That night, however, when Grace had a night off from her ARP shift and was readying herself to join the queue at Farringdon Station’s entrance, Mrs. Weatherford wordlessly joined her with a small bundle of belongings packed at her side.
From that night on, Mrs. Weatherford slept in the tube station without argument.
As the month of October went on, the bombings continued, peaking midmonth when the moon was full and bright. A bomber’s moon, they called it. And aptly so.
By the brilliant lunar aura, the Thames was lit like a silver ribbon curling through London’s blackout, and the Germans could clearly make out their targets.
Hundreds were killed, far more injured, thousands were left homeless and so many fires raged within London that the ARP wardens were deployed to assist the firemen in their seemingly endless fight.
Despite London’s flesh being peeled back night after night to reveal more of her skeleton beneath, Churchill still sought to keep as much information from Germany as possible. This meant the casualty numbers listed on the broadcasts in the evening weren’t given a location. It meant stores that had been bombed could reopen in a new area, but not state where their previous location had been. Worse still, it meant the dead could not receive a proper obituary in a timely manner, but were listed at a delay and with simply the month of their death.
Through it all, life in the battered city went on, its people taking whatever pleasure wherever they could and trying to savor the final vestiges of fine weather before the ice and snow swept in. Especially if the upcoming months were to be as frigid as the winter before.
So it was that sometime past the middle of October on a particularly lovely day with almost no clouds or rain, Grace found herself longing to forego an extra wink of sleep for a chance to walk in the vestiges of a sunny day. An order from Simpkin Marshalls failed to arrive that afternoon, and she found her opportunity.
When she’d suggested to Mr. Evans that she go by and check, he’d smiled with understanding and told her to take her time. And take her time she did. Grace strolled to Paternoster Row, making the short walk last a few extra minutes more than necessary. There was a nip in the air, yes, but nothing the sunshine couldn’t warm away.
Grace had been back to Paternoster Row many times after that fateful first visit. The bustle of foot traffic hadn’t diminished since the start of the war; if anything, it was busier with more people seeking books to entertain them through the long nights in their shelters.
The glossy red buses once so prevalent had suffered heavy losses due to the frequent bombings. She’d witnessed far too many on the sides of bombed roads, crumpled like discarded children’s toys. One was still visible from time to time, amid the green, blue, brown and white coaches sent to replace the ruined public transportation.
The vendors along the pavement still sold their fare made with recipes altered to accommodate the ration. And though patrons complained the food was never quite up to snuff, they still queued to buy.
She knew all the vendors by now, as well as the shop owners and publishers. She entered the shops at a leisurely pace, greeting the owners by name and perusing their new arrivals, not as a competitor, but as a reader. It was a glorious thing to walk down a street devoted to books, where lovers of literature could congregate and indulge in their passion with like-minded souls.
And though she now understood everyone’s insistence that Mr. Evans relocate his shop to Paternoster Row, she could not imagine Primrose Hill Books anywhere else than in its present location, tucked amid a row of townhouses on Hosier Lane.
Her mood was so fine that day, she even chanced a visit to Pritchard & Potts where she found Mr. Pritchard dangling a string before Tabby. The cat raked a paw through the air with fanatical determination, so set on his prize, he didn’t even turn at the sound of the bell. Mr. Pritchard, however, startled and dropped the string, which was immediately pounced upon by Tabby.
“Miss Basset.” Mr. Pritchard cleared his throat and gestured toward the cat now tangled in the length of string. “I was…ehm…trying to hone his reflexes to help him learn to catch mice.”
Grace smiled despite his perpetual inability to recall her name and seeing through his poorly crafted ruse. “I’m sure it’s quite helpful.”
Mr. Pritchard’s shiny gaze darted about his shop, and she realized he was no doubt seeing the chaos through her eyes. He tucked his head deeper into the bulk of his dark jacket and tutted. “I am impressed with what you’ve done with Mr. Evans’s shop.” He shoved his hands into his pockets, his thin lips pressing thinner still. “If you’ve any suggestions…”