The Librarian Read online

  ‘I suppose the Co-op was Mrs Harris’s idea?’

  ‘I’ve talked this over, naturally, with Mrs Harris, Mr Booth. She’s been very helpful writing out the names for the new borrowers’ cards.’

  ‘I don’t believe we can say that “all’ are “welcome”. There are, for instance, gypsies.’

  Gypsies sounded romantic. ‘Goodness, are there gypsies in East Mole?’

  ‘There have been. Some of our valuable Ruskins disappeared. And, I believe, a first-edition Carlyle.’

  ‘Surely not from the Children’s Library, Mr Booth?’

  The plum-coloured veins on Mr Booth’s cheeks deepened. ‘In our benefactors’ day Carlyle was read by children. We had a number of handsome volumes.’

  ‘Gypsies, my eye! More likely he sold them,’ Dee said, when Sylvia reported this conversation. ‘He sells them off to a chappie in Salisbury who deals in antiques. He’ll have cooked up that story about gypsies to explain their disappearance.’

  ‘Really, Dee?’ Even Clive Henderson at Swindon would have had more respect for the books.

  ‘Like I said, you’ve a lot to learn about Ashley Booth.’

  Sylvia was sitting in the garden enjoying the last of the sun and the sound of birdsong, when June Hedges called round with a trug of wallflowers.

  ‘I thought you might like these to drown out the smell of damp indoors.’

  It was true: number 5 did smell dank. Sylvia inhaled the scent of the velvety gold and tawny flowers. ‘Thank you, June. These are gorgeous.’

  ‘Ray grows them between his bean rows. I’ll bring some of them round when they come on. We have runners coming out of our ears.’

  June stayed for a cup of tea.

  ‘Do you know anyone in the Co-op Guild or the WI, June? I’m trying to get more children to use the library and Dee suggested I might recruit their support.’

  ‘The WI’s easy. My mum’s a member, though she’s poorly and not been able to get there lately. The Co-op Guild I think you have to be Labour to join.’

  ‘Are you not Labour?’ Sylvia was surprised.

  ‘Ray votes Tory. He says Macmillan was educated to know how to run the country. Mind you, next door’s a Tory councillor and Ray can’t stand him. My dad’s a Labour councillor – he grew up in the East End. I don’t really bother.’

  ‘You don’t vote?’

  ‘What’s one vote going to do?’

  Sylvia, whose twenty-first birthday had fallen just before the last General Election and who had met her first chance to vote with excitement, felt slightly put in her place. ‘I suppose if everybody thought that …’

  ‘I know what you’re thinking. “People better than you went to prison for you to get the vote.” Dad says that.’

  June stretched and smiled comfortably at her own shortcomings. With the sun on her big bare arms, she looked for a moment like a pagan goddess. I don’t know anything, Sylvia thought. All this carry-on about the library just makes me sound silly.

  ‘Sam’s really taken to that book you gave him,’ June said suddenly. ‘I’ve never known him read a book before. He made us die laughing last night, tapping round the table with my umbrella, playing some blind fellow. Ray was in fits.’

  The following day, as Sylvia was wheeling her bicycle past number 3, June called out to her to say her mother had had a word with the chairwoman and Sylvia was welcome to attend the next meeting of the WI which was to be held that evening.

  To fill in time after work, before her assignation, Sylvia decided to treat herself to supper. Eating out on her salary was a luxury so she explored the possibilities with care. She ruled out Patsy’s Tea Shoppe, too many dark beams, and settled on the ABC, which was brightly lit and promised value for money.

  The only other diner was a large elderly woman sitting by herself save for a whippet arranged in graceful lines at her feet. The woman looked up as Sylvia came in and nodded.

  Sylvia, forbidden a live dog, had had for years an imaginary whippet called Malt. She stopped now to stroke this real live whippet’s pale flank. ‘Hello, you.’ The whippet looked up with mild hazel eyes at this new friend. ‘What’s her, or his, name?’

  The whippet’s owner was eating a scone and took some moments chewing it before she spoke. ‘She is Sylvia.’

  ‘Oh, but that’s my name. Sylvia Blackwell.’

  The woman nodded. ‘Yes, I supposed you were she.’

