The Librarian

by Salley Vickers

  ‘That ash’s dropped half its branches on your roof – looks like most of the tiles are gone. And if those timbers aren’t rotten my name’s not Raymond Hedges.’

  ‘Oh no, the plum!’ Sylvia was looking at the splintered trunk.

  Ray examined it. ‘That’ll have to come down. Pity. It’s been there since I was a lad.’

  ‘Did you live here as a child, Ray?’

  ‘Three generations of Hedges there’ve been now, living at number 3.’

  Mr Collins’ roof had also suffered, though not as badly as Sylvia’s. His aged apple tree, however, unlike the plum, had survived. There was no sign of their neighbour.

  ‘Since the fox’s death I’ve hardly seen him,’ Sylvia said. ‘Do you think he’s gone for good?’

  ‘Good riddance, if he has. But he goes to his sister’s in Hungerford. Likely he’s there.’

  Sylvia walked into town with the Hedges children, navigating fallen branches along the towpath. People were out surveying the storm’s devastations and gloomily predicting the cost of repairs. The children peeled off to the school and Sylvia reached the library to find the ornamental cherries flattened along the grass, which was littered with debris and broken tiles.

  Mr Booth met her with a long face. ‘I’m afraid the damage is very severe. Water has penetrated the Adults’ Library and much of the plaster has come away. The Children’s has suffered no obvious damage.’ His tone seemed to suggest that Sylvia should apologise for this.

  It was decided that as much of the Adults’ Library as could be housed there should be moved to the Children’s. Sylvia went round to the Birds’ house, bone-weary after a day of pushing trolley-loads of books, to ask what was to be done about number 5.

  She met Mrs Bird on her doorstep, about to set out in her little feathered hat. Her landlady was keen to relay details of damage inflicted by the storm.

  ‘Mrs Brent’s greenhouse is in bits. Glass everywhere. They’ve had to close the swimming baths and half the tiles came off the roof of the biscuit factory.’

  ‘I’m afraid it looks as if the roof’s completely gone on number 5, Mrs Bird, and most of the windows on the west side are blown in.’

  ‘Don’t you worry, I’ll get Joe down the lane to come round. We must thank the Lord no one was killed.’

  She hurried away to see to one of her daughters whose chimney had fallen in.

  Nothing was said about where Sylvia was to sleep while Joe saw to the roof. Sylvia felt she could hardly impose upon Sam’s bedroom for more than a night. But in the Co-op, where she had gone to buy shortbread as a thank-you to the Hedges, she met Dee.

  Dee was looking extra smart in a new suit and patent heels. She had had her hair permed and her formerly bushy eyebrows had been plucked to thin semicircles.

  ‘I could have done with you today, Dee. Mr Booth had me moving books till I thought my arms would drop off.’

  Dee looked awkward. ‘I’m sorry, I had to stay home. I was having the locks changed.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I’ve kicked out my husband and I didn’t want him wangling himself in behind my back. He only left yesterday so I had to get the locks seen to pronto.’

  Unsure how to greet this news, Sylvia said nothing.

  Dee hesitated and then said, ‘It’s been on the cards for some time – long story,’ and went on hurriedly to say that from what she had heard on the wireless the damage over the whole of the south of England was severe. ‘How did your cottage hold up?’ she asked.

  Sylvia, concerned to spare Dee’s feelings, launched into a detailed account of the damage to number 5. ‘I’m not sure where I am going to go. Mrs Bird rather shut down any conversation about that.’

  ‘Thelma Bird’s a chancer. By rights she should be putting you up at her expense but, look, you’re welcome to come and stay at mine.’

  ‘Dee, are you sure? That would be marvellous.’

  ‘You’ll be company. There’s a spare room and there’s his room now too. It goes without saying I’ll change the bedding.’

  Over supper that evening, after Ray had helped transport her few things from number 5, Dee enlarged on the history of her marriage.

  ‘There were separate bedrooms from the word go. His idea. I was too green to read between the lines.’

