The Librarian

by Salley Vickers

  Her boss, Mr Booth, the Senior Librarian, met her in the hall. ‘Welcome to East Mole. I hope you’ll be as happy here as I am.’

  Ashley Booth had been a part of the interviewing panel when Sylvia applied for the job. A heavy-jowled man, wearing a bow tie and with liberally Brylcreemed hair, he had not given an impression then of any great contentment with his lot.

  ‘Miss Blackwell, what characteristic would you say is most important in a children’s librarian?’ he had asked her.

  Sylvia had said that she thought it was maybe imagination. Mr Booth’s response to this had not promised well. ‘Imagination is as imagination does, Miss Blackwell,’ which, when you thought about it, Sylvia said to herself, made no sense.

  Anxious to put any bad feeling behind them, she smiled now and said she was sure she would be happy in East Mole. Mr Booth’s expression suggested that might be doubtful. He escorted her to a chilly little L-shaped room furnished with a couple of scruffy armchairs and a Formica-topped table on which stood a bottle of Camp coffee, some assorted cups and saucers and an ashtray advertising Bass beer.

  ‘This is the staff room. There’s a gas ring down the hall for tea or coffee. I don’t know if you smoke but if so here’s the place. Obviously we don’t allow it in the library.’

  Years of concealment from her parents had sapped Sylvia’s natural candour. ‘Oh, I don’t smoke.’

  Mr Booth’s expression suggested he was not to be taken in by this. ‘Our part-timer does. Like a chimney.’

  ‘Part-timer?’

  ‘Mrs Harris,’ Mr Booth said darkly.

  The Tillotson legacy had allowed for substantial premises and the Children’s Library, down the corridor and past the Reading Room, had a large room to itself.

  Sylvia’s brief inspection on the day of her interview had revealed an outdated collection, much of which would hardly pass for children’s reading in the twentieth century. Sir Walter Scott, for example, occupied several shelves; also Dickens, Shakespeare and John Ruskin, including a number of copies of his three-volume The Stones of Venice, a work which few of even the most enthusiastic adult readers manage to complete. Charles Kingsley, Mrs Molesworth and other once-fashionable Victorian writers known for their concern for the higher morality were also heavily represented.

  The rest of the books, she saw now, were well-known favourites: Little Women, Heidi, Biggles, Just William, Billy Bunter, several copies of The Swiss Family Robinson muddled in with a popular series about a girls’ chalet school in Switzerland and quantities of Enid Blyton.

  That the Children’s Library was allotted a much larger budget than she had had at her disposal in Swindon had made the position especially appealing to Sylvia; but first the books already there needed to be got into better order. Whatever system of cataloguing had been in place appeared to have been long abandoned. Apart from the solid rows of Dickens and Walter Scott and the lofty Victorian moralists, the other authors had apparently been put back on the shelves anyhow.

  At lunchtime, Mr Booth appeared in the staff room, where Sylvia was eating sandwiches. ‘How was your first morning? I trust you got on all right.’

  ‘I think we maybe need to re-catalogue the whole library, Mr Booth – I mean, the children’s part only, of course.’ Her boss’s expression indicated that if she chose to act like a madwoman it was her own affair. ‘I was wondering if maybe the part-timer, Mrs Harris, you mentioned, could help?’

  ‘Do I hear my name being taken in vain?’

  A stocky middle-aged woman was standing at the doorway. Her scent, gardenia, or something equally pungent, filled the room.

  ‘Dee Harris at your service. Diana by birth but my friends know me as Dee.’

  Mr Booth frowned. ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Harris.’ He made no introduction so Sylvia introduced herself.

  ‘Brave girl coming here. They couldn’t get anyone else. He won’t like me telling you that’ – Mr Booth’s frown deepened – ‘but all’s fair in love and war.’

  Sylvia, who had read some Freud, sensed a history beneath this apparent irrelevance. But at least the part-timer seemed well disposed towards her.

  ‘I was wondering if you might help me to reorganise the children’s section?’

  This apparently struck Mrs Harris as hilarious. ‘That’ll take a month of Sundays and no mistake. Hasn’t been seen to since God knows when.’

  She directed a look at Mr Booth, who returned a furious stare and left the room.

  Mrs Harris laughed again. ‘No love lost between yours truly and His Lordship.’

