Through all the letters from Viv, Grace couldn’t help but wonder about George Anderson. In truth, she’d hoped to have received something from him and had been somewhat disappointed when nothing had arrived. Still, she never ceased to peruse the letters received at Primrose Hill Books from the post in the off chance that he might have written.
She was going through the most recent post delivery one afternoon when Mr. Pritchard pushed into the shop with a newspaper clutched in his bony hands. Tabby wound anxious circles around his ankles as he shouted his news into the store. “Evans! The Nastys are in France. Also Holland and Belgium. But, France, Evans—France!”
Fear shivered up Grace’s spine. Hitler hadn’t been so bold as to attack France yet, but now he was in all the countries bordering England. If France fell, there would be nothing but the Channel to keep Hitler away.
A chill crept over her skin and her thoughts immediately went to her friends in the war. Only later did she realize she ought to be equally terrified for herself and everyone else in London.
Mr. Evans came to the front of the store with more haste than Grace had ever seen. He didn’t bother to mark his place in his book as he closed it and set it aside on the counter. “Has Chamberlain resigned yet?”
Mr. Pritchard shook his head. “I can’t say.” He looked helplessly at the paper. It was half the pages now than it’d been in the previous year, another indication of the ration on paper.
“Heaven help us all if he hasn’t.” Mr. Evans took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose where the weight of his eyewear had left permanent indents in his aged skin.
The door chimed the merry announcement of a new visitor, a shrill, overly bright sound in the ominous quiet that had descended. A delivery boy from Simpkin Marshalls came in, a large box held in skinny arms.
It was the recent order of Pigeon Pie, the political satire of the “bore war” by Nancy Mitford.
Grace could have groaned.
Such a book would be in terribly poor taste now.
She’d wanted to order the book before its release several days prior, but Mr. Evans had vacillated on the idea, stating he was more of a classic book seller than a trend follower. Finally he’d relented, and now that risk was about to explode in Grace’s face.
The state of war escalated in the following days, and as expected, the book was a flop. Sales went down as people found themselves plastered to their sofas at home before their wireless sets, desperate for any news.
And little of it was anything good.
The only bright spot was when Chamberlain stepped down as prime minister, his perpetually defensive tactics tiring and now dangerous, and the First Lord of the Admiralty, Winston Churchill, assumed his place. Much to the profound relief of all of Great Britain.
War was on everyone’s lips, weighing heavily on all their minds, consuming conversation and occupying every aspect of their lives. The details carried on the threads of such gossip were horrifying. The worst of which was the bombing of Rotterdam, Holland, which had been rumored to have killed over thirty thousand people.
Mr. Stokes had informed Grace of that terrible figure with an edge of awed glee in his voice. Something was finally happening in the unending stretch of an actionless war, and it lit a fire inside him. His approach to people’s misdemeanors became practically militant, and he constantly reminded Grace of her duties should they be bombed.
The curious thing to all of it, however, was how delightful the weather had been. It was an odd thing to note, of course, but never had Grace seen such a beautiful May. The sun shone, the skies were clear and brilliantly blue and the garden’s sprouted shoots unfurled into healthy, broad leaves and flowers that promised vegetables soon.
The sandbags bricking up public shelters and call-up adverts had long since faded into the background of her awareness. Now, there was only birdsong and sunny days. It was surreal to imagine that nearby, allied countries were under attack with lives being lost daily to bombs and battle.
But that lovely May was a mirage, a pretty, fragile shell waiting to shatter the reality of their world. Hitler’s troops had torn through France and were poised on the opposite side of the Channel.
Britain was next.
Already rumors swirled of coastline evacuations as the children of London were once more removed to the country.
While the presentation of Pigeon Pie at Primrose Hill Books was an enormous failure, copies of What Hitler Wants were nearly impossible to keep on the shelves. But people desperate for information on Hitler’s logic were not the only patrons who still managed to trickle through their belled door. Housewives came in periodically too, anxious over their husbands who fought in France and melancholic at having to once more send their children away. They were women desperate for distraction, a way to occupy their minds so they could forget their heavy hearts.