  ‘How long have you been married, Dee?’

  ‘Twenty years it’ll be in October. God knows how I stuck it out. Mind you, when Cyril proposed, I was so grateful I accepted without thinking twice. I thought no one else would have me.’

  Sylvia’s bike had been a casualty in the storm. Walking to work from Dee’s one morning, she heard footsteps behind her.

  ‘Well, you’re fit,’ Hugh Bell said, catching her up, a little out of breath. ‘I’ve been racing after you. What are you doing here?’

  Sylvia, whose heart seemed to be trying to escape her body, managed to explain about the storm. ‘Mrs Harris is very kindly putting me up.’

  ‘I hope the damage to your cottage isn’t too serious.’

  ‘It’s far worse at the library. We’ve had to move the Adults’ section into the Children’s.’

  ‘We were in Caernarfon, visiting the castle – it was Marigold’s last days of holiday. The storm passed clean over Wales so we knew nothing about it until we got back.’

  Sylvia racked her brains for something intelligent to say. ‘Has Marigold started at her new school?’ Marigold, she had divined, was a subject her father was always happy to default to.

  ‘We’ve said she must give it a go. I asked her what the other girls were like and she described them as “mostly wet”. I’m hanging on to the “mostly” in the hope that there are at least a few saving souls among the benighted pupils of St Catherine’s.’

  ‘Sam will miss her,’ Sylvia said. She hoped she was betraying nothing personal with this remark.

  ‘Yes, they hit it off, those two. We’re hoping she might make some new friends now. Not that …’

  He looked embarrassed and Sylvia said, ‘Of course she needs to make other friends.’

  They parted at the High Road, where he left her, saying that while she stayed with Dee they were ‘practically neighbours’ and he would hope to ‘enjoy’ her ‘company again’.

  Sylvia walked the rest of the way to the library mulling over these few conversational fragments. It was apparent to her that Sam was not considered a suitable friend for Mrs Bell’s daughter. It was even less likely that she would be considered a fit person to mix with the Bells. And yet there was something, she was almost sure she hadn’t imagined it – Hugh Bell seemed to like, even to want, her company.

  In the process of exploring the havoc caused by the storm, years of deterioration in the whole fabric of the library building had been revealed.

  ‘The survey found extensive dry rot,’ Mr Booth divulged. ‘There may even be deathwatch beetle.’ He sighed as one who shouldered great responsibilities. ‘We are having to convene an Extraordinary Meeting of the Library Committee. I’m afraid your school Reading Project will have to be postponed, Miss Blackwell.’

  For the time being, as Dee said, they had to muddle along. Moveable shelves on castors were brought in and as many as possible of the adult books were allocated a place on those in the Children’s Library. With Dee’s help Sylvia managed both the libraries while Mr Booth was in long discussion with the various firms who had been approached to give estimates for the repairs.

  The truce between Dee and her boss gave every sign of holding. On more than one occasion Sylvia spotted the two of them in close conversation. Though not incurious, she was not the sort to ask nosy questions. But Dee brought the subject up one evening over supper.

  ‘I dare say you’ve been wondering about me and Ashley Booth.’

  Sylvia, feeling that, as a guest, diplomacy was called for, said untruthfully, ‘Not especially.’

  ‘It’s what led to me showing Cyril the door, if you want to know.’

  Sylvia, who didn’t much want to know, sa
id nothing.

  ‘Ashley and I buried the hatchet – if that’s what you’d call it.’ Dee gave a yelp of laughter. ‘As I said, there’s been precious little how’s your father between me and Cyril since the day we got married. You wouldn’t guess it but Ashley’s a bull in bed.’

  At this unwelcome image, Sylvia blushed deeply.

  ‘Anyway, I thought, what the hell. That’s why I gave Cyril the boot. He can’t complain, he knows fine well I’ve grounds.’

  ‘I’m sure,’ Sylvia agreed. ‘Shall I clear away?’

