The Librarian

by Salley Vickers

  ‘I’ve got plenty of paper. I’ll fetch you some,’ Sylvia offered. ‘What are your names?’

  ‘She’s Miss Blackwell,’ Sam explained to the other children. ‘But I’m allowed to call her Sylvia.’

  Sam’s classmates had studiously copied down what Sam told them to write on Sylvia’s Basildon Bond and had been given lemon barley and Digestive biscuits and been packed off back home. Sam, however, lingered, swinging on the gate.

  ‘D’you want to test me on mental arithmetic?’

  ‘Not really just now, Sam.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘All right. Multiply 7,296 by 479.’

  Sam screwed up his eyes for a moment. ‘Easy. 3,494,784.’

  ‘Goodness, Sam. If that’s right then you’re a genius.’

  ‘I’ve been top at arithmetic three years running.’

  ‘Well done. I was always near the bottom.’

  Sam looked pitying. ‘Girls are no good at arithmetic. There’s five of us boys top of the end-of-year tests – me, Micky O’Malley and three others – before you get to a girl.’

  ‘I expect the girls do better at reading, don’t they?’

  Sam climbed to the top bar of the gate, balanced there a moment, then leapt down. ‘Reading’s not hard. It’s just boring.’

  10

  For all his protestations about reading being ‘boring’, Sylvia had observed Sam covertly consulting some of the battered old Ernest Thompson Seton books at the library. Perhaps this was prompted by his unofficial role as keeper of the foxes. Certainly he was punctilious in marshalling his classmates when they arrived at number 5, issuing diktats about the proper behaviour for animal observation and correcting misapprehensions about the fox cubs’ habits.

  Lizzie, too, came faithfully for 11+ coaching. She had improved considerably in her ability to grasp the Comprehension questions and she and Sam, who had elected to join in the sessions, could now be heard chanting the ‘well-known phrases and sayings’ in a litany.

  ‘Too many cooks?’ Lizzie would begin.

  ‘Spoil the broth!’ Sam would declaim.

  ‘A stitch in time?’

  ‘Saves nine!’

  Sam coached them both in arithmetic. He explained how to do long division, a skill that Sylvia had never fully mastered, and begged them to pose him complex multiplication sums, which he solved in his head.

  It was decided by Mrs Bird that to steady her nerves Lizzie should come over to number 5 for a final run-through before the first 11+ exam. Lizzie was deposited at the library and Sam joined them and steered them to Osborne’s, where, in view of Lizzie’s coming ordeal, Sylvia had promised the children could choose whatever they wanted for a special pre-exam tea.

  ‘Cherryade’s her favourite.’ Sam gestured at a mute Lizzie.

  ‘Are you sure this is what you want, Lizzie? It’s a horrible colour.’

  ‘She likes it. I like Tizer but I can live with Cherryade.’

  The three of them walked up the towpath together. Passing the lock-keeper’s house, Lizzie said, ‘My cousin lives there.’

  ‘Really?’ Sylvia was intrigued. ‘I’ve always rather fancied being a lock-keeper.’

  ‘He’s not her proper cousin,’ Sam said. ‘Her grandmother’s his great-aunt. Miss Williams says it’s important to be accurate.’

  Lizzie looked crushed and Sylvia said, ‘It’s also important not to be a know-all, Sam!’

  Sam ran off ahead and Sylvia and Lizzie walked on more slowly behind. Sylvia was in the middle of what she hoped was an encouraging pep talk when Sam came belting back along the path.

  ‘Miss!’

  Fright appeared to have banished informality. ‘What, Sam? What’s happened?’

  But for once Sam was speechless. He grabbed her hand and began to tug. They ran the rest of the way to number 5.

  ‘There!’ Sam pointed.

  The vixen was lying motionless on the lawn. It was apparent to Sylvia that she was dead.

  Lizzie began to whimper and, white-faced, Sam shouted, ‘We have to take her to the vet.’

  Sylvia went over to where the animal lay and knelt down. Flies were already busying themselves about the corpse. ‘I’m afraid it’s too late for that, Sam.’

  She laid her hand on the stiff little body. Behind her, Lizzie set up a great howl.

  Sam, stricken, shouted again. ‘It’s not too late. Hurry, we have to take her to the vet.’

  ‘See, Sam.’ She laid his hand on the fox’s flank. ‘She isn’t breathing.’

