The Last Bookshop in London (2021)
A charming story about the power of books and reading in the midst of war-torn London.
This is a lovely book about Grace, a woman who moves from the country to London just before the start of the Second World War. Unable to get a letter of recommendation to work in a shop, she instead finds work in a bookshop, and quickly applies her skill to improve the bookshop’s fortunes. Previously not a reader, working in the shop helps her find a love of books, and she shares this with war-ravaged Londoners when in the air raid shelters.
It’s a story that blends the charm of the bookshop with the horrors of the war. Grace volunteers as an ARP warden and this allows us to see the tragedy in a more visceral way – attending bombed-out houses, attending impossible fires, and entering ruined buildings to find corpses. It felt like a good balance that doesn’t romanticise or sugar-coat life during the war.
I acquired this book in charming circumstances – I was visiting Vancouver for a work off-site, and I spotted this in a Little Free Library while waiting for the False Creek Ferry (a name that sounds like something from a Lemony Snicket novel). The title caught my eye and I bought it home with me as a souvenir of the trip.
Quotes and highlights
Page 14, when Grace arrives in London with her best friend Viv. Their initial mood is one of excitement, when war is still in the future:
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.
Page 36, when Grace realises she’ll have to work in a bookshop for six months rather than joining Viv in Harrods, and she learns the romantic reason behind the name:
Grace paused. “Might I ask why it’s called Primrose Hill Books when it isn’t on Primrose Hill?”
Mrs. Weatherford gave a dreamy smile that told Grace the reason was a good one. “Mr. Evans and his wife, God rest her soul, met on Primrose Hill. They propped their backs against the same tree and discovered the other reading the very same book. Can you imagine?” She took a tea cake from the tray and held it pinched between her fingers.
“When they opened the shop, they said it was the perfect name for a bookshop they shared. Quite romantic, isn’t it?” It was almost impossible to imagine the stodgy old shop owner as a young man in love, but the shop name was indeed charming. As was the story. Perhaps working at the store would not be so terrible.
Page 204, where Grace has found her love of reading:
The jacket was smooth, the print black against a yellow background dotted with small red houses. She slid her fingertip under the lip and drew it open. The spine, not yet stretched, creaked open, like an ancient door preparing to unveil a secret world.
She turned the pages to the first chapter, the sound a quiet whispered shush in the empty shop. There was a special scent to paper and ink, indescribable and unknown to anyone but a true reader. She brought the book to her face, closed her eyes and breathed in that wonderful smell.
It was startling to think a year prior to this, she hadn’t been able to appreciate such small moments. But in a world as damaged and gray as theirs was now, she would take every speck of pleasure where it could be found. And much pleasure was to be had in reading.
Page 224, and the horror of the bombing raids:
No matter how many victims Grace saw to, she still found herself affected by every one. Each name scored on her heart, each memory burned into her brain. She was not alone in how death had affected her. The heavy rescue service, the men who dug through rubble for bodies, or whatever was left, passed a flask around as they worked, unable to perform their grisly tasks without the aid of spirits. They too never would grow used to what they witnessed.
Page 263, when Grace and her ARP partner Mr Stokes witness a terrible fire:
Wind swept through the narrow alley, fanning the flames into wild excitement and sending flecks of sparks shooting every which way. The heat around them expanded, pressing in on Grace until she felt as though the marrow of her bones was melting like wax.
When she was a girl, she’d thought the glowing embers in the fireplace beautiful, like fire fairies. There was nothing beautiful or magical now. The flames were cruel in their greed and merciless in their destruction.
“We need to leave.” Mr. Stokes’s face glistened with sweat, and his eyes darted over the swelling fires. “They’ve no water to spare. There’s nothing we can do here.”