Grace La Mottée considered herself very lucky to be the acting Chief Librarian of St. Helier Public Library, or as it was known to most, the “Bibliothèque Publique.” One of the oldest libraries in the British Isles, established in 1736, as she was very proud to tell anyone who would listen (and those that wouldn’t).
It was her very own book-lined palace of dreams. Perhaps in the current climate, palace was overstating it. These days everything was subject to rationing and even their book stock had been severely depleted by the Germans’ idea of what constituted an affront to the Third Reich.
Shortly after the invasion, they had received a directive from the Feldkommandantur informing them the library would soon be visited for a full evaluation of stock and that all banned books must be turned over. She and Ash had weeded out most of the verboten—forbidden—books, hiding them in a secure place, leaving some behind as collateral damage so the Germans hadn’t suspected.
They had come back of course, three months after the invasion and again last year, little gray men with rat-like faces, and stripped yet more. More authors uncongenial to the Nazi regime had vanished from the stacks. The expurgation didn’t end there. Montagu Burton’s, the Jewish tailors on the corner of King Street, had also received a visit. It didn’t sell suits any longer, but was now a German bookshop. Mein Kampf and Famine in England were advertised in the window display under swastikas. It was so offensive that each time Grace walked past, she instinctively turned the other cheek.
Grace flicked her duster over the stacks and sighed. Not that they were faring much better! Her poor bookshelves looked like a smile with missing teeth. Jack London, H. G. Wells, John Steinbeck, Sigmund Freud and Ernest Hemingway all gone. Anyone considered by the Germans to be a “dangerous, disruptive influence.”
“But you’re still here, my old friends,” she said, smiling as she ran her finger down the spine of Pride and Prejudice and the very last Agatha Christie which had been delivered to the island on the mail boat before the Germans arrived: Cards on the Table.
Agatha looked down at her knowingly. Eight hundred new books, the lifeblood of a library were delivered yearly, but no more. This last book from England had had more loans than any other over the past three years. When the war was over, Grace was tempted to write to Agatha Christie, to tell her how her books had escaped a Nazi cull. Unlike so many others.
Grace slid her finger into her skirt pocket and felt the cold nub of the steel key with her finger, checking it was still there. This key was the last thing Ash had handed her before the Nazis had shipped him to a German internment camp, along with most of the other English-born nationals, the previous September. He had pressed it into her hand with a request. Keep these books safe. And secret.
In a locked cupboard behind a bookshelf in the Reading Room were “the others.”
“One day, you’ll all be back together on the same shelf,” she remarked. “Until then, Mrs. Christie, enjoy your shelf space.”
She spotted Jane Austen, chiding her gently from the shelf above.
“Come on, Grace, pull yourself together,” she muttered. “All this self-pity is most self-indulgent.”
“Do you always talk to your books, Grace, my love?”
Grace jumped. Five minutes before closing on a Saturday afternoon and the library was usually empty.
“Mrs. Moisan. Lovely to see you. Not usually,” she lied. “How can I help?”
She pushed down a flutter of anxiety as she glanced at the clock over her desk. He’d be waiting for her.
“Oh, you’re soaked,” Grace said, noticing the water pooling round the country woman’s wooden sabot clogs. “Is it raining?”
“Never rain, only liquid sunshine.”
Mrs. Moisan was an eternal optimist and with good reason. Everyone knew Mr. Moisan was handy with his fists and now that he was away fighting in North Africa, she had been spared the annual confinement.
Grace had no idea how she did it. Mrs. Moisan had once confided in her that she’d had 19 pregnancies and 11 children had survived. She was as tough as old boots, but with the occupation, for Mrs. M at least, had come a curious liberation now she was no longer under the thumb and fist of her husband.
“How’s Dolly?”
Mrs. Moisan’s cheerful demeanor faltered at the mention of her youngest daughter.
“Not good is the truth of it, Grace, my love. That’s why I’m here. Thought a book might cheer her up.”
A diphtheria epidemic had been sweeping the island for weeks now.
