As the march of time pressed on, they sold the remainder of their stock of the ill-fated Pigeon Pie, and Mr. Evans’s advice became all the more poignant.
For those coming weeks brought the fall of France. And then, what they all had feared the most: the bombing of Britain.
TWELVE
German bombers descended on Cardiff and Plymouth first, targeting docks and prompting aerial battles with the RAF. London had not been hit as yet, but the expectation that it might happen hung forefront in everyone’s mind.
The BBC broadcasts were listened to fastidiously and clung to every tongue, with people repeating what had been heard to analyze the potential for their own bombing.
While Grace didn’t know where George was stationed, she was well aware being a fighter pilot would place him directly in the middle of danger.
She’d received another letter from him, this one equally as sliced through for censorship as the last, leaving only half his message visible, but enough to be assured he was doing well. Viv’s letters only had periodic items run through with a black marker, but it was easy to make out that regardless of where she was, she appeared to be safe.
The person she worried most over, however, was Mrs. Weatherford. For the entire time Grace had known the older woman, she had been one to push the world into action with her immeasurable energy. There wasn’t a solution she didn’t find, a problem she couldn’t fix.
Now, she shuffled through the house with eyes that focused on nothing. No longer that bright, cheerful person with a bit of advice for everyone—whether they wanted it or not. She was a husk of herself, with her flat gray hair falling around her pallid face. Lifeless.
No longer did Mrs. Weatherford attend the WVS or meticulously clean the house. Grace never thought she’d see the day when the foyer lost the residual scent of carbolic. And when Mrs. Weatherford found out about tea and margarine being added to the ration booklet, she didn’t crow with delight at her stockpiled trove, she simply replied with a resigned nod.
The rest of London, however, hummed with energy in anticipation of a war that now seemed certain to strike their soil. It seemed a strange thing, to hope for action even after Dunkirk, but the “bore war” had seemed much like a freshly wound watch with no hands.
Now something was finally going to happen.
It was a sunny Saturday when Grace finally brought herself to remove the children’s book display from the front of the shop. With so many little ones relocated once more to the country, the prime window location would be best spent on more enticing reads for the adults who had remained behind. After she left the shop that afternoon, however, she didn’t immediately return home.
Instead, she basked in the brilliant sun beaming down on her and enjoyed a seat outside at a café for tea and a confection. Restaurants followed different rations than the citizens of Britain and were allowed slightly more, meaning the tea was richer and sweeter, as was the pastry, nearly masking the margarine. Nearly.
But the effort didn’t offer her the cheer that she’d hoped. Instead, it made her miss having Viv opposite her, laughing and sharing the latest gossip from Harrods. And it made her ache for Mrs. Weatherford, who couldn’t bring herself to enjoy such a fine afternoon, let alone any of life’s other pleasures.
And how could she when Colin was dead?
Determined not to fall prey to sadness on such a fine day, Grace found herself at King Square Gardens. Vendors stood by their wheeled carts painted in glossy, bright colors to attract patrons to their goods, and people lounged about on benches and canvas sling chairs set alongside the emerald green grass.
All around the park were patches of vegetables as part of the Dig for Victory campaign, clusters of climbing sweet peas replacing the jasmine, and cabbages where roses had once bloomed.
Grace settled into an available sling chair, the thick fabric warm from the sun, and tilted her head back indulgently. The air smelled sweetly of grass mixed with a spice of sausage from a nearby vendor, and the shuffles of footsteps and light conversation melted into the background in a soothing ambience.
All at once, the peaceful quiet was interrupted by the nagging wail of the air raid siren.
She remained where she was, reconciled to endure the blaring annoyance, as commonplace as sandbags at that point.
At the beginning of the war, the warbling cry had made her heart leap into her throat. Now, it was simply a nuisance.
Several people grudgingly rose from their chairs to seek shelter, though they were indeed the minority. Most remained where they were, luxuriating in the sunshine.
After so many false air raids, the warning had become like the little boy crying wolf.