Page 9 of The Undercover Bookshop

“She’s German?” I sit back. A girl at my last boardinghouse, a roommate in the attic, was German, and I recall how coolly everyone treated her. Even me. It wasn’t that I disliked her; it was more that I wasn’t sure if I was allowed to like her. If it was okay now that the war is over. I shake my head, recalling the other tidbit Peggy just dropped. “He’s on a blacklist?”

“Maybe I left out those parts the day we saw her.” Peggy rolls her lips together so they almost disappear. “Though the vicar knows gossip runs rampant, he does say it’s a sin. Perhaps I was practicing virtue that day.”

“But not today?” I ask with feigned innocence.

“Sometimes you simply need to know things.”

“The war is over. Why does her being German matter?” I ask, about my former roommate as much as about Mrs. Beurton.

“Over?” Peggy’s scoff surprises me. “When is anything ever over, Gemma? Wouldn’t you say we’re still fighting something? Fighting to get back to a life we’ll never find? Fighting to find our place in this new world? Not to mention fighting the next menace? You read the papers.”

She’s not wrong. The “Red Scourge,” or the “Red Menace” as some papers call it, and the Soviet Union have been splashed across the Oxford Times’s front page for the past week or more as the wider world just learned that our former ally, now our enemy, detonated its own atomic bomb. Last August! The West thought the Soviets were years away from that. And worse, it’s also being reported that Soviet spies have possibly, probably, and almost provably infiltrated the US government as well as our own Parliament. Not to mention the recent assertions that a cadre of spies and supporters already impact and influence almost every aspect of our economy and culture.

My stomach drops. “What is he on a blacklist for?”

“Communism.” Peggy lifts her chin and gestures across the room. “If you’re wanting to find the Red Menace, there you go.”

“Is he still a threat?”

“Even if I saw him stand atop that table and sing ‘God Save the King,’ I’d say he’s still a threat.”

“Well, you answered one question I had for you.” I flick a finger at the mystery sticking out of Peggy’s bag.

“About Communists?”

“No. In that story Agatha Christie, through one of her characters, posits that there’s a sense of ill will, malice even, pervading our nation since the war. I wanted to know what you think, but I suspect I do now.”

I’ve been waiting almost a month since I read the story to discuss Christie’s assertion with someone. It bothers me because I fear it’s true. I fear that Christie expressed the idea in fiction because she saw it around us in reality, and I want reassurance that I’m wrong. Not empty reassurance, mind you, real reassurance. I’ve learned enough of life to know that soft soap can’t dissolve real grime.

“The ill will is definitely there, Gemma, but not without cause.” Peggy takes a sip of her sherry. “The world is different now. Dangers don’t stay within their borders. They fly all about the globe and they are on the march.”

I watch Freddie chatting at the bar. I regard Mr. Beurton in serious conversation with two men across the pub. I think of Mr. Hastings’s open, smiling face and good cheer. “Can’t we change that? Can it go back to the way it was?”

Peggy allows herself a short, derisive laugh. “There’s no going back, Gemma. Never was. Never will be. Only fools think otherwise.”

Thankfully Sallie and Mimi, two others in our little band that dines at the pub a couple of times each week, finally show up and lighten our mood. It isn’t that Peggy upset me; it’s that I expect she’s right. I know she’s right. I felt the certainty of it the first time I read those words in the book. Christie gave the thought to a fictional character, but as usual she was making a statement about reality. She often does that, and over the years and after at least two dozen books, I’ve learned to pay attention to her.

I asked Peggy if we could “go back,” as if back represented anything better. But it doesn’t. Those years before the war were devastating too. I suppose I hoped she’d say no, as she did, but I also hoped she’d say that moving forward would be different, could be light and bright and not to worry, that one could find a good, safe place to live, call it home, put down roots, make friends, maybe marry and start a family.

I huff at myself for these soft-soap thoughts—that just stating something as true could make it so—and focus upon my bangers and mash.

“Gemma?”

I glance up. “Yes?”

Mimi stares at me. “I asked if you wanted another sherry.”

I push my plate away. “I’d best not. I’ve got to shelve all those books tomorrow morning before the store opens.” Sallie and Mimi frown. “I’m sorry. You just got here and I’m not much fun tonight.”

They deny my claim with consoling words and pats to my hand, then resume chatting. Peggy reaches over and squeezes my shoulder. “That was my fault. I’m sorry.”

“Not at all. I hoped Christie was wrong. But she never is.”

Peggy lifts the book from her bag. “I’ll read like lightning and let you know what I think.”

I leave enough money to cover my bill, accept Mrs. Derwet’s generous offer to wrap up my remaining two sausages, and push out the Unicorn’s front door.

Ugh, the projected sleet and wind are already upon us. With the sausage packet serving as a poor substitute for an umbrella, I rush down High Street towards the alley and the door to my bedsit. Good things are ahead. Good things can and do still happen. After all, tomorrow morning when Hastings General Store opens, my little corner bookshop opens too. And that’s a very good thing.