Winter came to the island gently as a rule. Not in 1943. As if jumping to a German decree, it came on a stiff northerly, a mad hooting wind that rattled shutters and froze islanders to their core.
By Christmas Eve the town was crowded with shoppers trying to put on a brave face while battling their fourth Christmas under occupation. Grace thanked God she wasn’t a mother as she watched women scour the shops in vain for anything to fill Christmas stockings and put in the pot.
“Hello, Grace love, what can I do you for?” asked Molly.
Grace surveyed the sorry collection on her barrow. There was nothing on offer but a few tired looking chrysanthemums.
“Let’s have a bunch of those please, Molly. Did you enjoy Gone with the Wind?”
“Ooh, I should say, it was right in my lane. Do you know, when I’ve got my nose in a good book I can almost forget I haven’t seen my husband in over three years.” She put her hands on her hip, a sure sign she was in for a good jaw. “Do you know, the characters felt so real I thought they might leap off the page and start walking round my house!”
She screeched with laughter.
“Always a sign a book’s got under your skin,” Grace chuckled.
“The laugh of it is, Grace, I never read so much as a bleedin’ word before this war. My George didn’t like it, but now I can’t get my nose out of a book. You must think me ever so peculiar.”
“Not at all, Molly. You’d be amazed how many of my most enthusiastic patrons never set foot in the library before the war, and now are avid bookworms.”
“Stands to reason, I s’pose. Not much else to do in the blackout hours.”
“True. Let’s just hope you all keep it up when peace returns.”
“Did you hear Jerry’s extended curfew? We’re allowed out until 1 a.m. New Year’s Eve. How about that?” Molly’s voice was bright as she wrapped up the flowers.
“Not that I’ll be up to much. So bleedin’ cold with no coal I had to resort to wearing my nan’s knickers last night. Just as well Rhett Butler ain’t in my bedroom,” she hooted. “This’ll be our last occupation Christmas, you mark my words.” She lowered her voice. “The tide is turning.”
“Let’s hope so, Molly.”
“Well, I hope whoever receives these enjoys them,” Molly remarked, handing her the flowers.
“Actually, I’m going to lay them on the beach for Jimmy. It’ll be our first Christmas without him.” Her voice cracked and to Grace’s mortification she realized her eyes were wet.
“Oh, my love, I’m sorry. Here, on the house.” She pressed the bright blooms into Grace’s hand. She stumbled away, murmuring her thanks. It was only when she glanced down did she notice that Molly had arranged the newspaper the flowers were wrapped in into the shape of a V for victory.
Grace had hoped to get away from the market, but librarians are like teachers, known by all. The hand was light on her shoulder.
“Dr. McKinstry.”
Dr. Noel McKinstry, Jersey’s Medical Officer of Health, had a strong Irish accent and a quick wit. A veteran of the Royal Navy, he was held in high regard by islanders for his heroic care and resourcefulness.
After the invasion he had sourced crutches and bandages. Goodness knows how but he’d arranged free inoculation for children for outbreaks of diphtheria after obtaining vaccines from France.
Rumor had it he passed intelligence to the British through transmitters hidden in the basement of an isolation hospital at Les Vaux. But it was only rumor, Grace reminded herself. This occupation made the truth as slippery as kisses in the rain.
“Grace, my dear, season’s greetings. I was waiting for Molly to finish warming your ear.” He steered her to a quiet side street. “Albert’s houseguest has asked me to pass on her gratitude for the books you were able to loan her.”
“I can drop round more books if you think she’d like it.”
“It won’t leave you in a fix? She doesn’t have a library card at present.”
Grace shook her head. “The authorities don’t check my list of patrons, but should they, I’ll just tell them that library books regularly go missing.”
“I wish everyone had your conscience and humanity.”
“It’s nothing,” she said, looking down at the pathetic bunch of flowers.
The doctor looked exhausted, scrubbing his face with his hands.
“Tough night?” she asked and he nodded.
“This diphtheria and TB outbreak is out of control. We lost another child last night.”
“Oh no. Anyone I know?”
“Little Dolly Moisan up at St. Peter’s.”
Grace gasped and her hand flew to her mouth. “She was one of my regular patrons.”
“Oh, Grace, I’m sorry to break that news.”
“Her mother must be devastated.”
“There were no words I could offer to comfort her,” the doctor agreed. “We just don’t have the medicine. It’s a travesty. In peacetime I could have cured her.”