  3

  Sylvia was a little puzzled to learn that in Dee’s case ‘part-timer’ meant volunteer.

  ‘You mean you’re not paid?’

  ‘Doesn’t bother me. It means His Lordship can’t sack me.’

  ‘But why would he want to sack you? Surely extra help should be welcome.’

  ‘You’ve a lot to learn about Ashley Booth!’

  The work of reorganising the books in the Children’s Library was, as Dee had intimated, a major undertaking and she offered to come in some evenings to help out.

  ‘It gets me out of the house when he’s off with his boys.’ Her husband, she explained, ran a club called the Woodlanders for the male youth of East Mole.

  To aid the task, Dee had brought in some cardboard boxes from the local grocer’s. ‘Osborne’s deliver Tuesdays and Thursdays,’ she explained. ‘Means I can walk home with nothing heavier to carry than a packet of Senior Service. God knows who we can palm some of this lot off on.’

  Sylvia had suggested that maybe to gain space Sir Walter Scott and Ruskin could be sold off. ‘They’re not exactly children’s reading. And the one book by Ruskin you could say is suitable, The King of the Golden River, isn’t here.’

  ‘I think you’ll find they’re all Tillotson legacies which under the Trust we have to house.’

  Sylvia had heard mention of a Trustee at her interview. ‘Who is this Trustee exactly?’

  Dee shrugged. ‘Some old relative of the Tillotsons. His Lordship trots her out when he wants to get his way.’

  Sylvia had turned her attention to Charles Kingsley. ‘I suppose people do still read The Water Babies but I’m not sure about Mrs Molesworth.’

  The flyleaves of Mrs Molesworth and her fellow moralists were inscribed with uplifting messages in faded ink.

  Sylvia opened A Child’s Illustrated History of Palestine and read out, ‘ “To dear little Edith, May you walk for ever in the Paths of Righteousness. From her Loving Cousin Win.” Oh dear! But The Trail of the Sandhill Stag, and all the old Ernest Thompson Seton animal books can certainly stay.’

  Dee was on a chair, inspecting an upper shelf. ‘We could quietly ditch most of these – they’ve not been taken out for donkey’s years. Stories of the Patriarchs, Jesus at Play, I ask you!’ She took out Stories of the Patriarchs and opened it. A dead moth fell out. ‘Christ Almighty! I wonder how long that’s been there. Caring for Your Guinea Pig. How about this one? The Joys of Obedience. I can see that going down a treat with today’s kids, I don’t think!’

  ‘Maybe not The Joys of Obedience,’ Sylvia conceded, ‘but someone might be very glad of a book about guinea pigs. What about your husband’s Woodlanders?’

  Dee guffawed. ‘All they’re interested in is tits and we’re not talking the feathered variety.’

  With the books somewhat better organised, Sylvia felt it was time to tackle the borrowers’ details. Their cards were lodged in a solid-looking oak filing cabinet but when she tried it none of the drawers could be opened.

  Mr Booth looked irritated when she asked what she should do about this. ‘I’m sure I don’t know, Miss Blackwell.’

  ‘But how do we keep track of the books? To be frank, Mr Booth, it isn’t at all clear exactly who has what.’

  ‘I really can’t answer for how it was managed. Miss Smith was in charge of all that.’

  Miss Smith, Dee had confided, had left her employment after rumours of a nervo
us collapse.

  That evening Sylvia called round at the Hedges’.

  Mr Hedges was fixing the gate in the front garden. ‘Evening. Our twins swing on this and it comes off its hinges. You’re our new neighbour.’

  Sylvia agreed that this was the case.

  ‘Go in, do. The door’s open if you don’t mind dogs. The wife’s inside.’

  ‘Actually, Mr Hedges, it’s you I’m hoping can help me.’

  She explained about the filing cabinet. ‘I was wondering if I could maybe borrow some tools.’

  Mr Hedges said to call him Ray and that if she went in he would join her once he had seen to the blasted gate.

  Hysterical barking met Sylvia as she opened the door and a pair of excited Scotties rushed at her ankles. A voice from the kitchen shouted, ‘Melanie, Misty, get down.’

  With Melanie and Misty still yapping at her feet, Sylvia found her way to a kitchen, where June Harris was hanging washing on a wooden airer.

  ‘Sorry about them. D’you like dogs?’