  But Dee was tasting the peculiar pleasure of confession. ‘I used to cover for him when questions were asked. “It’s not having a son of his own,” I’d say, when people started to wonder why he was always so keen on those boys. “He’s just being affectionate.” People’ll believe anything.’

  ‘Shall I make us some Nescafé?’ Sylvia asked, anxious to escape further revelations.

  ‘To my way of thinking, he didn’t do the kids any real harm,’ Dee said. She had kicked off her shoes, as if they represented past restraints. ‘I’d never have let it go too far.’

  Sylvia, who was beginning to discover that concern and indifference were not the antitheses she had hitherto supposed but could go hand in hand within the breast of the same apparently decent person, wondered how Dee would know if things had gone ‘too far’. Her train of thought was interrupted by Dee saying suddenly, ‘Just so you know, Ashley might drop round the odd evening. I thought I’d better warn you.’

  ‘He’s not planning to come when I’m here?’ Sylvia was now thoroughly alarmed.

  ‘I was more hoping you’d understand if I asked you to spend the odd night away. It won’t be too often. He has to find an excuse to put his wife off the scent. How’s your love life?’

  To Sylvia’s dismay she began to colour again. ‘I haven’t got a love life.’

  Dee raised her new-plucked eyebrows. ‘You could’ve fooled me!’

  As days passed into weeks, Sylvia began to miss number 5 badly. Dee’s hospitality scarcely made up for her garrulous late-night confiding, the stuffy bedroom and the terror of possibly encountering a naked Mr Booth. Nor was the proximity of Hugh Bell any compensation. If anything, she had come to dread meeting him in the mornings, when he appeared so friendly and affable while she became so tongue-tied. She found too that however much she practised when alone and for all he had urged it she was unable to address him aloud by name. ‘Hugh’ seemed too frighteningly intimate; ‘Dr Bell’ no longer quite fitting.

  He had enquired during one of their morning encounters about the children’s book he had asked her to recommend. ‘Have you had thoughts on my book yet? I’m in need of re-education.’

  ‘Oh, I’m still thinking.’ As if she had not spent half her waking moments on this question.

  ‘I hadn’t intended it to be a burden, Sylvia.’

  The mere sound of her Christian name from his lips made her want to bend double, hooped with desire.

  One morning when she caught sight of his angular frame striding ahead of her faster than usual she sensed that something about him was different. Perhaps it was the set of his shoulders. Slightly steeling herself, because she was still in fear of seeming foolish, she quickened her pace and caught up with him as he was about to cross a road.

  He glanced down at her and nodded acknowledgement.

  They crossed the road together in silence. Holding on to her fraying nerve, she suggested, ‘It’s a nice morning.’

  It was already October and the East Mole weather prophets, noting the profusion of berries in the hedgerows, were predicting a cold winter to come. But now it seemed an Indian summer had set in. Sylvia had abandoned her coat.

  Hugh Bell met this remark with a blank look, then said, ‘Yes, I suppose so.’

  Abashed, Sylvia made as if to go on, but he stopped her with a hand on her arm. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve, we’ve had ructions at home.’

  ‘Oh,’ Sylvia said, and waited.

  ‘The mother of one of Marigold’s classmates rang us last night to rescind an invitation for Marigold to have tea at the girl’s house. It’s all some petty schoolgirl quarrel but we, I, anyway, challenged her about it and she screamed at me and rushed out of the house. Jeanette thinks the other girl’s to blame but I felt we should try to get to the bottom of it.’ He frowned and said, ‘She seems to rub her peers up the wrong way.’

  ‘Sam likes her,’ Sylvia said. ‘He likes her a lot.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I know.’

  ‘When number 5 is finally fixed,’ Sylvia said stoutly, ‘if it ever is, Marigold must come round again.’

  The repairs to the library were also hanging fire and, while the Reading Room had been converted to house some of the overflow, which Len was occasionally summoned to oversee, it looked as if the amalgamation of the Adults’ and Children’s Libraries would have to be continued for some months.