They stood alone, Grace’s thoughts cartwheeling.
“I wish I could help more,” she blurted.
He smiled wearily. “But you are, my dear. Books are medicine.”
“Here,” she said, thrusting the flowers at him in impulse. “Would you pass these on to Mr. Bedane’s houseguest? I dare say she’d rather have food, fresh air, or better yet, freedom, but in the absence of any of those, perhaps these will cheer her.”
Dr. McKinstry gazed at her, his face doughy with exhaustion.
“You’re a good woman, Grace. If ever I can help you, you know where to find me.”
Grace headed back to the library, the doctor’s words spiraling through her mind.
To her surprise, Bea was sitting on the library steps blowing perfect smoke rings up to the sky.
“The library closed? I thought hell would freeze over before that happened!”
“Ha. I gave my assistant the day off and I just nipped out on an errand,” Grace replied. “Besides, you can talk. Sitting here won’t get the Christmas post delivered.”
Bea leapt to her feet and hugged her tightly. Her best friend smelled of ersatz tobacco and the peculiar smell of the postal room.
“What’s that for?” Grace laughed, untangling herself and unlocking the library.
“Have I ever told you how much I love you, Grace La Mottée?”
Grace arched one eyebrow.
“Come on in and tell me what it is you’re after.”
Grace lifted the library counter and started sorting through the books for her delivery round.
“Grace, I know you’re on your rounds this afternoon. Will you be anywhere near Trinity?”
“Yes, it’s on my round.”
Bea breathed out. “Oh thank goodness.”
She lifted the library counter and joined Grace on the other side.
“Whatever’s wrong?”
“Will you please pass on a message to Mrs. Noble at Trinity Hill?”
“As it happens, I’m delivering her a copy of A Christmas Carol so she can read it to her grandson. I’m not sure if you heard, but her daughter’s been jailed and she’s been left to look after the grandson and run the farm.”
“I know and trust me, if you don’t deliver this message, her life’s about to get a whole lot worse.”
“What’s wrong?”
Bea pulled out a letter from her postal bag and slid it over the counter.
It was an envelope addressed to The Gestapo. Silvertide. Havre des Pas.
“Bea,” Grace said warily, “why isn’t this envelope date-stamped? You are going to deliver it, aren’t you?”
“I will, in good time, but first read it,” Bea urged.
Grace’s hands shook as she slid open the envelope.
Mrs. Noble has a pig in the soot house in her garden and a wireless under her floorboards. Search and you’ll see! Why should she get away with it???
“Isn’t it disgusting,” Bea exploded. “What kind of depraved person denounces their neighbor for this?”
“Keep your voice down,” Grace hissed, glancing about. Fortunately no one had followed them into the library.
“Sorry, but really, Grace. Can you believe it?”
Grace’s thoughts were in freefall as she stuffed the letter back in the envelope and thrust it back at Bea as if it were a hand grenade.
“Bea, how long have you been doing this?” she asked quietly.
“This is the first one.”
“I can tell when you’re lying.”
“Very well, two, maybe three now. But I don’t regret it.” She rested her chapped hands on the counter top. “If I don’t warn these people, what do you think would happen if they’re discovered?”
“I know that, but it’s so dangerous. Need I remind you, you were fined twenty Reichsmarks last week for insulting a member of the Feldpolizei and your own sister?”
“Don’t talk to me about that Jerrybag cow. Least she’s been sacked from Boots now. And as for the bloody Nazi, how will he ever find out? He’s a dimwit in an alpine hat.” She picked at a loose flap of skin by her thumb.
“I think you’re underestimating him, Bea.” Hadn’t she said exactly the same to Red? It struck her then how alike he and Bea were.
“No, trust me, that man’s so slow it’s hard to believe he beat 100,000 other sperm.”
Bea grinned at her own joke.
“Look. In two days’ time this letter will arrive on his desk, and he’ll dispatch his henchmen to Mrs. Noble. If you let her know in advance, then they won’t find anything to pin on her.”
Grace shook her head.
“Please, Grace. I’d do it myself, you know I would, but it’ll take me an age to get up there and my boss is already watching me like a hawk.”
Grace stared round her calm and ordered library. All the spines of the books were lined up like a jury, all those authors looking down at her, wondering which direction her story would take. Agatha Christie seemed to be urging her into danger. Jane Austen looked down, coolly advising caution. Grace had the queerest feeling that the rest of her life would unravel from the choice she made at this precise moment.
