After a long hard winter at war, Grace’s thoughts turned to spring. It was the first Saturday in March and a sense of hope blossomed among the stacks.
She’d come in that morning to find dozens of donated books, so many in fact that she and Miss Piquet had to pile them up high in her office.
Grace and her library assistant had been working flat out all day recommending, stamping, shelving and dealing with the queue that at times threatened to snake out the door. 1943 had been busy, but 1944 was proving to be even busier.
As the occupation clamped its jaws ever tighter round islanders’ necks, it felt like everything was short but books. There was the cinema of course, but no one with a shred of self-respect would dare pass under the swastika, which now hung over The Forum on Grenville Street, to watch what amounted to German propaganda. West’s cinema was where the locals went, but sometimes it felt as if the only thing they’d shown over the past three years was The Wizard of Oz and Grace had decided there was only so many times she could follow Dorothy up the Yellow Brick Road. So the library it was—a refuge for tattered souls.
Grace took a moment to appreciate the book tower in her office.
One book caught her eye. The Book Lovers’ Anthology: A Compendium of Writing about Books, Readers and Libraries. Usually their donated books were a little on the tatty side, but this hardback looked like it belonged in a rare-books archive. Its burgundy embossed-leather cover and gold-tipped pages made it easily the most divine book she had ever seen. Grace picked it up, her fingers fanning the soft cream vellum pages. She held it to her nose, breathing in the musty tang of old paper. A note slipped out. Elegant looping words etched on tomato-packing paper.
I’ll never forget the sight of you reading Jane Austen by candlelight. R x
Grace smiled. How on earth?
The door opened a crack and Grace slid the note in her skirt pocket.
“Hallo. Sorry to disturb. Do you have a moment?”
Albert Bedane, the physiotherapist, hovered at her office door.
“For you, Mr. Bedane, always.”
“Gracious, look at all these books.”
“Donated, would you believe.”
“It’s your book club, Grace. It’s igniting a fire.”
“I’m not sure about that, but I hope it offers a little solace, the chance to escape the churn of one’s thoughts.”
“Which is why I’m here. Might we talk in private?”
He shut the door.
“How can I help you?” she asked, clearing books off chairs so he could sit down.
“I’m after more books for my houseguest, please,” he said, pulling out The Secret Garden. “She romped through this.”
“Of course. She’s almost exhausted my stock of romantic fiction.”
“Have you anything more in the vein of The Secret Garden? Something about the the loneliness of the protagonist and the vivid descriptions of opening a secret door to a hidden-away garden… well, it spoke to her. She said it made her feel less alone somehow, reminded her of the beauty of nature.”
Grace felt her heart buckle. She couldn’t imagine not breathing country air, witnessing the magical twilight hour when bats flitted from the eaves of their old farmhouse. Of all those hazy summer hours reading under the apple tree in her garden. What must it be like to be hidden away in a cellar, breathing the same stale air, month after month?
“She needs another world to roam. A metaphorical door to open.”
Her eyes alighted on the nearest box. Serendipity.
“Alice in Wonderland!”
“Isn’t that a children’s book?”
“I’d say it’s a book for book lovers of any age. Alice falls down the rabbit hole and uncovers a strange subterranean world, filled with doorways she has to find a way to open.”
She sighed. “I adored this book growing up. I used to explore under my bed hoping to find a loose floorboard, a portal to another world.”
“What did you find?”
“Dust mainly.”
He laughed. “This’ll do nicely.”
“I do hope it works, Mr. Bedane, until the day comes when she can open her real front door.”
“Please God that day comes soon.”
He looked up, Grace thought in deference to Him.
“Allied planes flew over St. Helier last night, Grace. British or American, I’m not sure. They were just visible to the naked eye. There were eighty-eight of them—I counted.”
“Maybe that day will come sooner than we think,” she ventured hopefully.
“Here’s hoping.” He picked up the book and tapped it. “Until that day, we have Alice.”
“Tuck it in your bag,” she advised. “I haven’t cataloged it yet, so it’s off the record. Actually, half a mo. If you get stopped with this book, it’ll look iffy.”
She glanced around her office and the idea suddenly came to her.
“Here.” Grace picked up a donated copy of Wayfaring Life in the Middle Ages, slipped off the dust jacket and popped it over the top of an indignant-looking Alice.
