Chapter 8 Joyce #3
Joyce shook her head, unable to stop her laughter. These women were unstoppable when they got together, their lascivious laughter ringing up the tunnels. Joyce was happy for Mitsy. It was the most alive she’d ever seen the elderly lady.
After the requisite steamy books were stamped, the three women scurried back underground.
Their last stop of the day was a Civil Defence depot in Highgate village. Adela went off to hand out leaflets while Joyce tended to the small crowd.
A line of ARP workers queued in an orderly fashion, each gratefully browsing the shelves for something to read during the night shift.
‘Gosh, this is just what we need,’ remarked a middle-aged male warden in a tin hat, sliding a copy of Moby Dick over the counter to be stamped.
‘Hitler would throw in the towel now if he could see this. Reckons as how these bombs would bring us to heel, but look at us.’ He gestured round the interior of the library van, eyes gleaming nostalgically.
‘I haven’t seen a mobile library since I was a lad growing up in Devon. I’ll be a regular, count on it.’
At the end of the queue was a young woman in a boiler suit with dark circles under her eyes. ‘I want something thought-provoking please, something to read between the raids.’
‘Have you heard of Virginia Woolf’s A Room of One’s Own?’ Joyce answered immediately.
‘No, but I’m willing to give it a go.’
Joyce slid the book from the shelf and ran her hand over the plain dust jacket.
‘It’s . . .’ How to sum up the book that had become not only her talisman, but her connection to Dorotha and the rest of the Secret Society.
‘It’s been a comfort over the years.’
‘But what’s it about?’ the woman pressed.
‘Hard to define, but I can quote you my favourite line. “Lock up your libraries if you like; but there is no gate, no lock, no bolt that you can set upon the freedom of my mind.” ’
The woman looked at her strangely, as if Joyce had seen into her soul. ‘I’ll take it.’
Joyce filled out her reader’s ticket and stamped the book before the woman left, ducking her helmeted head as she passed through the low van door.
The little mobile library hummed, a quiet and purposeful energy vibrating through the stacks.
Stepping through this tiny door was a portal.
The twisted, smoking buildings outside belonged to another world.
Here, her patrons could open the door to any world they desired.
She hoped it gave all who discovered it the same thrill that Mary Lennox must have felt when she stumbled upon the door to her secret garden.
Finally alone for the first time all day, Joyce was caught off guard.
She felt the presence of Dorotha, as clearly as if she were standing next to her.
She pictured her pointed chin, the determined gaze and those eyes, impossibly blue.
She remembered the day that Dorotha had pressed the book in her hand, right after she’d caught her reading in that broom cupboard.
It occurred to her that their friendship had moulded her into the woman she was today. In a strange way, everything she did was to make Dorotha proud of her. Wasn’t that the basis of the Secret Society of Librarians, in fact: women raising each other up?
‘Where are you?’ She murmured it out loud, as if the answer would somehow uncurl itself from the stacks.
‘Do you always talk to your books?’ The voice was gravelly, with a hint of mischief, and she jumped.
‘Oh, Harry! It’s you. I was just thinking out loud.’
‘Don’t worry,’ he chuckled. ‘I talk to myself all the time. No one else will ever listen.’
‘Look here, I never got a chance to say thank you earlier for standing up to that wretched man.’
‘Happy to oblige. He was a bully.’
She felt herself stiffening.
‘Don’t let him get to you,’ Harry murmured, stepping closer to her.
He smiled, and suddenly the library van felt incredibly small, the space between them closing.
Up close, she could see he wasn’t handsome, not in the traditional sense.
It was as if someone had sketched a picture of a handsome man, then smudged it.
But the broken nose, slightly chipped front tooth and dishevelled mop of dark hair added up to something oddly reassuring.
‘I shouldn’t, but he was so judgemental, almost as if he couldn’t wait to report on our failure.’
‘Bugger him,’ Harry announced, and Joyce’s eyes widened in shock.
‘Sorry to be so blunt, but the world is full of ignorant people. Add to the mix that people are frightened, exhausted and looking for an outlet for their anger. You just have to focus on doing what you believe in.’
He swept an arm around the library van. ‘This is what’s important. Books, reading, stories. It’s magic.’
At that moment Library Cat leapt onto the polished mahogany counter and circled three times, before curling up asleep.
Joyce suddenly felt weary and fought the urge to rest her head against Harry’s chest. He smelt of carbolic and Woodbines, and his shoulders were so broad they looked as if they could carry the load of an entire neighbourhood.
‘I’m sick of people judging me, is all.’
‘Am I supposed to feel sorry for you?’
‘Oh . . .’ she said, taken aback at his bluntness.