“But I’m a librarian,” she said lamely.
“Exactly. Who’ll suspect you? You know, it’s perfect the more I think about it. This letter’s not been signed. In fact, the majority of them aren’t. Spineless cowards.”
“The majority?” she spluttered. “I thought you said it was three.”
“Never mind that. You’ve worked in the library for years,” Bea persisted, her eyes feverish with excitement. “You’ve looked at the handwriting of everyone who has ever filled in a library card. You can compare it against their handwriting. Together we can work out who these denouncers are.”
“But then I’ll be like a Nazi myself,” Grace protested, “deciding who has to be punished, judging my patrons. It’s one thing to warn others. That is quite another thing.”
“But it’s wrong, Grace. Why do they get away with it while my father and Jimmy are dead?”
Grace shook her head in disbelief, stunned at the direction the afternoon was taking.
“Let me put it to you in a language you’ll understand,” Bea pleaded. “Throughout history, the post office and the library have been intertwined.”
Grace raised an eyebrow. “How so?”
“A Jersey postal surveyor came up with the idea for trialing the first postbox in the British Isles in 1854, did he not?” Bea said.
“So?”
“So that man was Anthony Trollope, who later became a famous novelist.”
“I’m aware of that. We stock him in the library. What’s your point?”
“My point is that letters and literature depend on one another. We are both tasked with getting knowledge into people’s hands, keeping the written word flowing.”
Grace’s brain was aching.
“You’d happily loan Mrs. Noble a book, so why not deliver a warning? You yourself told me your job is to dispense trustworthy information.”
Grace rubbed the library counter as she thought.
“Think of that poor boy, Grace! First his mother and then his grandmother in a Nazi prison because of a poison-pen letter!” Bea urged.
“Oh, very well. I’ll let Mrs. Noble know, but I draw the line at rooting out denouncers.”
Bea flung her arms around Grace.
“You’re a wonderful woman, Grace La Mottée. You could be saving that woman’s life.” Her eyes shone in triumph. “I better get back to my round.” She slung her postal bag over her shoulder and headed for the door. “History will judge us by our actions today.”
The door banged shut behind her and Grace felt like her legs might go from under her.
“Yes and what on earth will they say?” she whispered.
Her head was spinning at the speed with which Bea had somehow drawn her into this web of subterfuge. She didn’t buy that the Wolf was a nincompoop.
How could Bea be so reckless as to open the German authorities’ mail? But in truth, she knew how, because this was who Bea was. That swagger which in peacetime might have found an outlet in mischief, had, in wartime, given her a cause. Bea could no sooner turn her back on injustice than not draw breath.
“What’s a poison-pen letter? Is it a new German invention?”
Grace jumped and clutched her chest. The voice belonged to Peter Topsy, a local lad.
He peeked behind the science stacks, his wide blue eyes unblinking.
“P-Peter, what are you doing here?” she gibbered. “I thought the library was empty. Did you sleep in the Reading Room again last night?”
She grabbed his arm and fought the urge to shake him. “You can’t, you mustn’t keep sneaking in here to sleep.”
Almost immediately his hands started to flutter compulsively by his side. “Sorry, Miss La Mottée. Sorry… sorry.”
Grace tried to take a long steadying breath.
“I’m sorry. I’m not cross with you. You startled me is all. How long have you been listening?”
“Wehrmacht strength believed to now be at 11,000, 12,000 cubic tons of concrete fortification, 300 pound shells with a maze of wires and a…” He started up his usual forensic listing of German fortifications and weaponry in his strange monosyllabic voice.
“Please, Peter. You must stop. You must stop spying on the Germans.”
She crouched down and tried to meet his gaze. “I know you find it interesting but they will not like it. They’ll put you in prison if they discover it.” He said nothing, just stared into the middle distance, his hands doing their strange rhythmic dance.
Peter was widely regarded as a being a halfwit, but Grace knew he was a long way from that. In her opinion, he was bordering on genius. Peter had gifts she couldn’t even fathom. He could look at a fortified beach or a street scene and half an hour later recreate it in a pencil drawing down to the minutest detail. His intricate drawings of the library stacks were so lifelike they could be photographs. Unfortunately, he lacked any social skills, which meant that most on the island saw him a simpleton, including his own mother.
