.”
Mr. Stokes’s mustache twitched. “But you’re a woman.”
Grace stiffened, affronted by the blatancy of his demeaning implication.
“If you mean to imply she couldn’t do it, you’re daft.” Mr. Evans emerged from the history aisle, shooting a glare at Mr. Stokes from over his thick glasses. “Miss Bennett could do the job of any man, and far better at that.”
Mr. Stokes scoffed.
His dubious response, as much as Mr. Evans’s commendation of her abilities, notched her chin a little higher. “I’ll do it.”
Mr. Stokes’s forehead creases deepened. “You will?”
“Don’t act as though you’ve competition for the position, Mr. Stokes.” Mr. Evans smiled at Grace and melted back among his books.
“Very well,” Mr. Stokes said. “Go to the warden’s post this afternoon and inquire within.” He cleared his throat. “And I’d like another book if you would recommend one.”
Later that day, after Grace’s shift had ended, she did as Mr. Stokes said and inquired within the warden’s post. Several days later, she was awarded a tin hat with a white W painted on it to denote her role as a warden, a whistle, a gas rattle to alert the public in the event of a gas attack, an orange bound copy of the Air Raid Warden’s Training Manual as well as a CD mask. It was the latter that dismayed her the most, for the professional grade gas mask was far larger than her current one, having large glass eyes and a filter that was made to accommodate a microphone. How would such a monstrosity ever fit neatly in her handbag?
So it was that she ended up on her first shift four nights later alongside Mr. Stokes with her mask strung about her shoulder in its ungainly box rather than with a smart handbag at her side. She wore a light coat against the chill April carried in, and the blasted string refused to remain set against her shoulder. If nothing else, the metal ARP badge she’d pinned to her lapel helped tether the string into place.