The Librarian

by Salley Vickers

  He unfolded his long frame again and went over to the phone to call an ambulance.

  ‘It’s almost worth crocking my back for,’ Dee whispered to Sylvia. ‘I’m smitten.’

  Once Dee had been carried off on a stretcher, attended by Dr Bell, Sylvia began to unpack the books she had ordered. But her thoughts lingered on the tall doctor with the sensitive hands. Although his smile was warm, his expression in repose had a melancholy look about it.

  Once, on the Tube to Ruislip, travelling home in a heat wave, she had put her hot face to the open window at the carriage end and met a man’s face, oddly familiar yet not in fact known to her, at the open window of the adjacent carriage. For some minutes, as the train rattled along, they had looked into each other’s eyes and she had fancied she had seen in his a reciprocal light of recognition. She had hovered by the Tube doors at the next stop, hoping he might alight there, ready to jump off to join him. But if he had indeed left the train she had missed him and when she went back to the window the face was gone.

  Sometimes, not too often, Sylvia thought about that man. She found herself recalling him again as she unpacked The Eagle of the Ninth.

  It was a book that had failed dismally at Swindon but she hoped to have more influence in East Mole. Her own dry-as-dust school history lessons had left her so bored that more than once after a night-time’s reading, she had fallen asleep and been set many detentions accordingly. Rosemary Sutcliff’s characters fell in love. History was much more convincing somehow when there was love involved.

  When June came round to number 5 that evening Sylvia was outside, reading Warrior Scarlet.

  ‘Do you have to read all the books then?’

  ‘I don’t “have to” read any of them. But I like to keep up with the new ones coming out.’

  ‘What’s that one about?’

  ‘A boy in the Bronze Age with a withered arm.’

  ‘Nasty!’ June made a face.

  ‘Especially as he has to kill a wolf single-handed to become a member of his tribe.’

  June made another face. ‘Makes you glad you’re not living then, doesn’t it? There’s a boy had polio in Samuel’s year. Timmy Sutcliff, poor little mite. He has to peg along in a leg iron.’

  ‘Oh, but this book is written by a writer called Rosemary Sutcliff. She spent most of her life in a wheelchair. Timmy might be interested.’

  June looked sceptical. ‘He’s in the C stream. I don’t think they can hardly read. Here, Sam’s Miss Williams sent you back a note. And I’ve brought you some of Ray’s greens.’

  ‘Are you sure, June? There’s a lot there.’

  ‘To be honest, you’ll be doing us a favour. The twins won’t touch them and Ray’s not that keen. Mind you, I was the same, till I fell pregnant with Samuel and then I forced myself.’

  ‘I expect that’s why he’s so brainy,’ Sylvia said. She told June about Dee’s tumble.

  ‘Nasty! She’s heavy too. Has she broken anything?’

  ‘I don’t know. I spoke to her husband but he wasn’t very forthcoming.’

  June became confiding. ‘There’s rumours about him,’ she said. ‘And those boys he has in his club.’

  ‘I hope they aren’t true.’

  ‘You don’t know, do you?’ June said. ‘People love to talk. All I know is Samuel wasn’t keen to join.’

  Miss Williams’ note suggested that Sylvia should call by the staff room during the dinner break. When Sylvia arrived at the school the following day, it was playtime. Children were chalking squares for hopscotch, turning skipping ropes, kicking balls, tossing jacks and shrieking cheerfully. She spotted Sam and waved at him but either he didn’t see her or the playground conventions prevented him from returning her greeting. Lizzie, however, called out ‘Hello, Miss!’ and waved vigorously back in answer to Sylvia’s wave.

  She knocked at the staff-room door and waited. Someone inside could be heard saying, ‘I give the new maths till the end of the year,’ and an answering voice said, ‘It’ll be all change again if they kick out Macmillan’s government.’

  The door was opened by a pretty full-bosomed woman. ‘You must be Sylvia. I’m Gwen Williams.’

  ‘Oh, hello.’ For a moment Sylvia was taken aback. From Sam’s account, she had put his teacher’s age at past forty.