Grace wasn’t sure of his real age. She guessed he was around 13 or 14 and had been coming to the library since he could walk. It was, Grace had long ago realized in sadness, the only place where he found acceptance and safety from the bullies. Lately, though, since his mother had taken up with a German, he had started hiding under tables in the Reading Room and sleeping there overnight.
“Tell you what. I have to go on my rounds, but once I’ve closed up, if you like you could stay here for a few hours and do some repairs on some books we’ve had donated.” One of Peter’s other gifts so it transpired was his meticulous ability to repair old and damaged books, carefully stitching the spines, removing stains and breathing new life into them.
He nodded.
“Good. Yes, that’s good.” She breathed out to steady her heart rate. He hadn’t heard anything and even if he had, she doubted anyone would listen to anything he had to say.
“You stay here then.” Where you’re safe, away from prying eyes. Away from people who will judge you.
Grace pedaled out of the Royal Square, her satchel laden with her books. Buried at the bottom, hidden under newspaper, were the verboten ones. An Ernest Hemingway, Aldous Huxley and Walt Whitman. Precious forbidden cargo. She delivered a copy of The Secret Garden to Albert Bedane’s Jewish “houseguest” before swinging west and past People’s Park.
Finally, exhausted, she knocked on the farmhouse door of Mrs. Noble. She came round the side, carrying a plate and cup.
She jumped, startled.
“Grace, my love, you gave me a fright.” She stared down at the plate. “I was just… um… Do you want a cup of tea?”
“Why not,” Grace replied, puzzled at her behavior.
Grace ducked her head under the low door of the whitewashed cottage and followed her up a low-beamed corridor and into a smoky kitchen. Her grandson Tommy was making paper chains out of old copies of the Evening Post at the scrubbed kitchen table.
Mrs. Noble poured them both two mugs of carrot tea from an old chipped pot before sitting down with a groan.
“By crie, this Christmas’ll be a strange one,” she sighed, blowing the steam of her mug. “But at least we will have A Christmas Carol to read to while away the hours. You did bring it, didn’t you?”
“Oh yes,” Grace assured her.
“Smashing. I’ll fetch my library card once I’ve drunk this.” She stroked the book like it were a cat, a nostalgic smile crinkling her face. “My Enid used to love me reading this to her at Christmas. It’s a family tradition now. It’s a bloody crying shame she’s not here this year to read it to her own son.” The elderly woman broke off and made a heroic effort to compose herself.
“I’m sorry. Only we miss her so much, don’t we, Tommy?”
“Nothing to apologize for, Mrs. Noble. I heard she ran into some trouble.”
She laughed caustically. “You could say that. Chucked a bucket of horse shit over some German troops as they marched past the farm, the little minx. She’s a hot head that one.”
“She’ll be home in three months, will she?” Grace asked, sipping her tea.
“I wish,” she snorted. “She got three months at the original trial. We couldn’t believe it, so appealed against the sentence and would you believe it, it’s been doubled. She won’t be home until June.”
Grace’s mouth dropped open. “That’s—”
“Vindictive, I know. Jerry’s getting worse, more paranoid.” Mrs. Noble drummed a fist on the tabletop. “It’s because they’re losing and they know it.”
Grace hated herself for the chaos she was about to unleash.
“Tommy,” Grace said, “why don’t you go and play outside for a bit? I need to talk to your grandmother.”
Mrs. Noble raised an eyebrow. “What’s wrong? Is it because I dropped the last book back late? I’ll pay the fine, only…”
“No,” Grace interrupted. “It’s not that, I wouldn’t dream of fining you.”
She waited until the boy was well out of earshot.
“Someone’s denounced you, Mrs. Noble. The day after tomorrow, you’ll have a visit from the Secret Field Police.”
Mrs. Noble’s face emptied of color. “Wh-what? How can you possibly know that, Grace?”
Grace closed her eyes. “I wish I could tell you, but I can’t, but please trust me. If you have a pig in your soot house, or a wireless under your floorboards, then you must get rid of them immediately. You have twenty-four hours to make yourself purer than the driven snow.”
Mrs. Noble rose sharply to her feet, the chair skidding from under her and crashing to the floor.
“Sweet Jesus!”
“Calm down, you’ve a small window of time, but you must be thorough and pack away all your valuables and breakables; from what I’ve heard they leave no stone unturned.”
Mrs. Noble nodded, regaining her composure.
“The thing is, Grace, it’s not that straightforward.”
“Can’t you slaughter the pig and hide it?”