  The large woman seemed disinclined to further conversation so Sylvia found a table and ordered tomato soup and a roll.

  The WI met in the Assembly Rooms around the corner from the library. Refreshments were under way when Sylvia arrived. She accepted a cup of instant coffee and a Rich Tea biscuit from a tiny woman who introduced herself as the Membership Secretary.

  ‘I was detailed to look out for you. I’m Ivy, Ivy Roberts, you’ll soon pick up the other names, though’ – her voice dropped – ‘the chairwoman, Mrs Brent, likes to keep things formal.’ She shepherded Sylvia to the front of the rows of chairs. ‘We’re thrilled to have such a young potential new member. You’re down to speak in Other Business.’

  The items on the agenda were the branch contributions to World Refugee Year and an invitation to the new General Secretary, a Miss Alison King, to visit East Mole.

  Ivy nudged Sylvia. ‘The previous Gen. Sec., Dame Frances, resigned. We never managed to entice her here but we have high hopes of Miss King.’

  The motion that the branch should collect for World Refugee Year was passed without objection but tempers were more taxed over the proposal that the new General Secretary should be invited to visit the branch.

  Competition for a stake in this event was heated. One member claimed a connection to Miss King’s family. ‘Not a blood relation, no,’ she conceded on being closely interrogated, ‘but a friend of my cousin’s was at school with her cousin during the war.’

  Another member in a stylish hat and a good deal of costume jewellery, made a new bid. ‘My husband will be delighted to drive the General Secretary up from town.’

  ‘Her husband drives a Packard,’ Ivy confided to Sylvia.

  The chairwoman put an end to growing discord by announcing that the matter would be postponed till the next meeting in order to ‘allow time for Miss Blackwell, our new Children’s Librarian, who has kindly come to address us tonight’. She afforded Sylvia a regal smile and indicated that she should come forward to address the meeting.

  The WI members, thwarted in their hostility towards each other, prepared to turn it instead upon this interloper. Armed with suspicion, they were all set to dismiss anything she proposed which, if her age and appearance were anything to go by, was bound to be some modern nonsense.

  Sylvia, recalling her father’s advice when teaching her chess – ‘Remember, a pawn is worth sacrificing for a chance at a queen’ – set aside her prepared speech.

  ‘To be honest, Mrs Brent, I’m really here to ask your advice.’ The mood of the room palpably relaxed. ‘I’d like to encourage more children to join the library and it would be such a help if your members could kindly spread the word among your children or grandchildren.’

  ‘That went down well,’ Ivy said as the meeting was disbanding. ‘You must come to tea some time,’ she added, getting in hastily before Mrs ‘Packard’, who was hovering.

  Mrs ‘Packard’ took a card from her handbag. ‘Do telephone us. Geoffrey and I would love to see you at one of our soirees.’ She smiled at Ivy and moved away.

  ‘Thinks she’s God All Bloody Mighty with her blessed soirees,’ Ivy said. ‘Excuse my language.’

  Sylvia’s instinctive sympathy was always with the underdog. ‘Actually, Ivy, I can’t telephone her. I haven’t got a phone.’

  With the WI seemingly supportive, Sylvia decided that the local school should be her next target. The Hedges children attended East Mole’s primary school so she went round to number 3 to consult.

  ‘What’s the best way of approaching the school, would you say, June?�
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  ‘Mr Arnold’s the head. You’re welcome to use our phone.’

  ‘I think I’d maybe better write.’

  ‘Sam’ll take a letter for you. You’ll take a letter for Miss Blackwell to Mr Arnold, won’t you, Sam?’

  ‘She said I could call her Sylvia.’

  ‘Not at school, Samuel, please, or Miss Blackwell won’t lend you any more books out of her library.’

  Sylvia had been disappointed to learn that the early success of Treasure Island had not lasted. Sam looked sheepish when she asked how he was getting on with it.

  ‘Did you not like it, Sam?’

  ‘That Blind Pew was all right. I didn’t like the boy, what’s his face.’

  ‘Jim Hawkins?’

  ‘Him. He’s sissy.’

  ‘What about Long John Silver?’ Silver had been one of Sylvia’s childhood favourites.