  ‘Pleased to meet you at last. I’ve heard plenty about you.’ Sylvia’s thoughts flew anxiously to Mr Booth. ‘Nothing to worry about. Glowing reports, in fact. You’ve quite won young Sam Hedges’ heart.’

  ‘I haven’t done anything …’

  ‘He’s bright as ninepence but I’ve been at my wits’ end trying to motivate him and you’ve somehow captured his interest in a matter of weeks.’

  Gwen suggested they nip outside. ‘It’s a fug in the staff room. I smoke so I can’t complain but by the end of the day your clothes reek.’

  Sylvia accepted a cigarette, saying she hoped they wouldn’t run into Mr Booth. Sam’s teacher appeared to know all about Sylvia’s boss and was greatly amused when Sylvia explained about the foxes and her neighbour’s threat.

  ‘That Mr Collins thinks he’s somebody because he’s a councillor and used to work up in Birmingham before he retired.’

  ‘What did he do? I can’t understand why he’s Chair of the Library Committee.’

  ‘Search me. My guess is he was the only one they could get to do it and he and your boss are pals. Don’t they play bowls together?’

  Sylvia reported the Hedges’ remark about Freemasons.

  ‘Could be that. They’re all bonkers, aren’t they? Anyway, it’s a smashing plan to involve our children in your foxes – they love anything like that – but are you sure you want hordes descending on you?’

  ‘If it protects the foxes. And it’s a chance to meet my potential clientele.’

  Gwen patted her on the back and called her ‘a sport’. ‘I owe you a drink for this. You must come down the Troubadour one evening.’

  It was agreed with Gwen that the fox-watching project should be restricted to the pupils of class 3A, but Lizzie was excepted. She came round to number 5, unaccompanied, the following Saturday afternoon with a Brownie 127.

  ‘I had it for my birthday from my grandad. I’m going to take photos of the little foxes for my album.’

  Sam, who had joined them, stared enviously at the camera. ‘Can I have a go?’

  ‘My nan says I mustn’t let anyone else handle it in case it breaks.’

  Sam made a dismissive face. ‘My grandad had a Leica he got off a German in the war.’

  The little foxes obligingly posed in winning combinations about the lawn while Lizzie snapped them with her Brownie. Sylvia went inside to make the children drinks. When she came out voices from the bottom of the garden told her the children had decamped there so she settled to read some examples of the 11+ papers that Gwen had loaned her.

  Complete the following well-known phrases and sayings:

  A rolling stone …

  A stitch in time …

  There’s many a slip …

  She turned the page to the passage set for Comprehension: a dreary account of some convicts being shipped off to Australia.

  ‘What crimes had the convicts committed to be sent away? What do you think it would feel like to be put in chains?’ Very probably not unlike a child required to sit the 11+.

  The children did not reappear so she walked down to the bottom of the garden.

  Lizzie was sitting cross-legged, drawing in her exercise book. Sam was making critical observations over her shoulder.

  Sylvia looked and saw a sketch of the vixen lying in the sun.

  ‘That’s really good, Lizzie.’

  ‘She hasn’t got the size quite right,’ Sam said.

  ‘But the face and the prick ears are perfect.’

  Sam had had enough of this. ‘I thought we were going to do Comprehensions.’

  Sylvia decided to leave the convicts to their fate and try the children out on the proverbs.
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  ‘ “A rolling stone …”?’

  Lizzie looked stricken.

  ‘Might hit someone on the bonce,’ Sam said, and laughed loudly.

  ‘That’s very probably true, Sam, but unfortunately it’s not the answer they want.’ She recited the proverb for them.

  ‘What does it mean?’ Sam said. ‘I don’t get it.’

  ‘It means that if you flit about and don’t settle down, you …’ But here her powers of explanation failed. What did it mean, really? And were stones helpful similes for human beings in all their complexity?

  ‘What’s moss got to do with it?’

  ‘You know, Sam, I don’t really know either. It’s what’s called an image.’

  Lizzie had gone over to the back-door step and was examining the large stone under which, Mrs Bird had explained, the spare key was kept. ‘This has got moss on it.’

  ‘Yes. So, you see, that stone stays put. It’s not, for example’ – Sylvia had a happy inspiration – ‘like the stones you kick into the canal, Sam.’