“I do have something in my soot house, but it’s not a pig.”
She walked outside and a minute or so later the kitchen door opened and a blast of cold air breezed in.
“We gotta stop meeting like this.”
“Red!”
He smiled at her, all twinkling green eyes and easy swagger.
“Angel Grace! Boy, are you a sight for sore eyes. Sure as hell beats sitting in a soot house at Christmas. No offense, Mrs. N.”
“You two know each other?” she exclaimed, looking from one to the other.
“It’s a long story,” Grace replied.
“So what are we to do with the lad?” Mrs. Noble exclaimed. “If they’re as thorough as you say they are, he can’t be here. I only agreed to have him here until New Year’s Day.”
Grace racked her brains. She could cycle back into town and track down Dr. McKinstry and get him to locate another hiding place, but that was precious time they could ill afford. The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them.
“You could come back into town with me and hide at the library? It’s closed until New Year’s Eve. It’s a huge risk you going into town, though.”
“From where I’m standing, I don’t have a whole bunch of other options. I’ll go fetch my things.”
“Well, you’re a dark horse,” said Mrs. Noble, when he left.
“I could say the same about you,” Grace retorted.
“Good to know there are some decent people on this island,” Mrs. Noble replied, her face darkening. “And to think, I must know my denouncer, and they know my daughter’s in jail.”
She reached for Tommy when he walked back into the kitchen.
“Those Boche bastards might have robbed my grandson of his mother, but they sure as hell won’t steal his nan. Thank you, Grace.” She shook her head. “And here’s me thinking you were just a librarian.”
Red returned, hugged Mrs. Noble and then little Tommy.
“No such thing as just a librarian, heh, Grace?” He looked at her over Tommy’s head and smiled in a way that seemed to reach a part of Grace’s heart that had been sealed off since her brother’s death.
“Thank you, Mrs. N. You’re a wonderful woman. I’ll miss you.” He winked. “And your delicious cooking.”
The usually reserved country woman flushed and came over all twittery.
“Anything to help out an American, especially as your lot are helping us take it to the enemy. Take my daughter’s bike to get yourself into town. And stay safe, my love.”
As they bade their farewells Grace was beginning to see the Red Effect.
“Stay close and keep your eyes on me,” she ordered.
“Oh, I’ll always keep my eyes on you.” He hoisted a rucksack over his broad shoulders and pushed back a lock of his hair from his face. Mrs. Noble had clearly been looking after him well. Drifts of woody cologne filled the soft country air between them and his newly dyed hair shone.
“Does nothing ever fluster you?” she asked.
“Sure it does. But right now, I just need to keep a cool head and survive.” He tugged the edge of his cap and grinned. “Take me to the library!”
They cycled the longer, quieter route back into town, past ancient whitewashed country cottages slumbering in valleys, woodsmoke curling from their chimneys.
The sinking sun painted the island’s broad, sweeping fields in a wash of gold.
“It’s so pretty in Jersey,” Red called.
“It was,” she replied, “until the Germans arrived and desecrated our countryside and beaches.” She gestured to the left. On one side of an ancient wildflower meadow rose a truly horrendous sight. Nine-foot posts rose from the ground around the perimeter of the field, and in the middle, suspended from a wheel spoke of wires was an enormous 300-pound spider bomb, ready to snare any unsuspecting parachutist.
He whistled under his breath as they cycled slowly past. “Sure glad we didn’t crash-land in that.”
“A question that’s been puzzling me,” she called over her shoulder.
“Shoot.”
“How did you fool Miss Piquet into thinking you were English when you dropped that note off in the library for me?”
“Easy, my dear lady. One only need think of the rules for cricket and the accent simply slides into place. Tickety-boo what!”
Grace stopped and turned, just to be sure.
“That’s astonishing. How do you do that?”
“My old English teacher was originally from Buckinghamshire. I think he spent more time teaching us about cricket than Chaucer!”
Grace smiled and pedaled on, but her ease was short-lived. As the rooftops of town hove into view she felt every muscle in her body tighten.
It was late afternoon on Christmas Eve which meant hopefully most of the garrison would be installed in drinking and gambling establishments.
They cycled slowly through the darkening streets of St. Helier, hosepipe wheels slithering over the ancient cobbled streets. Most folk had hurried home to light stubby candles and to pray for peace.
They had just turned into the Royal Square when a group of four Wehrmacht soldiers strode noisily toward them.