“Mrs. Rishon came round today, gave her some of her potions, so I’m sure that’ll work.” Grace wasn’t convinced the country women’s old folklore herbal remedies of crushed-up snails would do much to help little Dolly, but in the absence of medicine, it would have to do.
“Well, I know just the thing,” Grace said, heading to the children’s section.
She pulled out Milly, Molly, Mandy. Six-year-old Dolly gobbled up books and Grace had a feeling that the adventures of another little girl in a pink-and-white-striped dress would be medicine in its own way.
“And what about something for you, Mrs. M?”
Mrs. Moisan had a fondness for novels that featured heroines who clung to the chest of a dashing scoundrel, before finally succumbing to his affections in a hayloft.
“Shorts and Merries” as some of the fustier members of the committee dubbed their stock of romances. They could never hope to understand what these books might mean to women like Mrs. Moisan. What might seem like sentimental trash to them was pure escapism from the grind for the island’s women.
“How about an Ethel M. Dell? Can I tempt you with Juice of the Pomegranate?”
“Ooh, I should say. That’ll help me escape…”
“If only for a chapter,” Grace finished, stamping Mrs. Moisan’s library card.
Mrs. M left a slice of stale cake and an egg on the library counter.
“Really, there’s no need,” Grace protested.
“Hush now,” the bluff country woman ordered, gripping her hand with surprising strength. “It’s only this place keeping us going, my love.”
She knocked four times on the library counter. Three soft, one brisk. The “V Knock.” Then she stomped from the library. Churchill’s “V for Victory” had become a rallying emblem for those unfortunate enough to be living under occupation, but lately islanders had turned it into something even more subversive and ephemeral. The sound seemed to quiver through the stacks, almost reducing Grace to tears. Women like Mrs. M were why she did this. Reading was the only true form of joy and solace, the only intellectual freedom they still possessed and they cherished it like life itself.
Grace glanced up at the clock. Oh Lord. Now she really was late.
Outside the library the rain had died off and the light was softening. The streets glistened as she worked hard to get her rusty old bone-shaker bicycle to turn on its hosepipe wheels.
The library was in the Royal Square, which contained the offices of the States of Jersey, the seat of legislation in the island. She stared back at the rain-slicked windows, imagined all those Nazis beavering away. It was an affront to all that the library stood for to have to work next door to such a snakepit.
Shivering, she bumped her way through St. Helier, past the scoured faces of the mothers queuing at the Central Market for the last specks, shabby and downtrodden in their patched-up coats. The air was a stew of smells. Horse shit, asphalt, salt and the stench of something darker—desperation.
It wasn’t until she had made her way toward the coast road that the knot in her tummy unwound and she finally felt she could breathe in the fresh scent of pine. At the top of Jubilee Hill she paused to take in the breathtaking view of the glittering blue-green sea and the tip of Corbière Lighthouse in the distance.
A cuckoo called from a nearby tree and she listened, entranced.
The patrol was on her before she even realized. “Halt!” ordered the German. “Papers, Fraulein.” The branches rustled as the cuckoo’s wings took flight.
She pulled out her identification card.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m the librarian. I’m delivering books.”
He stared at her for what felt like an eternity, as if he couldn’t quite believe the notion of anyone using up precious energy to deliver books.
He lifted his hand and Grace thought he was waving her on, but instead he pointed at her satchel. “Open it.”
Grace’s heart picked up speed.
“Open it?” she managed.
“That’s what I said. Are you dumb?” He turned to the other German and laughed as if he’d told the funniest joke imaginable.
Slowly, as if in a dream, she pulled open the satchel, and felt as exposed as if the German had peeled off all her clothes.
She closed her eyes as he thrust his hand into her bag. Her heart was banging so loudly she was surprised they couldn’t hear it.
The German guard shrank back, a look of disgust on his face.
“Was ist das?” His fingers were coated in something sticky. Grace recognized the eggshell and started to laugh, more out of hysteria.
“It’s my egg. It broke.”
The German looked at her as if she was simple, and tutting, waved her on, wiping his hands on a handkerchief in disgust.
Twenty minutes later Grace pulled up at Louisa Gould’s, the widow who ran Millais Stores, still trembling.