  ‘So what?’

  Sylvia capitulated. ‘So maybe it’s best just to learn them by heart.’

  Sam said that if Lizzie liked she could come round to his and watch the football. The pair of them went off, chanting, ‘Too many cooks spoil school din dins – There’s many a slip on to your B T M!’

  A mellow sun was still high in the sky and Sylvia decided to stretch her legs. Other claims had so far prevented her from exploring the deserted foundry but now she took the path to its remains.

  A profusion of flowers, pink, white and blue, embroidered the long grasses by the rutted track and she stopped and picked some, wishing she knew their names. She passed a field where cows were grazing and in another field a single white horse stood, staring philosophically into the distance.

  ‘Good luck to you, good luck to me, good luck to that white horse I see.’ She spoke the words aloud, touching her collar as she did so.

  The foundry gates were fastened with a rusty padlock. She climbed over and jumped down.

  Swallows were swooping after insects and chittering around the ruins and she stood watching them, shading her eyes against the sun, enjoying the warmth on her shoulders and bare arms.

  A man in khaki army shorts with a gold-brown spaniel appeared from behind the foundry ruin. ‘Miss Blackwell?’

  ‘Dr Bell!’ She had not recognised him at first.

  ‘Marigold and I are here on a recce.’

  His daughter appeared, carrying a piece of rusted iron. ‘What’s this, Daddy?’

  Her father examined it. ‘I’m not sure, poppet. Looks as if it could be a part from the ill-fated winnower.’

  ‘You’re the librarian,’ Marigold pronounced. The spaniel looked up expectantly. ‘This is Plush.’

  The three of them, with Plush sniffing at water-rat holes, strolled along the canal bank, where Marigold picked flowers and taught Sylvia their names.

  ‘This is red campion and that’s white. This purply-bluey one is a kind of vetch, I’m not sure which exactly, there are tons of different ones, and that’s viper’s bugloss.’

  ‘She’s terrifically well informed,’ Sylvia remarked to her father.

  ‘Fiendishly so.’

  He was too polite to express obvious pride but it is almost impossible, Sylvia thought, for people to conceal their feelings about their children. ‘Does Marigold have any brothers or sisters?’ she enquired.

  A hint of a shadow crossed Dr Bell’s face. ‘No, she’s our one and only. I try not to spoil her …’

  ‘I expect spoiling is better than neglect.’ This was not quite a true expression of Sylvia’s feelings but she felt an impulse to reassure him. ‘What school does she go to?’

  ‘She’s at the local primary but we’re moving her to a private school in the autumn. She’s already a year above her age group and way ahead of the others in her class.’

  He looked so apologetic that Sylvia felt bound to ask, ‘Isn’t that a matter for rejoicing?’

  ‘I’d prefer that she mixed with all sorts. The girls at St Catherine’s are a certain type, if you know what I mean.’

  Marigold ran up to point out to Sylvia some tall purple flowers growing on the bank on the far side of the canal. ‘That over there’s loosestrife. It’s in Hamlet. The queen says it – “long purples” – and that there that looks like a kind of cow parsley is hemlock. Socrates drank that when he was put to death. He was –’

  ‘Yes, I know who Socrates was,’ Sylvia interrupted, feeling a need to keep her end up. ‘Oh, look.’

  A streak of azure blue had caught her eye. She bent down and detached a feather caught on a sticky burr. ‘What is it?’

  Dr Bell took it from her. ‘A jay’s feather.’ He examined it, twirling it round in his long fingers, and then placed the feather carefully on her outstretched palm.

  She stood with her other hand cupped around the miniature work of nature’s art. ‘It’s beautiful.’

  Looking up, she saw he was smiling at her. ‘Yes. Beautiful.’

  They had reached the towpath and it had begun to rain. Large spots dropped down on to their heads. Marigold stuck out her tongue to catch the drops.

  ‘I’ll leave you here,’ Sylvia said. ‘But Marigold, if you need any books on’ – she tried to think what might tempt the girl – ‘ancient Greece or anything, do come and ask’.

  Walking back past the white horse, she touched her collar again. ‘Good luck to you, good luck to me, good luck to that white horse I see.’ Who knows, it might bring luck whether or not you believed it.