“If you get stopped and searched, this’ll look an awful lot less suspicious.”
“You’re a wonder, Grace!”
He hesitated, clearly something else weighing on his mind.
“I… um… I don’t suppose you have anything else off the record, if you catch my drift.”
“I’m afraid your drift must have slipped from my grasp, Mr. Bedane.”
“I’ll speak more plainly. I was happily making my way through some of Ernest Hemingway’s fine novels when the invasion happened and they just seemed to have, well, vanished from the stacks.”
“Yes, apologies for that. Our uninvited guests decided Hemingway is an author uncongenial to the regime.”
“I was hoping to read A Farewell to Arms…” He tapped the book on his lap. “Should the occasion present itself.”
She stared at him for a very long time, her thoughts ticking over.
“I think we know that we can both trust each other, Grace. You must know that I, of all people, would never betray that trust. I have far too much to lose.”
Grace nodded, understanding.
“Very well. Why don’t you bring back the cover of Wayfaring Life in the Middle Ages, and I’ll see what opportunities present themselves.”
He smiled as he rose to his feet. “You’re an enlightened librarian, Grace.”
“One would hope all librarians are,” she replied.
Fifteen minutes later, Mr. Bedane left, happy with a concealed Alice in Wonderland, tucked in his physiotherapist’s bag.
When Grace emerged from her office she was startled to see the library even busier than before, with every seat and spare patch of space in the mezzanine Reading Room full.
“Book Club time, Grace,” Miss Piquet reminded her.
“Gracious, already?”
“You look how I feel, my love.” Molly the florist laughed.
“I’m so sorry,” Grace said, flustered to have been caught on the hop. “We’ve finished Pride and Prejudice, haven’t we, but I haven’t had a chance yet to think about what next.”
“Might I make a suggestion?” piped up Mr. Warder, the post-office engineer. “It might sound a bit silly.”
“You wouldn’t believe the requests I get,” Grace replied. “This morning, an elderly gentleman came in and asked me to look after his pet ferret while he went to market. Our Bibliothèque Publique certainly gives me a wide insight into the peculiarities of man.”
The library crowd fell about. The grumpy looking German censor in the corner looked confused.
“Don’t worry, Grace. I’m not smuggling ferrets,” Mr. Warder chuckled. “I had a Red Cross message delivered from my wife Trix in Bournemouth. She used up her twenty-word allocation would you believe to tell me not about the children, but that she’s reading Footsteps in the Dark, by Georgette Heyer, and would I read a copy too, so we could feel together.”
He looked embarrassed. “Sounds like terrible sentimental piffle if you ask me. I’m more of a P. G. Wodehouse man myself. Could we possibly read it together in book club?”
“What a wonderful idea of your wife’s, and as for sentimental, not a bit of it. Georgette Heyer is a first-class writer, full of dry wit and charm. Her research on the British Regency period is second to none.”
While Miss Piquet hurried off to fetch the book, Mr. Warder rooted around in his pocket, fighting off tears.
“Sorry, sorry… I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“Nothing wrong with you,” Queenie said, handing him her handkerchief. “You’re a human being with a beating heart. You’d have to be made of stone not to be missing your wife and kiddies.”
Mr. Warder nodded, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hands and Grace pushed back her own tears. Every day the horror of this god-awful war showed up in her library.
While she watched the book club’s show of solidarity, she suddenly realized two things, both of which made her feel disconcerted.
Firstly, Peter wasn’t there. In the franticness of the day she hadn’t noticed he wasn’t in the library. Usually he was like her little shadow and he never missed book club. Secondly, while they had closed ranks around Mr. Warder, the Wolf had sneaked into the library and was sitting at the back, whispering something into the German censor’s ear.
The easy atmosphere of earlier evaporated as one by one the book club noticed the most notorious German on the island, sitting at the back of the library.
“Miss La Mottée, I wanted to see what all the fuss is about,” he said, his odd accent piercing the still of the library. “Please, act as if I am not here.”
“Fat chance of that,” Queenie muttered under her breath.
Grace began to read from the book, feeling as if every word might trigger a timebomb, her anger growing as she turned the page. This book club was supposed to be their sanctuary from the enemy, a safe space to escape from the war.