The door opened with a soft tinkle of the bell and when Louisa saw her, she turned the sign to CLOSED and pulled down the blackout blind.
“Bouônjour!”
“I don’t speak Jèrriais, Lou.”
“You should learn then. It might be an archaic language to you youngsters but it has its uses in wartime.”
Grace said nothing.
“What’s wrong?” the older woman asked.
“I nearly got caught.”
“What? Where?”
“A new checkpoint they’ve set up, about a mile from here.”
Louisa shrugged.
“What’s the worst that’ll happen?”
“The worst that will happen? I think you know where we could all end up.”
Louisa sighed and slid her arm around Grace. “It’s all right. Those krauts are too slow and stupid to catch a cold. They want to get home as much as we want them to leave. They know the war’s finished for them.” She waved her hand dismissively.
“Maybe the ones round here, but not the ones in town,” Grace replied. “Do you know how many people have been marched to see the Secret Field Police for questioning? They’re so paranoid, they even threw a schoolgirl in jail last week.”
“Relax. I can deal with it.”
Grace sensed movement from behind the door at the back of the store.
“That’s my nephew. He’s over from France, helping me out,” Louisa said unconvincingly.
“I have something for you.” She pulled out the Russian–English dictionary and slid it over the counter.
“Thank you, Grace. This will be very helpful with my… houseguest.”
Grace nodded. She had so many questions. How much longer would the escaped Russian slave everyone knew simply as “Bill” be staying? He had already been hiding in plain sight at the store, masquerading as Lou’s nephew for too many months. He should have been moved on to another safehouse by now. Louisa was taking unnecessary risks and in doing so, risking the lives of all those around her. Guilt sneaked in at the edges. Wasn’t Grace doing exactly the same thing?
“What can I do?” Louisa said. “He’s another mother’s son. I’ve already lost one of my boys in this war and the other is away fighting. He’s a comfort to me.”
At this there was nothing Grace could say. She wasn’t a mother, she couldn’t hope to understand. Mrs. Gould was, and a grieving one at that. Her son Edward, an anti-aircraft officer, had been killed in action in 1941, fighting with the Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve.
“Our island is being stained with the blood of innocent men and women, Grace. To turn the other cheek is to be complicit.”
“You’re right, Lou,” she sighed. “But now I must go.”
At the door Mrs. Gould called her back. “You’re a brave woman, Grace.”
Grace smiled weakly. She didn’t want to be a brave woman. She wanted simply to be a good librarian and live quietly. But then she thought of the hidden box of books in the library. The others, where that dictionary had come from. Grace knew that to be a good librarian in wartime, it was impossible not to face terrible choices in the quest for freedom.
Back at home, her family farmhouse slumbered in the creamy moonlight. In relief she pushed open the door. Something to eat then she would at last go and see him.
“Surprise,” Bea yelled. The room was filled with blazing light, and people and music.
“What are you doing here?”
“Aren’t you pleased to see me?” Bea asked, throwing her arms around Grace.
“Yes, of course but what about curfew, Bea? You’ll never get back in time.”
“Your mum said I can stay over tonight. We’ve something to celebrate.”
And then she was waving her fingers in Grace’s face. It took a moment for Grace’s clogged thoughts to register the ring.
“Hello, sis,” said her brother, Jimmy. “She’s promised to make an honest man of me.”
“We’re getting married, Grace,” Bea said. “Isn’t it wonderful news?”
Grace tried hard to assemble her thoughts into an appropriate reaction. It wasn’t that she wasn’t pleased for the two most important people in her life. They’d always knocked about, she, Bea and her big brother. Bea had always been the tomboy, daring her and Jimmy to launch homemade rafts, pinching cigarettes from the back of Mr. Staite’s delivery van. Somewhere along the way, Bea and Jimmy had become a couple. She may have lost the bashed-up shins and developed into a woman, but to Grace, Bea was still an impulsive 13-year-old on the lookout for trouble. Not a wife.
“I’m happy for you both, but what about your dreams of London? Art college?”
“I’m not a Nazi,” Jimmy laughed, lighting a roll-up. “Just because she’ll be my wife doesn’t mean I don’t want her to pursue her dreams.”