  ‘I didn’t get all that thingy with Squire what’s his name.’

  ‘I’ll have a think about another book you might get on with better,’ Sylvia promised.

  But if Sam was, at least at present, a reluctant reader, he was more than happy to be the bearer of a letter about the library to his headmaster. Mr Arnold, he confided, was respected by the boys at the school for his handiness with the cane.

  Sylvia had attended a genteel girls’ school which her parents had scrimped to afford. Its academic attainments were at best modest but it prided itself on not using corporal punishment. Sylvia, who had frequently been slapped by her mother on the back of her calves for minor misdemeanours, was dimly aware that children were punished with beatings but she was slightly disconcerted to hear of it first hand.

  ‘My friend Micky O’Malley had it for spitting,’ Sam told her proudly.

  Nevertheless, Sylvia bought Basildon Bond notepaper and matching envelopes in order to write to Mr Arnold. She composed the letter carefully.

  Dear Mr Arnold,

  As the new librarian at the Children’s Library, I want to encourage the local children to use it more freely. I would be delighted if any of your teachers would like to bring their class along so I can acquaint them with our collection of books.

  Yours sincerely,

  Sylvia Blackwell

  Children’s Librarian

  She read the letter through and added:

  PS I enclose an sae for ease of reply.

  On Dee’s advice, Sylvia had said nothing to her boss about her meeting with the WI but she could hardly keep quiet about possible parties of schoolchildren arriving at the library. This time she was braced for disapproval.

  ‘I don’t know about this, Miss Blackwell. I did request that you run any future arrangements past me first. We shall have to keep a very sharp eye on the books.’

  ‘Why is that, Mr Booth?’

  ‘Naturally, they will steal them or rip out the pages. A whole class let loose in the library is simply asking for trouble. I shall have to refer this to the Library Committee.’

  With the exception of Sylvia’s neighbour Mr Collins, the Library Committee was composed of those among the elected District Councillors of East Mole who could be cajoled into spending their evenings discussing the library’s resources rather than snoozing before the fire or playing darts at the pub. In terms of status, it was well down the Council Committee list, falling below even Sewerage and Waste Disposal. But if Mr Booth had lodged any objections with the Committee they could not have percolated through to the school. Two days later the postman delivered an envelope addressed to Sylvia in her own hand.

  Dear Miss Blackwell,

  I should be very glad to meet to talk to you about your proposal for the children.

  Yours sincerely,

  Keith Arnold

  5

  Mr Arnold had included a number to ring for Sylvia to make an appointment to visit the school and when she called round to ask if she could use the Hedges’ phone she showed his letter to June.

  ‘Nice writing. He’s a one for good handwriting. Sam comes home with his shirt cuffs stained in blue-black.’

  Sylvia was relieved that she’d taken the trouble to write with her fountain pen. ‘What’s he like, the headmaster, June?’

  ‘Strict but fair, I’d say. He was in the Navy during the war. Runs a tight ship.’

  Sylvia made no mention of Sam’s respect for the beatings. Instead, she offered to take the three Hedges children to see the library after her meeting with the headmaster, which had been arranged to take place just before the twins’ coming-home time.

  When Sylvia arrived at the school a group of girls in vests or liberty bodices and knickers were playing netball in the playground. One of the teachers was coaching them with the aid of a whistle. ‘Mark, Sheila, mark!’ Sylvia heard her shout, and then a sharp blast of the whistle: ‘Gaynor Richards, you’re offside!’

  She climbed noisy stone stairs to the Headmaster’s office, where his secretary offered her tea. ‘He shouldn’t be long. He’s talking to the Education Officer about the 11+ timetables.’

  Mr Arnold finished on the phone and came through to usher Sylvia into his room.

  He doesn’t look like a flogger, Sylvia thought. Aloud, she said, ‘Thank you for asking me in. I’d really like to encourage the children to use the library more.’

  ‘I’m with you on that front. It’s a question of how best to organise it. Since the war even here in East Mole the classes are large. We have over forty in both 4A and 4B.’

  Sylvia had read of the shortage of qualified teachers to match class numbers. The British had celebrated the end of the war with serious procreation. ‘Perhaps we could organise the children to come in groups? I have had a preliminary word with my boss, Mr Booth.’