When she reached the end of the chapter, she shut the book and forced herself to focus on Mr. Warder.
“I bet the author would be delighted to know that, despite being separated by an ocean, you and your wife are reading together. The book is like a bridge between you.”
His rich laughter filled the library. “A bridge indeed. I rather like that.”
“Let’s continue this book next week, shall we. Take care, everyone.”
The room was filled with the sounds of chairs scraping back as weary islanders reluctantly reached for coats and bags.
She felt his presence behind her before she saw him, his hand, stained with earth, touched her arm and she froze.
“Grace, I’m in a fix,” he whispered.
She turned, the blood in her veins turning to ice.
Red was in the rough workman garb of a country farmer, not so unusual for a Saturday afternoon when many from the rural regions came into town, but there was no way his English accent would stand up to an interrogation.
The censor and the Wolf had positioned themselves at the door to the library, questioning everyone as they checked their papers.
“Get in my office now,” she hissed, her heart thundering in her mouth.
Red slipped into the side room and Grace walked as casually as she could through the library, making a point to chat as convivially as she could to everyone as they left.
“You get off now, Miss Piquet,” she said as the room emptied. “I’ll close up.”
Eventually, it was just her, the censor and the Wolf, standing in a puddle of late-afternoon light.
“I’ve been observing you, Miss La Mottée. You’re rather like a priest taking confession.”
“I run a library, Sergeant Wölfle, not a church.”
“You won’t mind if I take a look around, check there are no irregularities.”
“Be my guest,” she said, as the whirring inside her ears reached a screaming pitch.
She positioned herself behind her circular desk, so he couldn’t see her legs shaking as he and the censor made a show of checking round the stacks and under the tables.
“I can’t think what you’re looking for,” she said curtly.
“There are Russian workers on the loose and several American aircrew at large on the island.” He smiled at her contemptuously. “It’s for your own safety.”
He glanced at her office door.
“What’s in there?”
“Old books mainly. It’s my office.”
She closed her eyes as he swung open the door.
Moments stretched out like hours.
The door slammed and she jumped.
“Good day to you, Miss La Mottée. Don’t stay too late. I should hate to have to fine you for missing curfew.”
He and the censor left and Grace stood rooted to the spot, forcing herself to count to a minute before she dared to move.
The air in the library seemed to crackle as she moved softly to the library door, locking it.
Something fizzled and the lights snapped off, plunging her into darkness.
Cursing, she lit a candle and went to her office, pushing the door open.
Her fear had assuaged, replaced by anger.
“Red,” she hissed.
In the far corner of her office, where she had piled up all their donated books, she heard a scuffling noise. Red’s face poked out behind the tower of books in boxes.
“Boy, just as well I lost so much weight. I’d never have squeezed behind here six months ago.” He shot her a reckless grin. “That was a close shave.”
“What is wrong with you?” she cried, slamming the candle holder down so hard shadows danced over the room. “Are you trying to get yourself caught? Why can’t you just stay in the countryside like Dr. McKinstry told you?”
Red looked taken aback at the force of her anger.
“This isn’t a game, Red,” she continued. “This library is my life. Why are you taking these risks?”
Then to her embarrassment, she burst into tears.
He covered the room in two easy strides and pulled her into his arms, so close she felt the warmth of his body pulsing against hers.
“I think you know why, Grace,” he whispered. “I’m falling in love with you and there’s not a darn thing I can do about it.”
He reached down and her eyes flickered shut as his mouth found hers. This time the kiss was real: sweet, tender and searching. Grace surrendered to his touch, kissing him back with a passion she hadn’t realized she was capable of.
Finally he broke off and a silence fell over the library like a velvet cloth.
“But why?”
“Only a librarian would ask that,” he teased.
“But if you must know, I love the way you’re passionate about this library and the people who use it, the way you make me feel when you read.” He winked. “Your knockout smile.”
“I… I don’t know if I can say those words back to you,” she said quietly.
His fingers trailed softly down her cheek and she could feel the heat coursing through them.
“I don’t need you to say anything.”
Red cupped her face and kissed her again, softer this time, slow and deep, his fingers probing the naked skin of her neck.
“You’ve no idea how many times I’ve dreamt of this moment,” he murmured, his voice husky, his eyes all leaping flames as he lowered his lips back to hers.