Grace could tell by their flushed faces they were well-oiled and looking for some sport.
“Got your papers?” she muttered, slowly getting off her bike.
He nodded, his eyes narrowing in hatred, the way she’d seen in the graveyard.
Grace felt the blood begin to pulse in her ears. Please God don’t let him do anything rash. An awful prickly sense of panic was slithering up her spine.
Suddenly Red pushed her up against the granite wall of the library.
“Pretend to kiss me,” he whispered, his breath hot in her ear.
“Pardon?” she gasped, pulling back.
He pressed his forefinger to her mouth. “Sssh.”
“I… I don’t know… I…”
But her words fell away, as suddenly his warm lips were on hers, soft and gentle, he cupped her waist and pulled her body close. Grace closed her eyes and felt the world tilt.
A roar of drunken whoops and catcalls went up from the soldiers.
“Küsse sie für mich!” Kiss her for me!
To her disbelief, Red swooped his cap off and bowed as if he were a showman on a stage. The soldiers loved it, roaring and whistling their applause.
“Just smile and unlock the library,” he said through gritted teeth.
Inside, Grace leaned her back against the door, clutching her chest.
“What on earth just happened?”
“Not sure I know. But that was a helluva first kiss.”
She gazed at him in disbelief, her heart still thudding.
“You going to show me this beautiful library of yours or what?” he asked, utterly unflappable.
Red’s eyes were drawn up to the book-lined mezzanine and domed glass roof.
“Wowee!” He whistled under his breath.
Grace allowed herself a smile and felt her heart rate come down.
“Thank you, we are rather proud of our library.”
“You should be. I’ve seen some beautiful libraries in my time, but boy, this is something else.”
“But you have Boston Library, the first public library in America if I’m not mistaken!” she protested. “It’s a masterpiece.”
He nodded in agreement. “For sure, but each library is so unique, with its own personality. When we had furloughs in London my buddies laughed at me. They’d head off to Rainbow Corner in Piccadilly and I’d go and look round all of Carnegie’s libraries. I tell you, Grace, I love London so much. Every time I mailed a letter home I could use happiness for a return address.”
“You’re not like anyone I’ve ever met,” she marveled, wondering whether she’d ever had such a passionate conversation with a man her own age about libraries.
“Libraries are our greatest invention, right? Leastwise, that’s what my mom used to say. She’d take me and my brothers to our local library every week for a book club.”
“I like the sound of your mother.”
He tore his gaze from the domed roof and fixed his green eyes on hers.
“Oh, she would love you, Angel Grace.”
A small cough interrupted them and they looked up to see Peter watching them from the door to the Reading Room.
“Peter!” she exclaimed. In all the drama, she’d forgotten he was here.
“Please don’t judge, Red,” she murmured under her breath. “Peter is a little, um, quirky.”
“Hello, buddy,” he said affably. “Good to meet you.”
“Would you like to see my drawing?” Peter asked, his face expressionless as stone.
“Peter, where’s your manners?” Grace gently chastised.
“It’s all right,” Red grinned. “Small talk is overrated. I’d love to see it.”
“You two go on through to the Reading Room and I’ll make tea.”
In the small staff room, she lit a match under the kettle and leaned back against the wall with a deep sigh of exhaustion. What a day. Just when she thought life couldn’t surprise her anymore. This time last year she was celebrating at home with her family and Bea, all of them vowing 1942 would be their last occupation Christmas. This Christmas she was in the library about to drink tea with an extremely charming, fugitive Yank and a lonely, misunderstood boy.
By the time she carried a tray with tea through to the Reading Room, Peter had spread all his drawings out over the tabletop.
“You’re a gifted boy,” Red said. “The detail on these is exceptional. Could have used you when we flew over those German military bases. Tell me how you got the shading so exact over this tree,” he asked Peter.
Grace sat back in contented silence watching as they talked. Peter was clearly at ease in his company. Oddly, his queer little tics didn’t seem to manifest themselves this evening. Red was kind and patient, asking him questions and properly listening to Peter’s answers.
“I can tell you’ve got younger brothers at home,” she said.
He smiled wistfully and for the first time she saw a chink in his armor.
“Can’t wait to see them, I miss them something rotten, and my mom.”
“The terrier?”
He laughed. “You remembered. Thanksgiving is her favorite time, all her boys round the same table, cooking up a storm. Who knows when I’ll see them next.”