  Tears welled in Sam’s eyes and ran unhindered down his cheeks. He flung himself on the ground. Unsure whom to comfort first, or how, Sylvia knelt there.

  After a while she said, ‘These things happen. We must give her a proper burial.’

  ‘Where are the cubs?’ The two children rushed to the bottom of the garden. The den was empty. ‘What’s happened to the cubs?’ Sam yelled.

  ‘I expect they’re hiding,’ Sylvia said. ‘They were almost grown.’ She didn’t expect this to be any solace.

  She was grateful when, having returned after escorting a tearful Lizzie home, there was a tap at her door and she opened it to Ray.

  ‘June said I was to bury the poor creature for you.’

  ‘Oh, Ray, would you mind?’

  Ray carried the vixen to the bottom of the garden, dug a trench and laid her out in it. The two of them stood looking down at the body, which looked pathetically slight in the clayey grave.

  Sylvia had said nothing in front of the two children but she was convinced that this was the work of her ‘immediate neighbour’, Mr Collins. ‘The awful thing is, Ray, I think this is next door’s doing.’

  Ray nodded. ‘That’s what June said. He’s a blighter.’

  ‘He suggested I poison them. Is Sam still very upset?’

  Ray nodded. ‘He’s like me, the lad, takes things hard. When we lost my dad’s black lab he was heartbroken.’

  ‘Do you think he’ll guess about next door?’

  ‘We’ll say nothing but he’s smart and he’ll work it out.’

  It was clear that Sam had worked it out by the following morning. He arrived while Sylvia was still eating breakfast.

  ‘I’ve tipped him the Black Spot.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The Black Spot. Like Blind Pew.’

  ‘Who have you tipped the Black Spot?’ Sylvia asked, knowing perfectly well.

  ‘Him next door. He’d just better watch out, that’s all.’

  On the day of Lizzie’s arithmetic exam Sam brought her round to the library after school. ‘I’ve had a look at her paper and I’d say she’s got about 75 per cent. She’s got the Comprehension tomorrow so she’s coming back with us when you finish work.’

  Sylvia was flattered. ‘You’ll do all right tomorrow, Lizzie. Just keep your head.’

  ‘And keep your hair on,’ Sam advised.

  Mr Booth was off on one of his mysterious errands and Len had been left in charge, so Sylvia sent him off early and locked up. She and the children walked back to number 5, reciting ‘Old Father William’.

  ‘You seem to know it, Lizzie.’ Sylvia was agreeably surprised.

  ‘She learned it for the exam,’ Sam explained. ‘She thinks she’ll get it again.’

  Lizzie blushed and said, ‘I never. I learned it ’cos I liked it, Miss.’

  They drank Cherryade and Tizer and ate chocolate fingers and swapped dirty rhymes, of which Lizzie had a surprising store.

  They were swinging on the gate, intoning, ‘Yum, yum, bubble gum, stick it up your mother’s BUM,’ when Sylvia held up her hand.

  ‘Shhh! Look.’

  A black nose was peeping through the hawthorn brake. The children froze.

  Sylvia stole inside and came out with a slice of corned beef. She tossed it on to the part of the lawn nearest the hedge. After a few minutes a wary cub emerged. He stood on the lawn, his black-tipped ears pricked, golden eyes narrowing. Then he sprang at the scrap of meat.
>
  ‘Oh Miss!’ Lizzie couldn’t contain her delight.

  The cub started, looked towards the gate for a second and then bolted down the garden.

  ‘He knew us.’ Sam was certain.

  ‘D’you think he did?’ Lizzie’s eyes were full of appeal.

  ‘I’m sure he did,’ Sylvia said. ‘He came to wish you luck, Lizzie.’

  ‘He did, didn’t he, Miss?’

  ‘None of the other children will have had a fox’s blessing,’ Sylvia assured her. ‘So you are going to be fine.’

  ‘So long as that pig next door doesn’t get his bloody hands on him,’ Sam said.

  ‘He won’t,’ Lizzie said. She was smiling. ‘Not now.’

  11

  With the 11+ out of the way the whole school could begin to wind down. Gwen Williams sent a note with Sam. He presented it to Sylvia, who was reading in the garden.

  ‘It’s to ask if our class can come to the library to find out about Stonehenge.’

  ‘You didn’t open the envelope, I hope, Sam.’