  9

  There had been no news of Dee since her accident and after some days of hearing nothing Sylvia decided to call at her colleague’s house after work.

  Dee answered the door in her dressing gown. Her face, without its customary patina of face powder, looked strangely vulnerable.

  ‘Sorry, I look a fright but I haven’t got the energy to put on my war paint.’ She showed Sylvia into a room, where many china ornaments were on display.

  ‘I’d offer you tea but I can hardly lift the kettle.’

  Sylvia said she could make tea for them both. ‘How are you, Dee?’

  ‘It’s a disc. I’ve been flat on my back here. I’m bored out of my mind.’

  Sylvia said that Dee mustn’t think of coming back to the library till she was recovered. ‘What does the doctor say?’ She felt an inhibition at referring to Dr Bell by name.

  ‘Him! He’s bloody useless.’

  ‘He seemed very efficient.’ Sylvia felt indignation on behalf of the tall doctor who had dealt with Dee so kindly.

  ‘Not Dr Bell. He’s all right. A bit of all-right too.’ Dee laughed coarsely. ‘I got returned to Dr Bloody Useless. He diagnosed my neighbour with a boil when she’d broken her arm. How’s His Lordship?’

  ‘Oh, much as usual.’

  ‘He’ll be pleased as punch to have me off sick.’

  ‘Why has he got it in for you, Dee?’

  ‘He’s like that.’

  This was true enough. Sylvia went through to the kitchen to boil a kettle. When she came back with a tea tray Dee was stretched out on the sofa. She struggled to sit back up to take a cup.

  ‘This is nice. Cyril does his best but the truth is he can’t wait for me to get back to work.’

  Dee’s accident seemed somehow to have produced an increased intimacy. Sylvia said, ‘I am very grateful for all your help, Dee, but I can’t help wondering why you bother, given how Mr Booth behaves.’

  Dee put down her cup. ‘It’s like this. When he first started here at the library I was his assistant. In fact, I ran the Children’s Library.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I’m not trained but I like books and I like to get out of the house so I applied for the job and he took me on.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘There was this weekend conference in Birmingham. He suggested I come, to give me more idea about “the workings of librarianship�
��, as he called it. Anyway, we had a bit to drink one night and well, one thing led to another.’

  Sylvia, too astounded to speak, said nothing.

  ‘So we had a bit of a carry-on,’ Dee said.

  ‘Goodness!’

  ‘Goodness hadn’t much to do with it. Anyway, his wife found out and he told her I’d thrown myself at his head. The cheek of it. As if I would!’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘No, you don’t. I was going to leave Cyril for him. His idea, not mine. Cyril and I, well, we’ve separate beds, always have had – his idea, not mine – and Ashley said it was the same for him and his other half.’

  ‘And he just dropped you?’

  ‘He sacked me. He got the Library Committee to say it was because I wasn’t trained – and he hasn’t had a good word for me since. I only took on volunteering to embarrass him. He can’t refuse because he’s got Len Salmon – who’s a bit, you know, odd in the head, and can’t get paid work – to help him for nothing when he’s off on one of his sprees. Bloody exploitation.’

  ‘But it must hurt you,’ Sylvia said, who had observed her boss bullying a bowed man in too-short trousers, ‘him being like that.’ She was indignant at this tale of loss and treachery. ‘And it must be horrid for you seeing me in your job.’

  ‘Oh, bless your heart, I’m long over that – and His Lordship. What I like nowadays is being a thorn in his side. He tried it on with your predecessor too, poor little Smithy. I found her crying her eyes out in the cloakroom so I told her what happened to me. It’s why she left.’

  June had hinted as much. This confirmation of Mr Booth as a latter-day Lothario was disquieting.

  ‘Don’t worry, he won’t try anything on you,’ Dee said, reading her mind. ‘You’re too young and too pretty. Poor Smithy was a scrawny little body and even in my heyday I was no oil painting.’

  When Sylvia got back to number 5 she found Sam in the garden with a group of strange children.

  ‘They’ve come to look at the foxes,’ he announced. ‘But they haven’t got their notebooks.’ He was enjoying his classmates’ ignorance of the proper forms.