After all, it was beginning to look like the Germans were intent on bombing London every night.
When Grace woke later that morning, she learned on the news that St. Thomas’s hospital had been hit, having received a direct blow along one major section. Nearby, a school had also sustained terrible damage. The Nazis were a foul lot, but it was truly low to target the infirm and children.
Anger burned through Grace, arming her with the need to continue her role with the ARP—to do her part to fight Hitler.
She was ready to declare as much to Mr. Evans when she went to the bookshop, but found the door closed and locked tight upon her arrival. He’d presented her a key some months before, and she dug it out of her handbag, unlocking the shop. Once inside, she flipped the sign to Open and pulled back the blackout curtains to let in a stream of cloudy sunlight as she called out for Mr. Evans. He did not reply.
Apprehension tightened along her back.
It was the only time in her employment he wasn’t standing at the counter like a sentry, awaiting her arrival before disappearing into the back to resume his daily work. His work, she’d surmised in the last year, was mainly reading the day away.
And now, he wasn’t there.
The building didn’t appear damaged, meaning his flat above would have remained intact. Images flooded her mind, colored with Mr. Stokes’s terrible stories. What if Mr. Evans had been out the previous evening and was caught unawares?
She called his name again as she strode to the rear of the shop and pushed into the small backroom.
It was the smell of alcohol that hit her first.
Scotch.
Her uncle had drunk the stuff. It stank like paraffin oil and tasted far worse. Not that she was one for sampling paraffin oil.
Mr. Evans was slumped in his chair, half sagging over the tabletop. A bottle of amber liquid sat before his folded elbow, and his hand limply curled around a nearly empty crystal glass.
Were it not for that bottle at his side, she might have been truly worried. Though the image of him in such a state was still rather disconcerting.
“Mr. Evans?” Grace stepped into the quiet room and set aside her handbag.
He lifted his head, though his glasses rested askew across his face, and gave her a bleary look from the crooked lenses. His normally immaculately combed hair was mussed and his brown pullover atop his collared shirt, the same he’d worn the day before, was rumpled. “Go home, Miss Bennett.” His words were thick with sleep and drink, and he lay his head on the table once more.
“I can’t go home. It’s morning and we’ve a store to run.” She gently reached for the glass and pulled it from his hand.
He didn’t stop her. Instead, he squinted up at her from under his bushy brows. “Did I ever tell you I had a daughter?”
“I wasn’t aware, no.” Grace cradled the glass in her palm, its smooth surface still warm from his grip. He had clearly been there for quite some time. “Is she in London?”
He sat up slowly, swaying. “She’s dead.”
Grace winced at her egregious misstep. “Forgive me. I didn’t—”
“It happened several years ago, same car accident as my wife.” He adjusted his glasses with clumsy hands, setting them almost correctly at the bridge of his nose. “She would have been about your age now, my Alice.”
A ghost of a smile flickered at the corners of his mouth. “You look like her. I suspect it’s why Mrs. Weatherford sent you my way, the meddlesome woman. Her boy Colin had been friends with my daughter for the whole of their lives. No doubt she thought it might help ease the pain of Alice’s loss or some such rot. Nonsense, all of it.” His furrowed expression softened. “Though I suppose now Mrs. Weatherford understands the futility more so than before.”
There was a sadness in his eyes that Grace felt in her core, the hollow emptiness of grief. One that had resonated since her mother’s death and never went silent.
She carefully set the glass on a stack of boxes, away from his reach. “Does it bother you that I look like Alice?”
His gaze slid to Grace and paused as though considering her appearance in earnest. Tears filled his eyes, and his chin began to tremble. Quickly, he looked away and a hearty sniff filled the room.
“In the beginning.” There was a quaver to his voice, but he cleared his throat. “Every time I’d see you, I’d see my Alice. She had blond hair, like me. Before this.” His fingers danced over his white, rumpled hair.
Grace said nothing, letting him speak.
“I thought I’d buried her here.” He slapped his open hand on his chest and gave an exhale that seemed to cause him great pain. “Now I know, such things are too great to be contained. It also makes me realize I wasn’t only trying to push aside my grief, but also my guilt.”