  Sam looked hurt. ‘It was my idea for us to come to the library in the first place. We’re going to Stonehenge for the end-of-year outing.’

  ‘Well done,’ Gwen congratulated Sylvia when she arrived with a crocodile of excitedly chattering 3A pupils. ‘You’ve managed to move the mountain. It’s been like getting into Fort Knox getting the kids in here. It’s going to make their lessons a whole lot more fun.’

  Sam, as Sylvia’s neighbour, assumed with her a collegiate manner. He conducted his classmates round the library, pointing out where books on ancient Britain and archaeology were shelved and offering advice on how to read a map and use an index.

  Gwen watched him with amusement. ‘I’m fond of that lad. He’ll go far. I wanted to ask, any chance you could come with us to Stonehenge? Sue Bunce, who teaches 4A, gets car sick so she asked if I could find someone else to act as watchdog with me. None of the other staff can leave their classes.’

  ‘It’s during my working hours,’ Sylvia explained.

  ‘Couldn’t you say it’s one of your library projects?’

  ‘I’d love to,’ Sylvia said. ‘I’ve never seen Stonehenge. But we’d have to close the Children’s Library. There’s no one to take over.’

  But after encountering Dee at the Co-op, Sylvia decided to take a chance. She tracked Mr Booth to the Reading Room.

  ‘Would you have any objection if I took next Wednesday off, Mr Booth? Only the school have asked for my help with a trip to Stonehenge. Mrs Harris is recovered from her slipped disc. I was wondering, perhaps she could be persuaded to come in for a day?’ She knew better than to ask for the loan of Len.

  Her boss blew out his cheeks in what looked like a preparation for refusal but only said, ‘There’s someone taking the Listener.’

  ‘At least, whoever the thief is, they’re cultivated.’

  This was a risk but to her surprise her boss only adjusted his bow tie and said, quite mildly, ‘If Mrs Harris is willing. It will naturally have to come out of your contractual holiday time.’

  And when Sylvia said, ‘Naturally, Mr Booth. I wouldn’t expect otherwise,’ he didn’t even look suspicious and walked off, whistling.

  Lizzie’s anxiety over the 11+ had been contagious. Sylvia was conscious of a relaxation in her own mood as the coach set off for Stonehenge. She and Gwen sat together in the front by the driver. The children, free from adult scrutiny, pinched and tickled each other, boasted about their packed lunches, identified passing cars and ignored the sights of nature which Gwen occasionally pointed out from her seat in the front.

  ‘I can’t blame them. They’ve grown up with the countryside. I was raised on a Welsh farm and at their age couldn’t wait to get away to the city smog.’

  ‘I’m the other way round,’ Sylvia said. ‘I came from a London suburb and I’m loving discovering birds and flowers.’

  Sam could be heard further down the coach, instructing the others about the various theories of who had built the henge. Someone mentioned Druids but Sam was scornful. ‘That’s just a made-up story.’

  Whoever it was who had designed and built Stonehenge, it was undeniably impressive. The children, when they arrived, stood almost silent in admiration at the sight of the vast obelisks encircling the smaller inner rings of standing stones.

  ‘How did they get those whopping ones up there?’ one boy asked, pointing up at a massive stone that bridged two mighty supporting pillars.

  ‘It’s a trilithon,’ Sam informed him. ‘It weighs about fifty tons. They did it with pulleys and ropes.’

  After a rather one-sided group discussion about ancient technology, in which Sam held the floor (‘To be honest,’ Gwen confided to Sylvia, ‘I didn’t really take in myself how they were supposed to have done all this’), the children wandered about, playing at being ancient Britons and inspecting modern graffiti on some of the standing stones. Gwen asked Sylvia to help her keep an eye on them. ‘I don’t trust some of them not to have brought penknives.’

  They ate their packed lunches, cracking hard-boiled eggs on the ancient sacred surfaces. Sam abandoned his pedagogic role and lay spread-eagled on the great central horizontal stone. ‘Look, Miss, I’m a human sacrifice.’ He was being careful, Sylvia noticed, to avoid using her Christian name.

  Gwen and Sylvia leant against one of the sarsen pillars, smoking and relishing the heat of the July sun.

  ‘Nice to see the little blighters enjoying themselves,’ Gwen said. ‘Only sports day and the school play to get through now. What are you doing for the summer holidays?’