“Besides, we’ll make it to London, won’t we, Bea?” A secret look passed between them as he offered Bea his smoke. In that moment, her dark hair shimmering in the candlelight, her eyes shining, Bea looked as if she was lit from within.
She shot Grace a look that said, “Please be happy for me.” And how could Grace not be. This was the happiest she had seen her friend since her father’s death.
“Congratulations.” She hugged Bea tightly.
“You’ll still be my best friend first,” she said, whispering in Bea’s ear.
“Hey, let me in on this,” Jimmy said, throwing his arms around the pair of them. “You are happy for us, aren’t you, Racy Gracey?” he teased. Her irritating big brother felt there was some humor to be had in the nickname. Unfortunately he subscribed to the clumsy (mainly male) stereotype that underneath their cardigans, all librarians were seething with unrequited passion.
She punched him on the arm. “Librarian’s stamp.”
“Ouch!”
“Course I’m happy for you, but you do realize, Jimmy, that marriage entails growing up?” she laughed.
“Stop it, you two,” said her mother, bustling over. “My nerves aren’t up to this.”
Poor Mary La Mottée. She’d had a nervous constitution even before the war. Now every time Grace was even so much as five minutes late, she faced a firing squad.
“Sorry I’m late, Mum. I just dropped a book in to Lou Gould.”
“Stop your fretting, woman,” called their father teasingly from his easychair by the fire.
They joined their father as he filled their glasses with his homebrew apple brandy.
“To Bea and Jimmy. B’vons eune fais à la santé d’s engages. Let’s drink to the happy couple.”
His eyes rested on Jimmy and, for a fleeting moment, Grace felt sorry for her brother. She had always been free to a certain degree to pursue her own ambitions, but as the eldest son of their centuries-old Jersey farm, Jimmy’s life was already carved in stone. The trouble was, Bea was not a natural farmer’s wife. She had her own rhythm that didn’t tally with the seasons of farming. Pinning her down to that kind of life would be like nailing a butterfly to the wall.
Grace pushed aside her worries and drank to the happy couple. She choked on the amber liquid. “Good grief, Dad, that’s like carbolic. I think I’ll stick to water.”
“Tsk. Only horses drink water.”
“It’s the perfect heart-starter, Mr. La Mottée.” Bea winked, chucking it down in one without so much as a shudder.
“I knew there was a reason I liked you,” Mr. La Mottée laughed. “Welcome to the family.”
“To be honest with you, Mr. La Mottée, I’m pleased to be joining your family. My own aren’t exactly covering the Gold name in glory.”
“How so?” asked Mrs. La Mottée, ears pricking up at the thought of some juicy town gossip.
“Well, I found out today, my younger sister Nancy—”
“The one who works at Boots?”
“Yes, she’s got herself a new boyfriend. One of our uninvited guests. A Luftwaffe pilot, would you believe.”
Grace and Jimmy’s mother tutted. “Your poor mother.”
“I’m ashamed of her too to be honest with you, Mrs. La Mottée.”
“Go easy on her, Bea,” Grace cautioned. “She’s only seventeen. She’s lonely.”
“Lonely!” Bea scoffed. “She’s only doing it for silk stockings and extra rations.” She held her glass out for Grace’s father to refill. “The only extra ration she’ll get is bratwurst. He’ll have a hand up her jumper before you can say Heil Hitler.”
“Bea!” Grace scolded. She did love Bea, but there were times when her volubility went too far.
The rest of the evening passed in a blur of apple brandy, with Grace sneaking ever desperate glances at the clock every twenty minutes. He’d think she’d forgotten him! She was about to make her escape when a neighbor came in with an accordion and a tin of fruit from before the war. Another delay. Then as the clock struck 10 p.m. they got out the hidden wireless, heard the BBC news telling them the incredible news that Italy had surrendered unconditionally.
Jimmy swooped Bea off her feet. “It’s happening. The Allies are winning.”
Her mother clasped her tightly. “Oh, Grace,” she shuddered. “It can’t be long now, can it?”