  Sylvia, who had vainly pestered her mother for a pet, said that she did.

  ‘I’m not a dog fan myself but he’s always had dogs and the kids like them.’

  The Hedges children summoned for supper reintroduced themselves. Or rather Sam did. ‘That’s Jam and that’s Pem.’ The little girls looked solemn as their brother collapsed on to the floor in a fit of laughter. ‘Bet you can’t tell which is which now.’

  ‘Samuel, behave yourself,’ his mother said indulgently.

  Sylvia explained why she had come. For all her children’s apparent ignorance of books, June Hedges seemed abreast of the goings-on in the library.

  ‘Miss Smith, the one before you, left very sudden. Funny little soul. They say your boss and her were – you know.’ June made a suggestive face.

  Although Sylvia was familiar with adultery in literature, she had so far had no knowing encounter with it in life. ‘Mr Booth? But isn’t he married?’

  ‘No one’s hardly seen the wife. He keeps her locked away, unless he’s done her in.’

  ‘Like Bluebeard?’ Sylvia wondered. She found Mr Booth’s appearance and manner repellent and wasn’t sure whether to be alarmed or intrigued by this glimpse of a shady side to her boss’s character.

  Ray came in and requested tea. He kicked out Melanie and Misty, who had been masturbating frenziedly against Sylvia’s shins. ‘Blimming dogs. Now, what exactly d’you need these tools for?’

  Ray, his wife had explained, being an electrician, was handy. It was agreed that he would go down to the library to see what he could do about the filing cabinet.

  ‘Can I come?’ Sam was lying under the table, kicking the underside. The twins had disappeared into their bedroom.

  ‘Miss Blackwell doesn’t want you bothering her, Samuel.’

  But Sylvia was delighted at the chance of a new recruit. ‘I’d be glad to show Sam the library. And it’s Sylvia, please.’

  ‘Not when Miss Blackwell’s working, mind,’ June ruled.

  Ray biked over to the library with Sam on the handlebars the following evening. Sylvia was sitting outside on the steps waiting for them.

  ‘Lovely evening. Makes you glad to be alive.’ Ray, it appeared, had the happy knack of ready enjoyment.

  A company of birds with raggedy wings were performing swooping ellipses in a near-cloudless sky. Sylvia pointed to them. ‘The birds look as if they think so too.’

  Ray had taken off his cap as if out of respect for the wheeling birds. ‘Rooks. My old dad, God rest his soul, used to shoot them for rook pie. But I’d rather see them like this.’

  Sam said, ‘Rook pie! Grandad made us eat it when we went round Saturdays.’ He made a retching sound.

  ‘Now, now,’ said his father.

  The filing cabinet turned out not to be locked at all but merely jammed with great wodges of cards. Ray prised the drawers open with his screwdriver.

  It looked as if at some point a mouse had got in: most of the cards were fretted at the edges. Somehow, water must have penetrated, leaving them stuck together in inseparable clumps. Sylvia spread them out on the library table.

  ‘You could try drying them out in the sun,’ Ray suggested.

  Sam was looking at the shelves of books. ‘Are there any comic annuals?’

  ‘No,’ Sylvia said. ‘But there’s other books you might like.’

  She tried to interest him in Biggles but he waved that aside contemptuously and picked out a copy of Coral Island. ‘What’s this about?’

  ‘He’s been to the Isle of Wight,’ his father explained.

  ‘I don’t honestly know, Sam. It’s supposed to be a classic but to tell you the truth I’ve never read it.’

  Sam opened the book, skimmed a page and put it back. ‘You got anything about pirates?’

  ‘There’s this.’ Sylvia took Treasure Island from the box Dee had labelled ‘Give Away’. ‘We seem to have several copies so you can have this one if you like.’

  ‘What do you say?’ Ray looked meaningfully at his son who was flicking through the pages.

  ‘Does anyone get put to death in it?’ Sam asked.

  Sylvia carted the library cards back to number 5, where she peeled apart as many as she could before deciding to abandon them. It was a fine evening so she took her supper of biscuits and cheese outside. One of the donkeys in the field ambled over to the fence and stood observing her with its large brown eyes.