‘I don’t mean to sound rude, but people have been judging me my whole life,’ he shrugged. ‘I’m a boy from the wrong side of Stepney. Folk see me coming and I can read their thoughts. Lock up the silver and reach for the bug powder.’
‘How did that make you feel?’
‘Angry mostly. I took it out in the boxing ring. Left school at fourteen and virtually lived at the Repton.’
‘The Repton?’
‘Boys’ boxing club in Bethnal Green. In the end, I decided if I carried on with that, I’d end up looking like a cauliflower.’
He smiled and tapped his nose. ‘There’s only so many times your nose can get broken. I decided if people thought I was a criminal, I may as well behave like one. I ran with a bad crowd.’
‘What happened?’ Joyce asked, curiosity overcoming her.
‘I was a step away from being a delinquent when I met someone who saw me as something else.’
He ran his hand up the bookcase. ‘A librarian. In Bethnal Green Library.’
Joyce inhaled sharply. ‘You don’t mean . . . Peter?’
Harry looked at her in surprise. ‘Yes, the very same.’
‘I know . . . Sorry, I knew Peter. I loved him. Did you hear the news?’
Harry nodded sadly. ‘Everyone loved Peter. He was that kind of man. He cared. I was very lucky to meet him at my lowest ebb, and he turned me around. Encouraged me in through the doors to the library, put a book in my hand.’
Harry chuckled. ‘God, I was petulant back then. I told him I hated books. He told me I just hadn’t found the right one. In the finish, I ended up in Bethnal Green Library every day. He even managed to get me writing poetry.’
Joyce smiled wistfully. ‘Why am I not surprised? I miss him.’
‘Me too. “Harry, you’re never alone with a good book,” he used to say. So, I found another version of myself in the library and I ain’t looked back.’
He turned from the books and looked at her, his silver eyes challenging but soft.
‘What I’m saying, Joyce, is that other people’s assumptions of me don’t matter. I save my energy for the page.’
‘You write still?’
‘Course. Every day. It sounds daft, but writing poetry helps to crystallise my thoughts, helps me to make sense of the world.’
‘I’d love to write, but I haven’t a clue what about, and now I haven’t the time.’
‘Rubbish,’ he said with a teasing grin.
Joyce felt wounded. Harry’s straight talking might have felt refreshing to some, but it was a little too close to the bone for her liking.
‘Just start,’ he urged. ‘Put words on a page. Thoughts, feelings, words you like or don’t like. What you ate for breakfast. It can be a stream of consciousness. Just write.’
He looked around the library, before finding the historical fiction bookshelf.
‘Excellent, you’ve got it.’ He pulled out a weighty volume and put it in her hands. ‘Samuel Pepys kept his diary for nine years. He started it on New Year’s Day 1660. He wrote almost every day through wars, plagues and fire, so what I’m saying is—’
‘All right, all right,’ Joyce laughed in surrender. ‘I get the picture.’
‘Why don’t you read it? It might inspire you.’
‘I’m the librarian; I ought to be recommending books to you.’
‘I already know what I want,’ he grinned, stepping closer. His right cheek dimpled, and Joyce swallowed.
‘Oh yes, what’s that?’
‘Lord Byron, “She Walks in Beauty”. Do you have it?’
‘In the poetry section.’
‘I’ve read it a thousand times.’
‘So why keep reading it?’
‘Because it speaks to my battered heart,’ he grinned, clutching his chest. ‘The world is so damn ugly right now it helps to cling to the beautiful things in life. Soppy sod I am. Come out with me tomorrow?’ he asked, his eyes dancing. ‘I’d like to show you my favourite library in London.’
The question took her off guard. ‘I can’t. I’m working.’
‘Says here you close at one p.m. on a Sunday,’ he said, pointing to the poster with the library opening hours.
‘Well, I-I have laundry,’ she said defensively, flipping the book open and stamping it.
Harry took the book and grinned. ‘I’ll pick you up at Camden Library at one p.m.’
The air-raid siren started up and he sighed deeply. ‘Here we go again. Best be off. Read Samuel Pepys.’ He smiled, full of mischief. ‘History has the answers. By the way. You look sensational in that dress.’
He picked up his slim volume of poetry and left, the air shimmering in his wake.
Back in Swiss Cottage underground, Adela and Joyce were surprised to find a festive party in full swing.
A Christmas tree had been erected in the booking hall, paper chains strung along the bunks and down in the tunnels, a conga line snaking its way up the eastbound platform, at the head of which was Mitsy.
‘Cooey, come and join us darlin,’ Mitsy trilled, a feather boa trembling at her neck.
Mitsy and her gal pals – Lilley and Rosie – congaed past, leaving the scent of Phul-Nana perfume and smelling salts in their wake.