Inspired by the true World War II history of the only bookshop to survive the Blitz, a sweeping story of wartime loss, romance, and the enduring power of literature, perfect for fans of The Paris Wife and The Lilac Girls
London, autumn 1940: the Blitz has only
just begun when Grace Bennett arrives in London to find the city she’s spent a
lifetime dreaming about now cast in the clouds of war, and all of her plans
unraveling at the seams. After accepting a job at a charming bookshop nestled
in the heart of the city, a haven for literary-minded locals, she feels like a
fish out of water – she’s never been much of a reader, after all.
As the bombs rain down on the city night
after night, a devastating air raid leaves London’s literary center in ruins,
and the libraries and shops of Paternoster Row are destroyed in a firestorm.
But against all odds, one bookshop miraculously survives. Through blackouts and
air raids, Grace continues staffing the shop, discovering a newfound comfort in
the power of words and storytelling to unite her community in ways she never
imagined, a power that triumphs even the darkest nights of war-torn London.
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GRACE BENNETT HAD ALWAYS DREAMED OF
SOMEDAY living in London. Never did she imagine it would become her only
option, especially not on the eve of war.
The train pulled to a stop within Farringdon Station, its
name clearly marked on the wall inside a strip of blue set within a red circle.
People hovered on the platform, as eager to get on as those within were to get
off. They wore smartly cut clothing in the chic styles of city life. Far more
sophisticated than in Drayton, Norfolk.
Equal parts nerves and eagerness vibrated about inside
Grace. “We’ve arrived.” She looked at Viv beside her.
Her friend clicked the top on her lipstick tube closed
and gave a freshly applied vermillion smile. Viv glanced out the window, her
gaze skimming the checkerboard of advertisements lining the curved wall.
“After so many years of wishing we could be in London.” Her hand caught
Grace’s in a quick squeeze. “Here we are.”
Back when they were mere girls, Viv had first mentioned
the notion of moving away from dull Drayton for a far more exciting life in the
city. It had been a wild concept then, to leave their slow-moving, familiar
existence in the country for the bustling, fast-paced pulse of London. Never
had Grace considered it might someday become a necessity.
But then, there was nothing left in Drayton for Grace anymore.
At least nothing she cared to return to.
The ladies rose from their plush seats and took hold of
their luggage. Each had only one case with them, faded things, beaten down more
by age than use. Both were stuffed to the point of near-bursting and were not
only impossibly heavy, but awkward to manage around the gas mask boxes slung
over their shoulders. The ghastly things had to be brought with them
everywhere, per the government, to ensure they’d be protected in the event of
a gas attack.
Lucky for them, Britton Street was only a two-minute walk
away, or so Mrs. Weatherford had said.
Her mother’s childhood friend had a room to let, one
she’d offered a year ago when Grace’s mother first passed. The terms had been
generous—two months for free while Grace acquired a job and even then, the rent
would be discounted thereafter. Despite Grace’s longing to go to London, and
despite Viv’s enthusiastic encouragement, Grace had remained in Drayton for
nearly a year after in an attempt to pick up the pieces of her broken
existence.
That was before she learned the house she’d lived in
since her birth truly belonged to her uncle. Before he moved in with his
overbearing wife and five children. Before life as she knew it shattered even
further apart.
There was no room for Grace in her own home, a point her
aunt had been eager to note often. What had once been a place of comfort and
love became a place Grace felt unwelcome. When her aunt finally had the
temerity to tell Grace to leave, she knew she had no other options.
Writing the letter to Mrs. Weatherford the previous month
to see if the opportunity still held was one of the hardest things Grace had
ever done. It had been a surrender to the challenges she faced, a terrible,
soul-crushing failure. A capitulation that had rendered her the greatest
failure.
Grace had never possessed much courage. Even now, she
wondered if she would have managed her way to London had Viv not insisted they
go together.
Trepidation knotted through her as they waited for the
train’s gleaming metal doors to part and unveil a whole new world.
“Everything will be brilliant,” Viv whispered under her
breath. “It will all be so much better, Grace. I promise.”
The air-powered doors of the electric train hissed open
and they stepped onto the platform amid the push and pull of people coming and
going all at once. Then the doors shushed closed behind them, and the gust of
the train’s departure tugged at their skirts and hair.
An advert for Chesterfields on the far wall displayed a
handsome lifeguard smoking a cigarette while another poster beside it called on
the men of London to join the service.
It wasn’t only a reminder of a war their country might
soon face, but how living in the city presented a greater element of danger.
If Hitler meant to take Britain, he would likely set his sights on London.
“Oh, Grace, look!” Viv exclaimed.
Grace turned from the poster toward the metal stairs, which
glided upward on an unseen belt, disappearing somewhere above the arched
ceiling. Into the city of their dreams.
The advert was quickly forgotten as she and Viv rushed
toward the escalator and tried to tamp down their delight as it effortlessly
carried them up, up, up.
Viv’s shoulders squeezed upward with barely restrained
happiness. “Didn’t I tell you this would be amazing?”
The enormity of it hit Grace all at once. After years of
dreaming and planning, here they were in London.
Away from Grace’s bully of an uncle, out from under the
thumb of Viv’s strict parents.
Despite all of Grace’s troubles, she and Viv swept out of
the station like caged songbirds ready to finally spread their wings.
Buildings rose into the sky all around, making Grace
block the sun with the palm of her hand to see their tops. Several nearby shops
greeted them with brightly painted signs touting sandwiches, hairdressers and a
chemist. On the streets, lorries rattled by and a double-decker bus rumbled in
the opposite direction, its painted side as red and glossy as Viv’s nails.
It was all Grace could do to keep from grasping her
friend’s arm and squealing for her to look. Viv was taking it in too, with
wide, sparkling eyes. She appeared as much an awed country girl as Grace,
albeit in a fashionable dress with her perfectly styled auburn curls.
Grace was not as chic. Though she’d worn her best dress
for the occasion, its hem fell just past her knees, and the waist nipped in
with a slim black belt that matched her low heels. While not as stylish as
Viv’s black-and-white polka-dot dress, the pale blue cotton set off Grace’s
gray eyes and complemented her fair hair.
Viv had sewn it for her, of course. But then, Viv had always
seen to both of them with an eye set toward grander aspirations. Throughout
their friendship, they had spent hours sewing dresses and rolling their hair,
years of reading Woman and Woman’s Life on fashion and etiquette and then making
countless corrections to ensure they “lost the Drayton” from their speech.
Now, Viv looked like she could grace one of those magazine
covers with her high cheekbones and long-lashed brown eyes.
They joined the flurry of people rushing to and fro, heaving
the bulk of their suitcases from one hand to the other as Grace led the way
toward Britton Street. Thankfully, the directions Mrs. Weatherford had sent in
their last correspondence had been detailed and easy to follow.
What had been missing from the account, however, were all
the signs of war.
More advertisements, some calling for men to do their
part, with others prompting people to disregard Hitler and his threats and
still book their summer holidays. Just across the street, a wall of sandbags
framed a doorway with a black-and-white sign proclaiming it to be a Public Air
Raid Shelter.
Excerpted from The Last Bookshop in London @ 2021 by
Madeline Martin, used with permission by Hanover Square Press.
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