  The closest Sylvia had come to a donkey was in the school production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream when, wearing a papier-mâché ass’s head, she had been wooed by Rita Shepherd as Titania. Slightly nervous, she offered the living creature a cream cracker. The black whiskery lips rolled back to reveal gleaming spotted gums and a set of long yellow teeth. But the donkey snaffled up the offering most delicately from her palm.

  ‘That one’s Doris. She’s safe enough. You want to watch Boris, though. He can bite.’

  A man, perhaps in his late sixties, was looking into her garden. The evening sun, shining through a fuzz of hair around a pink freckled scalp, gave him a gingery aura.

  ‘Jeremy Collins, from number 4, your immediate neighbour.’

  ‘I’m Sylvia Blackwell,’ Sylvia said, noting the ‘immediate’.

  ‘I’m the chair of the Library Committee,’ her neighbour announced. ‘I read your references.’

  ‘Oh,’ Sylvia said, wondering if she should thank him for his support, though it was by no means clear from his expression that he had given it. ‘I was very pleased to get the job.’

  Her neighbour ignored this. He gazed past her at the savage-looking nettles which marked Mrs Bird’s grandfather’s rhubarb patch. ‘You’re going to have your work cut out with that garden.’

  ‘To be honest I feel a bit overwhelmed.’

  Mr Collins’ pale eyes swivelled round to a leggy shrub growing out of the kitchen wall. ‘That buddleia wants seeing to or it will pull down the brickwork.’

  ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘They spread like nobody’s business.’ His little mouth, a petulant pink rosebud, reminded her of a portrait she’d once seen of Henry VIII.

  ‘I’m afraid I’m not much of a gardener,’ Sylvia confessed. Perhaps this could be a bond with her ‘immediate’ neighbour. ‘Maybe you could advise me, Mr Collins, what to do with it.’

  ‘Poison,’ said her neighbour and turned back towards his own buddleia-free garden.

  Boris, Doris’s supposedly more aggressive mate, wandered to the fence and stood there, stockily expectant. Ignoring her neighbour’s warnings, Sylvia offered him a cream cracker. The donkey stared at her placidly then softly hoovered up the biscuit from her hand.

  Sylvia laid her hand against the donkey’s warm shaggy neck. ‘You’re not a danger, are you, Boris? You’re as gentle as a lamb.’

  She had taken a book outside with her supper but now she set it aside to watch the small birds threading deftly through the maze of brambles, occasionally daring, not too near he
r feet, to flit down to peck up crumbs. One tiny bird, perched sentinel on a high-flung bramble, began to throw its thin voice out into the yellowing sky. It was not, she thought, an especially tuneful sound; it was more like the syncopated syllables of some old language – possibly an ancient Eastern one, whose script would be hieroglyphic – that with diligent study she too might be able to acquire.

  Across the fields she heard the East Mole Town Hall clock chime. The shade of a moon had risen and was hanging in the light sky like a tissue-paper globe lantern. Peace seemed to drop around her with the dew as she sat planning her new life and all she meant to accomplish at the library.

  4

  ‘Can you suggest where I might put up notices, Dee? I want to try to attract more children to the library.’ It was one of Dee’s days for coming in.

  ‘You could try the Co-op Guild or the WI.’

  Next to the stationery cupboard was a Roneo machine, which worked by laboriously turning a cumbersome rolling drum to make copies in purple ink. Impossible to use, Sylvia found, without badly staining one’s fingers.

  She had prepared what she hoped was an all-purpose announcement:

  EAST MOLE CHILDREN’S LIBRARY

  MONDAY–FRIDAY 9 A.M.–5.30 P.M.

  SATURDAY 9 A.M.–12.45 P.M.

  NEW READERS AND OLD

  ANY AGE ALL WELCOME

  Sylvia Blackwell

  Children’s Librarian (by appointment)

  The ‘by appointment’ was an afterthought and possibly rash.

  She was busy duplicating copies of this when Mr Booth found her. Dee had counselled against advising him of this step.

  ‘He’ll only find a reason to object.’

  ‘How can he object to my raising the library’s profile?’

  ‘He’ll find one, you’ll see, or you can cut my legs off and call me Shorty.’

  Mr Booth picked up one of the notices and clicked his teeth. ‘Where do you propose displaying these, Miss Blackwell?’ So there was to be no threat to Dee’s legs.

  Sylvia explained her plan to approach the Co-op Guild and the WI.