Page 4 of The Undercover Bookshop

I lift one shoulder. “It’s all I’ve known. But I wouldn’t call it lonely.”

“Well, you won’t be lonely here. I promise.” Peggy taps the table between us. “You stay so we don’t lose our spot. I’ll go get us both sherries.”

She jostles through the crowd, greeting and chatting with people as she goes, and I sink into the hard-backed chair, suddenly deeply exhausted. The first thin wisps of worry thread through me.

Lonely? I’ve never considered the word. Lonely is when you’re missing something and you ache for it. You’re less without it. But if it’s something you’ve never known, how can you miss it? Yet I lived in that boardinghouse with ten of those seventeen girls for two whole years, three of them crammed tight with me in the attic. I should miss them, shouldn’t I? I mean, it’s been about a week since I picked up and left what I was. Shouldn’t I miss some aspect of it by now?

Admittedly, it was not a life that was working all that well, but it was a life, nonetheless. My life. Quiet, planned—and there was security in that. But was it lonely and I didn’t realize it? Also, since my Thursday chat with Peggy, I’ve been questioning myself a bit more deeply as to why I answered that advert. Because it wasn’t a thoughtful decision, come to after days of consideration. It was instantaneous. I simply knew deep down it was right.

There was the “dream,” of course, my checklist of the life I wanted, but it was more than that. It was something promised, something shining. More necessary. Vital. That advert, lacking in creativity as Peggy commented, simply offered the hope of what I wanted and everything I needed. But I couldn’t then and can’t yet fully now articulate why.

Well, now it’s harder because I don’t feel that clear, shining conviction any longer. My first week at work was not the successful one I anticipated. I imagined that I’d do everything flawlessly from the first step on. Last week, I got most things wrong. I’ve also discovered there’s a price for being known rather than being anonymous. If you’re one factory worker out of a hundred, mistakes aren’t readily noticed. When I’m Mr. Hastings’s only employee in this tiny village, mistakes matter—and everyone quickly learns about them too.

It took only a few hours for the whole village to learn about how I’d rearranged the store, tripped up Mr. Hastings, and accidentally sold Mrs. Westing a hand cream with lavender in it, even though everyone knows she’s deathly allergic. I’m daily bombarded with new names and faces, told to remember them and consider them more than patrons, almost friends, yet I keep forgetting—and it took mere minutes for everyone to know I called Mrs. Miller the wrong name five times before an exasperated Mrs. Boyle corrected me. I also keep bungling the register and the inventory books and had to erase a whole column I mismarked in the store’s ledger.

And that’s just work. Above the store, in that bedsit I wanted so badly, I’ve spent late into each night scrubbing the floors and tub, hand-sewing curtains, and trying to make suppers on a hot plate. Chasing the scent of home, as advertised in all the magazines this fall, I even attempted making shortbread. But I ended up starting a small fire, ruining one of the new curtains in an effort to pound it out, and filling my rooms with enough caustic smoke to prick my eyes and sting my throat all night long. I was right back in that factory, soot in my nose and tears in my eyes. One cannot bake shortbread on a hot plate. In fact, this week, I haven’t successfully cooked anything on the hot plate—only brewing tea has turned out well.

When Peggy finally returns with the sherries and a couple of menus, I toss back half my glass in a single gulp. Only her gasp stops me from tipping the second half down too.

“It can’t be that bad.”

“Not at all.” I plaster on a completely fake smile. “It’s simply been a lot.”

She nods slowly, thoughtfully, and I feel like she understands. My eyes fill with tears. She reaches over and squeezes my hand resting beside my sherry glass.

“I’ve been through it myself. When I left home it took me weeks to stop crying.” Peggy gazes across the pub. “But I’ve come to like it here. Give it time. Give yourself time too.”

“Time.” I repeat her word, making it my own, before I take a proper, more ladylike sip of my drink. “But you’re happy here now?”

Somehow I need to know. I need to know that even though she cried for weeks, she’s home now. She’s happy. Perhaps because if happiness happened for her, it can happen for me.

Shadows and pain flicker across Peggy’s face before she flashes me an overly bright smile, not unlike my own a few moments earlier. “For now, yes, I’m happy.”

“At least I have my own room.” I try to bring levity to a conversation that feels too serious for newly made friends.

“Life is a bit more than a room,” she chirps.

“Not if you’ve not had one of your own for years,” I chirp back.

“How soon I forgot.” She lifts her full glass to my half-empty one. “To our own rooms, Gemma, and how wonderful they are.”

Despite her sanguine delivery, I sense a river of currents flowing between us, currents of loss and understanding. And for the first time, among a throng of people pressing close—none of whom I know at all—I feel comfortable.

Our talk turns to the minutiae of small village living, and soon we are laughing and lively again. Peggy gestures to someone here or there and softly tells me funny stories about them. And after another sherry and a deliciously hot shepherd’s pie, I feel more than comfortable; I feel buoyant, and our conversation shifts yet again, this time to the dearth of eligible single men here.

Then he enters the pub . . .

Only a few times in my life has a chap caught my eye so profoundly that I forget my words, forget to breathe. The first time was in Yorkshire, and his name was Brian Winkler. I was fourteen years old, and he was another refugee from London. He was almost sixteen and champing at the bit to race through a couple more birthdays and join the war. And he was always smiling even if there was nothing to smile about. Perhaps that was because the family with whom he lived genuinely liked him. I wasn’t sure the couple who took me in remembered me most days. Brian was the center of my world every Saturday as I stood in the market stall across from him, selling Mrs. Garring’s eggs and produce.

The second man was Grant Ridley. That relationship ended just a month ago. But rather than dwell on that mop, that swagger, and all those lies, I push the memory of Grant away. He doesn’t deserve any more of my time or my energy.

I search to catch sight of the fine-looking fellow again. He’s nothing like Grant. I can tell just by watching him. He doesn’t move with that loose swagger Grant affected, nor does he carry that narrow-eyed look of superiority and disdain. The man is tall, perhaps a full half-foot taller than my five-foot-six, and his blond hair is cut short and neat. In the warm lamplight it veers towards golden. And it’s not short on the sides only, with the long top slicked forward in a jelly roll like a London Teddy Boy. This man’s hair is respectfully short all around, like young men used to wear a few years ago during the war. You can trust a clean cut like that. He’s handsomely dressed, too, in brown wool trousers, a crisp white shirt, and a navy overcoat.

As he moves through the room, everyone reaches out to say hello, shake his hand, and pull him into a quick confidence. Some of what’s said must be jokes because at least three times he tips his head back and laughs like what he’s just heard is the funniest thing in the world. The happy sound carries itself all the way back to our table. It brings a warm smile to me and a flicker of recognition to Peggy’s eyes.

“Charles.” Peggy waves an arm towards him. “Over here.”

I startle as the man turns and looks right at me, and I’m caught staring. He shifts and steps our direction, and as he reaches the table, Peggy gestures to me. “You must meet our newest villager. Gemma Brown.”