From outside came the sound of shouts and heavy boots.
“Get rid of the wireless,” Jimmy hissed.
They all froze as Mr. La Mottée silently replaced it and smoothed down the rag rug.
Her mother peeked behind the blackout. “It’s a German patrol. We were making too much noise.”
The group fell into silence and the thundering of jackboots grew louder on the narrow country road.
“They’re chasing someone,” her mother hissed, quickly securing the blackout blinds.
“Probably a runaway from Lager Mölders camp,” her father said.
“Hush!”
They stood in silence as the heavy tread of boots thundered past the farmhouse door. She saw her brother’s hands curl into fists. “Bastards. Hope he gets away.”
Her mother raised her finger to her lips, then jumped as a terrific explosion sounded.
It was unmistakably a gunshot. The sound reverberated out over the dark fields and straight into Grace’s soul.
Mary made the sign of the cross over her heart. “Poor wretch. There’s another who’ll never make it home.” Tears shone in her eyes. “What diabolical world is this?”
There was no answer to that. After that, no one had the heart to continue the party. The neighbor packed up his accordion and went home.
“I’m going to turn in. I have to be at the library early tomorrow,” Grace said.
“Jimmy, give Bea your bed and make up a bed on the sofa,” their father ordered.
Grace and Bea went upstairs, the darkness lit by a flickering candle, the old sloping floorboards creaking under foot. They paused outside Grace’s room.
“Grace, are you all right?” Bea asked. “You’ve been watching that clock all evening.”
“I’m sorry, Bea. I’m so tired is all. This occupation is…”
She tailed off and thought of little sick Dolly and poor grieving Mrs. Gould. Of all the darkness and blood seeping over their beautiful island. And let’s be honest here, Grace… and him, waiting out there in the darkness. For you.
“I know,” Bea soothed, reaching out and gently touching her cheek with the palm of her hand. Grace felt the cold of her brother’s ring on her best friend’s finger.
“Is marriage what you really want, Bea?”
“Yes,” she replied.
“But why now?”
“Do you trust me, Grace?”
“Against my better judgment,” she joked feebly.
“Do you love me?”
She smiled. “Always.”
“And I love you too, Gracie.”
“You haven’t used that nickname in forever.”
“I’m feeling nostalgic I guess. I… I…”
“What is it, Bea?”
“Nothing. Night night. Don’t let the bed bugs bite.”
Grace shut the door and waited, heart thudding. That patrol was too close for comfort. She waited until she heard Bea shut the bedroom door before grabbing a book from her satchel and tiptoeing back down the stairs and out into the garden.
Her breath pooled like smoke as she walked silently through the wet grass. Shadows spread through the garden like blots of black ink bleeding over paper.
“Red,” she whispered, pulling open the door of the shed and peering into the gloom. “Are you there? Did you hear that shot?”
A deep American voice rumbled through the darkness. “I could hardly have missed it, Miss La Mottée.”
His smile lit up the musty old shed and Grace felt her tummy fold.
“I’m sorry I’m late. There was an unexpected celebration.”
“I thought you’d forgotten me. It’s lonelier than a Siberian salt mine in this shed.” Even in the darkness she could hear the hint of laughter in his voice. He lit a roll-up. The sudden halo of light from the match illuminated his face.
He was what Bea would describe as “a dish,” the sort of man who graced the covers of Mrs. Moisan’s favorite novels. Well-defined cheekbones and the whitest teeth Grace had ever seen gave him a look of rude health. But it wasn’t his overt physicality that struck Grace, but his confidence. His intense green eyes were trained on her and suddenly, Grace didn’t know where to put herself.
“I brought you a book,” she blurted. “Thought it might help while away the time.”
“Say, Huckleberry Finn,” he exclaimed. “This was my favorite growing up. How did you know?”
“Lucky guess.”
“No luck about it. Brains as well as beauty.”
Grace flushed.
“Well, I really ought…”
“Please don’t go,” he begged. “Stay a while.”
“Are you all right?” she asked, concern overriding her shyness.
“It’s the gunshot.” He rubbed the spine of the book. “Rattled me, I guess.”
