There were no more WVS meetings or elaborate meals or anything to show she was doing more than simply surviving, as if life was a book full of blank pages to be turned. Uneventful. Holding no purpose but to get to the back cover and be done.
Grace remained in the townhouse with Mrs. Weatherford that night, resolved to find some way to encourage the older woman to join her at the tube station going forward. Each attempt afterward, however, was met with the same refusal and once, a sobbing confession for a wish to join Colin. Grace could not argue against something as powerful as grief.
The rest of September passed with nightly bomb raids and more afternoon attacks than not. Somehow, London adjusted.
After all, no one in the world had the spirit of the British. They were fighters. They could take it.
Shops began to close at four every afternoon to allow employees the opportunity for sleep before their night shifts began. Nearly every person had two jobs now. The ones they operated by day and the ones they volunteered for by night, whether putting out fires, watching for bombs, searching through the rubble for survivors or offering medical aid in the many various places it was needed—London came to life at night to help.
Grace found she now could sleep rather effectively in small moments, falling immediately into a deep, dreamless slumber in short snatches of time.
Queues at tube stations and shelters began before eight when the first sirens would inevitably begin to sound, people arriving early on to ensure they received a prime location on the floor. Or in a bunk if they were truly fortunate.
As a result, people grew used to sleeping fully clothed. Some even confessed to bathing in their knickers, far too frightened to be caught unawares and be found dead in the buff.
Yet even with the upheaval and uncertainty, letters continued to pour into the postal service despite the bombings and damaged buildings, operated by way of candlelight with signs declaring they were still open. It was a sad sight to behold, however, when a postman stood before a home reduced to a pile of rubble with a letter held in his hand.
Whatever had stifled the Royal Mail service in the beginning of the war had begun to ease somewhat and Grace received letters from Viv and George with more regularity. It was ironic that their correspondence expressed as much concern for Grace’s safety now as hers did for them.
George had suggested a new book, South Riding by Winifred Holtby, after she’d told him she’d begun reading in the tube station. A copy had been delivered to her at the store just that morning from Simpkin Marshalls, its dust jacket crisp and glossy with newness.
The day held a chill from the previously sodden weather, but a beam of light streamed in through the window. No customers had entered the shop yet and Mr. Evans was busy with his “work” in the history section, so she found herself sitting in a little nook by the window.
A sliver of sunlight broke through the clouds and shone on her with a gentle warmth. Grace paused for a moment and ran her fingers over the book cover, savoring the quiet peace. Relishing the joy of reading.
The jacket was smooth, the print black against a yellow background dotted with small red houses. She slid her fingertip under the lip and drew it open. The spine, not yet stretched, creaked open, like an ancient door preparing to unveil a secret world.
She turned the pages to the first chapter, the sound a quiet whispered shush in the empty shop. There was a special scent to paper and ink, indescribable and unknown to anyone but a true reader. She brought the book to her face, closed her eyes and breathed in that wonderful smell.
It was startling to think a year prior to this, she hadn’t been able to appreciate such small moments. But in a world as damaged and gray as theirs was now, she would take every speck of pleasure where it could be found. And much pleasure was to be had in reading.
Grace cherished the adventures she went on through those pages, an escape from exhaustion and bombs and rationing. Deeper still was the profound understanding for mankind as she lived in the minds of the characters. Over time, she had found such perspectives made her a more patient person, more accepting of others. If everyone had such an appreciation for their fellow man, perhaps things such as war would not exist.
Such considerations were easy to muse over there in a rare beam of sunlight, but far more difficult to hold tight to in the blacked-out streets of London with Mr. Stokes.
The improved weather brought with it an influx of bombers who sailed easily through the clear skies to unload their destruction. It was on one such night that Grace found herself on duty when the familiar droning of planes announced their unwanted arrival.