The two of them worked through the morning and well into the afternoon. The damage to most of the books was not as bad as expected, and though the roof was not fully intact, the flat was, which provided shelter enough for the bookshop. For now.
It was a fortunate thing indeed she had been so slow to clear out Mr. Evans’s flat and was still living with Mrs. Weatherford.
Grace and Mr. Stokes swept up the glass and gathered the unsalvageable shelves to set outside for collection, pausing only to have a spot of tea and some fish and chips Mr. Stokes had procured.
The snatches of sleep Grace managed the previous night, however brief they might have been, provided enough energy to get her through the task. Her shirtdress was covered in a layer of dust and soot, and her hands were gritty with filth.
As they cleared the last of the wreckage from the shop floor, Grace looked to the pile of books. It was a haphazard stack, with some spines facing outward and some turned in or on their side. It wasn’t sorted by bookseller, let alone category, and would be a hefty undertaking to put to rights once more. But then, so too would the shop.
It would be like starting from her first day at Mr. Evans’s shop. Except he wasn’t there and the whole world had so drastically changed.
Emotion bubbled up in Grace, confusing and overwhelming, leaving her uncertain if she wanted to laugh or cry. In truth, she was nearly compelled to do both at once.
“We’ve been able to save a good bit,” Mr. Stokes said encouragingly.
“What’s happened?”
Grace turned at the familiar voice to find Mrs. Kittering. A glance at Grace’s watch confirmed that it was nearly time for the afternoon reading. Which meant Mrs. Kittering would not be the only customer to show. In the next several minutes, doubtless there would be dozens more.
She rushed forward to Grace, her large, soft brown eyes going wide as she took in everything. “I’m so sorry to see this. After everything you’ve done, after everything you’ve made of this shop.”
The woman’s sympathy lodged deep in Grace’s chest, echoing the hurt already radiating inside.
“I’ll sort it out,” Grace replied with as much courage as she could muster. Admittedly, it wasn’t much.
But she was British. What’s more, she was a Londoner, baptized as such by the firestorm of war, by bombings and incendiaries.
Behind Mrs. Kittering, several more people had begun to enter the shop, gazing in awestruck bewilderment as they beheld the damage.
Mr. Stokes squeezed Grace’s shoulder.
“Thank you for your help, Mr. Stokes.” She smiled gratefully at him.
“I can stay longer if you like.” Despite the generosity of his offer, exhaustion darkened the undersides of his eyes. Still he hesitated to leave.
“Go on home, Mr. Stokes, I’ll take it from here.” Mrs. Weatherford’s soft voice chimed into the conversation.
He gave her a resigned smile. Even he knew better than to argue with her. With a final salute, he left the shop, no doubt to fall into a deep, dreamless sleep.
“Grace, dearest.” Mrs. Weatherford took her arm.
The support she offered was kind, but it was too much when Grace was so fragile. It would be too easy to fall into the comfort of Mrs. Weatherford’s maternal embrace and shatter.
Instead she offered a grateful smile and shook her head.
Every now and again, Mrs. Weatherford backed down when she knew it was best to do so. Fortunately, this was one of those moments. She lowered her head in acknowledgment and returned to the step where Jimmy and Sarah waited for her with wide, questioning eyes.
Grace went through her large handbag with the gas mask tucked inside, and withdrew the book she’d been reading aloud, Jane Eyre.
“Miss Bennett, you don’t need to do that,” Mrs. Kittering said. “Not today.”
But her protest only steeled Grace’s spine more, as her mother had always encouraged. “Of all days, I think we need this now more than ever.”
Or at least Grace certainly did. As a reminder of what she might hopefully rebuild again.
Someday.
Somehow.
She made her way to the second step of the stairs, which hadn’t yet been brushed off, and swiped at it to clear the debris. A handkerchief appeared in front of her from Mrs. Smithwick. Grace smiled her thanks.
The stair was near enough to the window that she could make out the type on the page well enough to read without the aid of her torch. She sat down and looked at the faces of those gathering around her with uncertainty. It was then she realized she ought to say something.