“Of course, I wasn’t thinking. Sorry.”
First Lieutenant Daniel Patrick O’Sullivan, or “Red” as he insisted on her calling him, had been piloting his C-47 transport plane over Jersey when he’d been fired on by a German Flak battery. He’d crash-landed in the sea off Bouley Bay over a month ago and Grace had got the shock of her life when she’d come to the shed to find a trowel and found a shivering American instead. She’d been shocked, of course, but she’d done what any right-minded islander would. She’d fed him, given him sanctuary and alerted the Jersey Resistance. She hated keeping Red a secret from her family, but the less they knew, the safer it made them all. Her mother was jumpy at the best of times. Knowing she had a fugitive American in her potting shed might well tip her over the edge!
“You never did say what happened to the rest of your crew.”
He drew deeply on his smoke and shook his head.
“When the plane went down, six had life jackets, three didn’t. Those with the jackets swam to safety, I assume, please God. But those that didn’t…” He trailed off.
“I tried, Miss La Mottée, but the tide was so strong and we kept getting flung against the rocks. Their hands kept slipping from my grasp, until finally, I lost sight of them. Somehow I got lucky and made it to shore.”
He swallowed sharply.
“I just keep thinking of what I’m going to say to their mommas when I make it home. And I will make it home. I have to.” His jaw stiffened. “Let them know their sons died as heroes.”
Grace felt tears gather at the thought of the sea claiming those strong young men.
“You will, Red.” She bumped his shoulder with hers. “You have all the hallmarks of a survivor to me.”
“Oh, I nearly forgot.” She fished in her pocket and pulled out Mrs. Moisan’s piece of cake.
She grimaced. “Sorry, no bread and it’s a little squished, but I hope it fills a gap.”
“Thanks, Miss La Mottée. You’re an actual angel on earth, I swear.”
“Hush now,” she laughed. “And please, don’t you think it’s time you called me Grace?”
“Very well. Angel Grace.” He winked, his equilibrium restored. “This might sound strange, me a grown man and all, but would you read to me again? Your voice is very soothing.”
“Only if you answer two questions that have been nagging me.”
“Like I’m gonna say no to you.”
“What are you doing here, Daniel Patrick O’Sullivan from Boston?”
“Well, I’ve always had this odd thing for sheds.”
She batted him playfully on the arm.
“I’m serious. What are you really doing here, fighting our war?”
He laughed. “Oh, you’re going to like this, being a librarian and all. I was a faithful listener to Ed Murrow, the CBS correspondent who used to broadcast nightly from London during the Blitz.
“‘This is London,’ he always used to start. He did a report about a mobile library set up in London—Books for the Bombed they called it. I figured any country civilized enough to do that is worth fighting for, me being a bookworm and all.”
He glanced over at her.
“Not boring you, am I?”
“No, not at all. Please go on,” she urged.
“My mom turned to me. She didn’t need to say a word: I already knew I was going to enlist.”
Grace found herself mesmerized as he talked, describing experiences which seemed so far away from her tiny Channel Island.
“I came on the Queen Mary, loaned by your Churchill, sailed right outta Boston filled to the brim with doughboys. I walked up the gangplank fully laden, and I never looked back. Besides,” he shrugged, raking about in an old pouch for more tobacco, “your war is our war, as they say.”
“You really believe that?” she asked, curiously.
“Sure I do. I always wanted to travel. Visiting London’s been my dream since forever.” A shadow passed over his face. “It’s not the London I expected mind you.”
“How so?”
“You listen to reports on the radio, you read about it in Stars and Stripes, but nothing can prepare you for the devastation of the Blitz up close.”
He shook his head. “Pulverized houses, folk forced to sleep underground, beautiful old buildings wrapped up in sandbags and yet, here’s the thing, Grace—everybody just gets on with it.”
Red whistled under his breath.
“Boy, those folks are plenty tough too. Not just the men either. We were warned that if we saw a girl in khaki or air-force blue with a bit of ribbon on her tunic, she didn’t get it for knitting more socks than anyone else in Ipswich.”
