The bombings continued with such regularity that London no longer resembled her former glory. But even exhausted and war torn, she continued to shelter her people night after night, day after day. Lorries maneuvered around craters in the road, housewives queued for rationed food they made stretch into many meals and people brushed debris from their doorways in the morning when they collected their milk bottles. Life went on.
The weather had been horrendous with heavy fog, intermittent snow and ice, but little sun to be seen. The people of Britain had come to love that abhorrent weather and the reprieve it promised from bombers.
The Germans were so put out by the overcast skies, they’d come to do what was referred to as “tip and run,” in which they’d pass over the city, loose a few bombs without aiming and depart quickly. The damage from such haphazard attacks was often minimal and the loss of life far less than it had been in previous attacks.
Grace continued to write to Viv and George, though finding posts that were still functional to mail them could prove difficult. Oftentimes, a postman stood with a sign stating simply “Post Office Here” with a counter lit by a candle thrust in a bottle. Telegram boys had it even harder, running about in their smart uniforms with pasteboard slung on a string about their necks declaring they were accepting telegrams. Those wishing to send one would then use the boy’s back as a makeshift table to write out their messages.
Work with the ARP was no less taxing, but far less frightening. One could only see so many planes or be near so many bombs before the trigger of fear stopped firing. When air raids went off now, Grace and Mr. Stokes took their time, not bothering to rush until the drone of planes could be made out, or the cracking ack-ack gun informed them the Germans were near.
April offered a new month to begin planting. This time, Mrs. Weatherford expertly labeled the garden before she began planting. Tabby had certainly found a close companion in Mrs. Weatherford as the two were nearly inseparable. So it was no wonder that when the older woman went out to the garden to plant, along came Tabby trotting after her, batting about at bits of dirt. “Don’t worry, Grace,” Mrs. Weatherford said after the seeds had all been sown into the rich soil. “I didn’t bother to plant any lettuce.”
In the days that followed, as shoots began to push up from the earth and the weather turned mild despite the rain, the bookshop continued to thrive with new customers. However, it was around then that Grace noticed Mr. Evans had begun to seem rather unwell. It started with a small box he brought from the back room. He staggered under the scant weight, huffing and puffing for breath by the time he arrived at the front counter. Grace had asked after him, but he’d waved her off.
Several days later, she found him in the small back room with his hand to his chest, his face flushed a purple-red. She’d insisted he go to the doctor, which of course he did not, the stubborn man.
Just after the first week of April, on a chilly morning that left frost dusted over the slate roofs like sifted flour, Grace found Mr. Evans leaning heavily over the counter upon her arrival.
“Mr. Evans?”
He didn’t look up. Instead, he issued a tight groan and flexed his left hand.
Grace pushed the door open to scream for help from passersby on the street, dropped her handbag and ran around the counter as she shrugged off her jacket. Her body went through the motions that had been trained into her as a warden, even as her mind reeled that this time she was helping Mr. Evans.
She eased him back to the floor, bracing herself against his weight. “Try to remain calm and breathe evenly.” She spoke in the soothing voice she used when working with bombing victims. Only this time there was a tremble there, a break in her composure.
Mr. Evans flailed and gasped as though he could not find air, his face set in a hard grimace of pain. This man who had always been so strong, so unflappable. To see him in such a state, feeble and unable to breathe, it was too much. A tidal wave of emotion that threatened to drown her if she let her head go beneath the surface.
A sheen of sweat glistened on his brow and his face was unnaturally white, his lips a pale blue. Whatever was wrong with Mr. Evans was happening inside his body, something that required a physician. The aid she was used to offering was for a visible trauma she could address.
Powerlessness clawed at her with a frantic desperation. All the reassurances in the world wouldn’t help him.
His hand caught hers, ice cold and damp with sweat. “Alice,” he ground out.
“You’ll be fine,” Grace said firmly.