After the kiss they both froze, as if movement would shatter something so fragile and precious.
“I’ve never been kissed in the library,” Grace murmured eventually.
For some reason, it made them both laugh.
“Have you had a sweetheart?” He watched her reaction in the flickering light. “Sorry, I’m being too American aren’t I!”
“No, it’s all right. I’ve never had a suitor or a gentleman friend.” Grace laughed. “I sound like something out of a Mills and Boon.”
“Never?”
“All I’ve ever really loved is books,” she confessed.
Grace thought back over what books had meant to her. The time Bea came knocking and she hid under her bed as she was so close to finishing Black Beauty. Or the nights she would fall asleep with her cheek pressed against a book, waking up with the spine etched on her face.
“I guess this was a good choice then,” he remarked, reaching for the The Book Lovers’ Anthology on her desk.
“How did you get this?”
“The people I’m staying with have got the biggest library I’ve ever seen in a house. I told them about your Wartime Book Club and they were impressed.”
Grace shook her head, speechless at the gesture.
“I wanted to prove to you that I love you, Grace.”
He smiled down at her. “In fact, I want to know everything there is to know about you. Favorite childhood book?”
“Impossible to whittle down to one, but growing up I used to love Moonfleet.”
She laughed. “I made Bea read it after me and she was hooked. She convinced me there was a shipwreck out by Bouley Bay so we once made a raft and went in search of the notorious Blackbeard and hidden treasure. But the raft broke apart half a mile out and we had to be rescued.”
Red burst into laughter. “Did Bea often get you in trouble?”
“Too often, yes,” she said ruefully. “She reminds me of you actually.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
He bent down to kiss her again, but this time she rested a finger on his lips.
“Enough excitement for one night. You’ve got to go. For all we know the Wolf’s still outside watching the library.”
“You’re the boss.”
He pulled his cap down low over his face and looked at her longingly.
“You have never looked so beautiful, Angel Grace.”
He jerked a finger at the office window. “Where does that lead?”
“An alley and some bins.”
Before she had a chance to stop him, he pushed the top of the sash window up and eased his tall body through it until he was sitting on the ledge.
“Before you go, Red.”
“Yes.”
“Do you remember when I asked you why you signed up and you told me about that mobile library in London, Books for the Bombed?”
“Course.”
“I never asked. Did you visit it, when you got to London?”
His face lit up at the memory, his wide smile creasing his cheeks into dimples.
“Sure I did. Oh man, what a kick. I waited outside St. Pancras Town Hall and this big old library bus trundled round the corner. Knocked my socks off to think of it delivering books throughout the Blitz. They even let me borrow a book.”
“Don’t tell me, The Call of the Wild?”
Red’s smile stretched wider. “See now. You know me better than you think you do.”
He shook his head. “I tell you, Grace. Life is extraordinary. Three years ago I was bumming around Boston, working out what to do with my life. Now I’m visiting all these incredible libraries. And I’ve met the woman I want to spend the rest of my life with. This is the greatest experience my generation can ever hope to have!”
He laughed—such a big infectious noise of incandescent joy that she realized he wasn’t reckless. He just loved being in the thick of life.
The breeze rustled in through the open window, ushering the scent of salt, tobacco and wood smoke into the library. The pocket of air between them shimmered, charged somehow from Red’s confession.
He sighed, his heart and head doing battle.
“Go on, shoo,” she laughed.
“Oh boy, Grace, you got me hook, line and sinker. Until next time.” And then he was gone, his long lean body slipping out the window and clambering across the library roof.
Grace shut the window behind him, her head still spinning at the turn of events.
For a long time she sat at her office desk, running her finger down the spine of The Book Lovers’ Anthology.
Red’s confession had sent a ripple of undiluted joy through her, a gentle thrum that began in her toes and cascaded through her chest. She might not be able to admit it to him yet, but she could admit it to herself. She was falling in love with him. Any man that was prepared to risk everything to bring her the essential anthology for bibliophiles had to be worth a punt, didn’t he?
But there was something nagging at her subconscious.
Suddenly, in the dark void a grubby voice came back to Grace.
Interesting child, a simpleton so my informers tell me…
A cold feeling slid over her, bursting her euphoria.
Peter!