“Here.” There was a rustling as someone dug in a handbag, followed a moment later by the weight of a torch being nudged into Grace’s hand. She flicked on the beam and continued to read, bringing the entire group with her through the story. The all clear sounded and broke through her reading, making her blink at the abrupt transition between the fictional world and reality.
She returned the borrowed torch with thanks and discovered she was already several chapters into the book.
“Will you be here tomorrow afternoon?” the housewife asked.
“If we have an air raid.” Grace tucked a scrap of paper between the pages to mark her place and cradled its weigh in her palm.
“Then she will,” the burly man said.
The young mother, who Grace learned was called Mrs. Kittering, nodded at the book in Grace’s hand with a hopeful smile. “Perhaps you can bring Middlemarch with you?”
After promising to resume where they’d left off, Grace and Mr. Evans returned to the bookshop.
“You mentioned once feeling helpless amid this war.” He flipped the sign to Open in the window. “But down there, reading to all those frightened people, you had power.”
“I confess, I felt rather foolish reading aloud like that.” Grace stacked the discarded books left on the counter during the air raid and set them aside in case the customers returned for them.
He shook his head. “Not foolish at all, Miss Bennett. You’ll change this war yet.” He tapped his blunt fingers on the cover of Middlemarch. “One book at a time.”
FOURTEEN
The damage from the attack that afternoon was considerable, leaving a massive crater carved into the street in the middle of the Strand. Over six hundred German planes had crossed into Britain, their bellies heavy with bombs. But while they had come with the intention to destroy more of London, the RAF was prepared to defend.
The Luftwaffe came back that night, of course. They always did.
Grace was on duty, grateful that her sector, once more, remained blessedly untouched. It would not remain thus forever. Not when the rest of London had been chipped away to reveal ribs of support beams and blown-out windows reminiscent of the empty sockets of a skull.
The following day, when the air raids blared their warning, Grace put Middlemarch in her large handbag and escorted Primrose Hill Books patrons to Farringdon Station. The people she’d read to the day before were waiting for her in a small cluster. Their faces lit up when they saw her, especially after taking note of the book she pulled from her handbag.
They showed up the following day and the one after that as well, each time the number growing slightly larger.
However, mid September, the weather was quite dismal. Bad enough even to discourage German bombers from attempting their daily afternoon raids. It was a rare, uninterrupted day, absent of a single air raid siren.
Grace did not squander it and instead combed through a list of recently released books to see how many she might order from Simpkin Marshalls. The door chimed to announce a customer as she was nearly done, a disruption she did not mind.
When she lifted her gaze, she found the burly man who attended every one of her readings at Farringdon Station. He had his cap in his large hands, wringing the gray wool.
“Afternoon, Miss Bennett.” He ducked his head respectfully. She’d never seen him without the cap settled over his head. His hair beneath was a mix of gray and brown, slightly fuzzed with a bit of his scalp showing at the top.
“M’name’s Jack,” he said. “I wanted to thank you, not only for reading to us from your book, but also for saving my life.”
“Saving your life?” Grace repeated in surprise.
He nodded. “I was in the area the day you started reading, rather by accident. Usually, I’m near Hyde Park in the afternoons, repairing some of the buildings there.” He tilted his head in a humble gesture. “Much as I can. But lately I’ve been finding jobs around here to make sure I’m in the tube to hear you read during air raids. Had I not, I’d have been in Marble Arch Station where I sheltered before.”
Grace put her hand to her mouth to cover her shock.
Two days before during a particularly brutal attack that destroyed nearly all of Oxford Street, a bomb had come through the ceiling of the Marble Arch Station where people were waiting out the attack. The carnage had been considerable, as detailed by Mr. Stokes until Grace had begged him to stop. Those who had not been killed by the bomb had been shredded by the exploding tiles. The injuries had been horrific.
“I’m so…” Grace stammered, unsure what to say. “I’m so pleased you weren’t there. That you’ve remained safe.”