“If ever one needed a reminder why we must fight fascism,” she murmured.
“It’s a beautiful city, perhaps even more so for showing its mettle.”
“I’ve never been,” she admitted, embarrassed. “I’d like to go someday.”
“Someday is a disease that will take your dreams to the grave with you, Grace.”
Now it was his turn to nudge her shoulder. “Maybe we could go together one day?”
“Perhaps.” She blushed. “So after all the excitement of London, you must be jibbed to find yourself in this damp old shed.”
He looked up from rolling his cigarette, his eyes dancing with satisfaction.
“From where I’m sitting this old shed is just about the prettiest darn place on earth.”
Grace rolled her eyes.
“What?” he grinned. “I’m not joking. You’re beautiful.”
She pretended to yawn and he burst out laughing. “Come on, give a fella a break.”
Grace lifted one eyebrow.
“What do you want me to say?” he grinned, holding up the cake. “You got a face like a piece of squashed cake?”
“Daft lummox.”
“What in the hell is a lummox?” he laughed.
“Second question,” she replied, ignoring his own. “Why Red?”
He ran his fingers over his air-force-regulation haircut.
“You wanna see the color of this hair in peacetime. I got seven brothers, all just the same. When the O’Sullivan brothers are out, boy, Boston lights up like a Belisha beacon.”
“You must miss them so much.”
“You have no idea.”
“And your mum?”
His face broke open into a wide smile and he whistled under his breath.
“Mavis O’Sullivan. Once met, never forgotten. Best summed up with three words. Loudmouth. Irish. Matriarch. Do you know the difference between a terrier and my mom?”
Grace shook her head.
“The terrier eventually lets go. I swear to God she’d strangle the German who shot us down with her bare hands.” Red winked. “Now, if I’ve survived the interrogation, how about we have that story now, my Angel Grace!”
“Your Angel Grace. Really?”
He grinned lazily. “What? You are to me.”
Grace smiled, picked up the classic children’s adventure book and began to read.
Moonlight spilled through the shed window and Red began to hum a Glenn Miller song she’d once heard played on the wireless. That tune she supposed was the difference between them. He’d visited the big London dancehalls, jitterbugged to Big Band Music and was living a life of action and adventure she had only read about.
She knew exactly what Ash would say. You’re waging your war with books, not bombs. Ash’s manifesto had always been clear. Before he had been taken, he had transformed the library from a mausoleum of dead and moribund books to a decent cultural asset for the community. A place for all. Surely that was also a battle worth fighting?
Two chapters in she placed the book down and stifled a yawn.
“I’d better turn in.”
Red picked up her hand and kissed it gently.
“What was that for?”
“To say thanks. I’ll be gone by tomorrow evening.”
“What? W-why?”
“I think you know the answer. I can’t abuse your kindness any longer. Every night I’m here I’m putting you and your family’s safety at risk. I know the penalty for harboring me.”
Grace fell silent.
“Those patrols are nightly now. It’s only a matter of time…”
“Where’ll you go?”
“I’ll take my chances. I’ve got the address of another safehouse on the island.”
She nodded. “Very well. In that case, go safely, Red. Godspeed.”
“What about the book?”
“Take it. I’ll write it off as a casualty of war.”
“Thank you, Angel Grace. I’ll never forget what you did for me.”
Grace blew out the candle she’d been reading by and almost immediately the inky darkness wrapped itself around them. An owl called nearby. Something rustled in the hedgerow.
In the sudden gloom she became more aware of the visceral presence of him. The wide sweep of his shoulders, the faint dimple on his chin. The autumn night was warm and still, lacing the ripe country air with an intoxicating fragrance. Lavender, roses and evening primrose still bloomed, bravely waiting for the first frost.
A part of her ached to stand on tiptoe. Find the warmth of his lips in the darkness. See what all the fuss was about. His mouth was just inches from hers. What would it take to close the gap between them, a touch, a sigh, a lingering look?
Instead?
“Good night,” she said as briskly as if she were stamping a library book.
Grace shut the shed door softly, unable to work out what was worse as she tiptoed through the wet grass. The tiredness or the crushing disappointment.