  Sylvia had been in a quandary about the summer. Each week she received a letter from her parents detailing an account of their activities but lately the letters had included probing hints about the holidays.

  ‘My parents go to Cromer and I always go with them.’

  ‘I know. Mine are the same. But you have to be cruel to be kind sometimes.’

  Sylvia, who doubted the truth of this, said that she supposed so.

  ‘You don’t fancy coming to France? I’m going camping with a friend but there’s room for one more.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘My friend’s got an old Morris Traveller, plenty of space, and we could do with one more to share the petrol so you’d be welcome.’

  ‘I’ve never been abroad.’

  ‘Nothing venture, nothing win!’ Gwen had perhaps unconsciously picked up the 11+ fixation with well-known phrases and sayings.

  Sylvia had forgotten that Marigold, Dr Bell’s daughter, would be among the 4A pupils but now she saw her talking to Sam. Sam was gesticulating and looking heated, so Sylvia strolled over to see what was up.

  It seemed that Sam had met with resistance to his account of the Druids.

  ‘They did exist,’ Marigold was assuring him. ‘It was just that the Victorians spread a lot of make-believe.’

  Sam was having none of this. ‘My grandpa says that’s all baloney.’

  ‘Some of it may be. But that doesn’t mean Druids didn’t exist.’ Marigold smiled and Sam looked more belligerent.

  ‘I think you’re both probably right.’ Sylvia tried to smooth things over. But Sam muttered something incomprehensible and flounced off.

  Marigold grinned at Sylvia. ‘Boys don’t like being wrong.’

  ‘I don’t think anyone does, much,’ Sylvia suggested.

  After lunch Sylvia and Gwen took the children on a nature walk up the slope of the escarpment. Larks hovered trilling above them and chalkhill blue butterflies and brown fritillaries, identified for them by Marigold, danced over the warm turf, settling lightly on flowers. Marigold also named the flowers. ‘That’s a spotted orchid and that’s a bee orchid because it looks like a bee. These little yellow flowers are bird’s-foot trefoil – some people call them Bacon and Eggs – those pale blue ones are harebells, in Scotland they’re called Scotch bluebells.’

  ‘If she wasn’t really quite a nice kid you’d want to scrag her
,’ Gwen remarked.

  Marigold’s father was waiting when the coach arrived back at the school. He greeted Sylvia as she descended. ‘Good trip?’

  ‘Everyone seemed to enjoy themselves,’ Sylvia said. Her voice sounded in her ears unnaturally shrill.

  ‘I hope my daughter behaved?’

  ‘I explained to them about Druids,’ Marigold leapt from the coach step into her father’s arms.

  ‘I hope you weren’t a pain, poppet?’

  ‘She was a pain too,’ Sam said as he and Sylvia walked to the library together. ‘A right pain in the bum! Thinks just because she’s in the fourth year she can bloody swank.’

  Sylvia, who had forgotten that Marigold was young for her year, said, ‘She is older than you.’

  ‘She’s not,’ Sam said indignantly. ‘She’s the same age as me. Just ’cos her dad’s a doctor and her mum made a right fuss she got put up.’

  When they got back to the library they found Dee unpacking a fresh consignment of books. Sylvia picked one out. ‘You might like this, Sam, it’s new – about a boy called Tom.’

  Sam opened the book and flicked through it. ‘It’s about a girl!’ He pointed to an illustration of a young girl in Edwardian dress.

  ‘It’s about a boy and a girl. But there’s this – about two boys.’ She handed him a Geoffrey Trease.

  ‘That’s history.’ Sam’s spat with Marigold had put him in a bad mood.

  He took down from the General shelf a tome about falconry, which Sylvia had considered relocating to the Adults’ Library, and went and sat in a corner.

  ‘How was your day?’ Sylvia asked Dee.

  ‘Pretty quiet, as it goes.’

  ‘Any trouble with –’

  ‘Cue for Treason – what’s this about?’ Dee had picked up the book Sam had rejected and seemed to be examining it.

  ‘It’s about some boys who get to know Shakespeare and prevent a plot against Elizabeth I’s life,’ Sylvia said, a little surprised. She had not thought of Dee as especially taken with historical fiction. Indeed, Dee’s taste seemed mainly to be for sensational thrillers or popular romances of a suggestive kind.

  Dee put the book down. ‘I’ll finish up here. You get off home.’