“I don’t believe the Third Reich will win,” Grace said softly. “No one with any sense does. Justice will prevail.”
She held out her hand, her fingers stretched toward his. The kiss, for its all fakery, had forged an intimacy between them that had taken Grace by surprise.
“With all its drudgery, and despair and broken dreams, it’s still a beautiful world.”
He smiled at her curiously and she felt his eyes drink her in.
“It is with women like you in it.”
“She likes you,” Peter said without looking up from his book.
“That’s good, buddy, because I like her,” Red replied without taking his eyes off Grace.
Grace was grateful that the library was suddenly plunged into darkness.
“Gracious, is it that time already?” The gas and electricity went off at 6 p.m. in the library, as in all commercial premises to save on fuel.
“Right, Peter, this is our cue to leave. I need to catch the last bus home before curfew.”
She fetched a small candle.
“There’re some spare blankets in my office, help yourself to whatever you can find in the staff room and I’ll get Dr. McKinstry to drop a food parcel round by the back door soon, which should last you until New Year’s Eve. Oh, and feel free to read whatever you’d like, as long as you don’t mind reading by candlelight. You shouldn’t run out of reading material.”
“Christmas in this library,” Red mused. “How lucky can a fella get?”
“Just be careful,” Grace warned.
“That’s what the other man said,” Peter remarked, as she went to fetch his coat.
“What other man, sweetie?” she asked, as she wound a scarf round his neck.
“He called himself the Wolf.”
Grace felt like her heart had been scooped out with a blunt instrument.
“Th-that man, the Wolf, was here, in the library?”
Peter nodded.
“W-when?” she stammered.
“After you left.”
“What did he ask you?” she demanded.
“He asked to see you. I informed him you were out delivering messages.”
Grace closed her eyes. “Why did you say that?” Her voice came out high-pitched, queer.
“Because you said so to Miss Gold earlier, that you would deliver the message. He said he would return after New Year and see if he could catch you then.”
For a terrible moment, Grace thought she might faint.
“Grace, are you all right?” Red’s hand was at her arm, steadying her.
“Yes… yes. It’s that man, I just don’t know what business he has with the library.”
Grace tried to calm herself. There was no possible way he could know what she and Bea had done, delivering a message was harmless enough surely.
“Please, Peter. If you see that man again, don’t talk to him unless you absolutely have to. Don’t show him your pictures.”
“And, Red,” she said turning to him, “you absolutely have to be out of here by dawn on New Year’s Eve.”
“Relax.” He smiled. “I swear there’ll be no trace of me when you reopen the doors. I’ll just lay low here until it’s time to move on.”
He leaned over and his lips brushed her cheek as outside a light snow began to dust the Royal Square.
“Happy Christmas, Grace.” She felt his lips so close to hers, his breath, warm and tingling in her ear. “And thank you for coming to my rescue… again!”
“You’re welcome. Bye now.”
“That’s it?” he laughed. “Bye now? That’s so British.”
“Don’t give me the puppy dog look,” she warned.
“Angel Grace,” he breathed, stepping closer to her. “I’ve never met anyone like you before in my whole life. This can’t be goodbye. When can I see you again?”
“You hardly know me, Red.”
“We’re at war, Grace. There’s no time to be coy.”
Moonlight filtered through the domed roof, bathing them in a soft silvery light.
“Happy Christmas,” she whispered, turning quickly. “Don’t take down the blackout blinds. I’ll be back New Year’s Eve.”
She and Peter walked through the Royal Square, their footsteps echoing off the grand buildings and she wondered why it was she had just masked her own heart in an impenetrable blanket. It wasn’t just because of the inherent danger of being in a relationship with a reckless man wanted by the Germans. When the war was over he would return to Boston, to his formidable mother and her tribe of sons, leaving Grace heartbroken and alone. No thanks.
She had never once craved a romantic relationship. All the love and adventure she needed was contained within the books in her library. She could pick love up and slot it back onto the bookshelf. Real life was too messy. Authors made it easy for her to live a rich and full life, without having to experience the actual emotion herself.
They reached the bus stop and Grace touched her mouth. Despite the cold her lips tingled and she indulged in the memory. Stop it, Grace. That kiss wasn’t real, none of it was, even Red’s hair color was fake. And yet, his kisses were like a cherished book her mind kept returning to.
The arrival of the bus jolted her from her reverie. Reluctantly, she turned her back on the library and headed for home.