  ‘To be frank with you, Miss Blackwell, we have tried in the past to enlist the help of the library in encouraging the children to read – very few of them have books at home – but we were informed that the Library Committee had expressed reservations.’

  He showed her to a classroom that was used as the school library.

  ‘As you see, our cupboard here is pretty bare. So if there’s anything you can do to involve the children with the library you have my full support.’

  When the bell rang to mark the Infants’ going-home time Sylvia was outside waiting for the twins. They rushed at her delightedly. Neither was wearing a ribbon.

  ‘I can’t tell which of you is which.’

  One of the girls pointed to a red star that had been gummed on to her frock. ‘I’m Jem.’

  The other twin giggled. ‘She’s not, I’m Jem.’ She pointed to an identical red star on her collar.

  ‘Why have you both got red stars?’

  ‘Mrs Stewart got muddled,’ one of the twins said, and doubled over with mirth.

  Sylvia, who remembered her own childhood, said, ‘Well, see if I care which of you is which,’ at which they stopped giggling and looked surprised.

  The twins were habitually overseen to school each morning by their brother, who was also charged with collecting them. The Juniors got out at four o’clock, half an hour later than the Infants. ‘Twins, what do you normally do after school while you wait for Sam?’ Sylvia asked.

  ‘We go to the caretaker’s office,’ one explained.

  ‘He gives us Rolos if we sit in his lap,’ the other confided.

  While they waited for Sam the twins climbed on to the railings outside the Juniors’ and poked their sandalled feet through the rails.

  ‘Don’t get your feet stuck, girls,’ Sylvia urged, and then saw her mistake when they began to stick their feet through with more enthusiasm.

  She was about to caution them again when Sam appeared. ‘They playing you up?’

  ‘Not really. But I’m glad to see you, Sam.’

  Sam and Sylvia sauntered along to the library while the twins skipped ahead, flapping their cardigans like fairy wings.

  Thursdays were Mr Booth’s afternoons off. Mindful of his request to be forewarned of any new venture, Sylvia had left a
note on his desk explaining about her meeting with Mr Arnold. So she felt caught out when they met him in the hall.

  He tutted at the twins, who were hopping round the tiles that ornamented the hallway floor.

  ‘I’m introducing some of the schoolchildren to the library, Mr Booth. Mrs Harris is kindly minding the fort.’

  ‘So I see.’

  ‘It’s a pilot scheme,’ Sylvia improvised. ‘I’ve been discussing it with the Headmaster.’

  Her boss flushed slightly. ‘I think I said, Miss Blackwell, I would be grateful if in future you ran these meetings past me first. I can’t stop now, I have an appointment with the Trustee.’ He hurried out, knocking into one of the twins.

  ‘Hey!’ Sam shouted after him. ‘Watch where you’re going, Mister.’

  The twin on the floor began to wail.

  ‘Get up! You’re not hurt.’ Sam took hold of her shoulders and shook her.

  The twin stopped crying and began to look around. ‘Is this a palace?’

  ‘In a way,’ Sylvia told her. ‘It’s a palace full of stories.’

  The twins scampered down the corridor and seemed genuinely impressed when they were shown into the Children’s Library. They stood quite still, taking the ‘palace’ in. The library was now in much better order. Sections were marked with handwritten notices according to age and there were special shelves devoted to Sport, Nature, Science, History and a section that Dee had just labelled General.

  ‘It’s for the books we couldn’t think where to put,’ she explained. ‘I’ll be off then, if you don’t need me. Good luck with those two.’

  ‘What is all they books for?’ one of the twins asked, looking amazed.

  ‘They’re for reading,’ their brother informed them. ‘If you behave, Miss Blackwell will let you take some books home.’

  ‘She said we could call her SYLVIA!’ the other twin yelled.

  ‘You be quiet now!’ her brother said. ‘Or you’ll go outside.’

  Sylvia took the twins over to the shelves marked three–five where they began to pull out the books on the bottom shelf to build a house.

  ‘Stop it! They’re not for mucking about with.’ Sam shoved a picture book into the hands of each twin. They seemed quite content with this treatment and sat on the floor sucking their thumbs and flicking over the pages.