  ‘Months? Years more like,’ was Dee’s view.

  She arrived one morning pushing a trolley on which a long cabinet rested. ‘The Restricted Access collection. Where shall I put it? We don’t want the kids getting to these.’

  The Restricted Access section of the library consisted of those books which while not banned outright by the Censor were nonetheless considered unsuitable for the open stacks and for which readers had to put in a written request. The books could only be read under surveillance at the library, which in the case of East Mole meant exposing your reading tastes to Mr Booth.

  ‘What are the books anyway?’ Sylvia couldn’t help being intrigued.

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine. The only one I caught a glimpse of was The World of Susie Wong.’ Dee manoeuvred the cupboard into a niche beside Hobbies. ‘It should be safe enough there. The kids never borrow those.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve noticed. I wonder why not.’

  ‘Have you looked at them lately? Kids nowadays don’t want to make model trains out of tin cans or knit pincushions. They want rock ’n’ roll.’ Dee swung her hips. ‘ “Rock around the Clock”, Bill Hayley and His Comets.’

  ‘Would you like me to ask June’s dad to take a look at your roof?’ Ray asked Sylvia when on yet another visit to Field Row it was evident that the repairs to number 5 had still not got under way. ‘It could be next Christmas before Thelma Bird’s Joe gets round to it.’

  ‘Dad’s had to replace half of those timbers,’ June said over a cup of tea in number 3’s kitchen the next time Sylvia called to survey her home. ‘Rotten through and through. Just as well there was the storm, if you ask me. The roof could have fallen in on you any time.’

  Finally, on the Friday before the autumn half-term, Sam came by after school to say that number 5’s roof was fixed and that his mum had said he was to ask if Sylvia wanted help moving back.

  ‘That’s wonderful news, Sam. I’ll ask Mr Booth if I can leave early.’

  But Dee said there was no need to bother him. ‘I’ll stay and man the boats. You get off and fetch your things. You can leave the door key on the kitchen table when you go.’

  Sylvia was surprised by the upsurge of warmth she felt for number 5 when, with Sam manfully lugging her suitcase, she caught sight of the redbrick. Unlocking the front door, she was met with an even bigger surprise. The kitchen and sitting room were freshly painted. The threadbare rugs on the sitting-room floor and the pink chenille on the sofa had disappeared and the musty odour had been replaced by a pleasing smell of distemper.

  ‘Goodness, who has done all this, Sam?’

  ‘Me, with my grandpa. Mum slung the rugs and that out – she said they stank to high heaven. Grandpa’s mended your bike too.’

  ‘How kind you all are.’ For a moment Sylvia felt overwhelmed. ‘It’s such a treat to be back, Sam. I hadn’t realised how much I’d missed it – and all of you next door.’

  ‘Next door but one,’ Sam corrected her, but he looked pleased.

  June came to the door to invite her for supper. ‘It’s Friday, so it’s fish and chi
ps. Rock or hake? Ray’s about to go off for them.’ She stepped inside and looked round the sitting room. ‘Looks a lot better without those old rugs.’

  ‘I can’t thank you enough, June. And I must thank your father too, it’s …’ For a moment she struggled but, seeing June look tactfully away, managed, ‘I only hope Mrs Bird pays your father.’

  ‘She won’t dare not. Dad’s on the Housing Committee and Thelma Bird’s eldest’s applied for council housing.’

  ‘It’s a pity your father’s not on the Library Committee.’

  June said if there was anything Sylvia needed to know then he would find out for her.

  ‘I was wondering about the timetable for the library repairs. Mr Booth seems to want to keep us in the dark.’

  ‘I’d have thought your Mrs Harris could find that out,’ June suggested. ‘She’s been seen around enough with him since she gave that husband of hers his marching orders.’

  16

  Autumn was in full flush: the trees were glorious in copper, ruby and gold and the East Mole children were sent out with enamel basins to gather blackberries to be baked into pies and windfalls for apple crumble. Sam filched sweet chestnuts from boarded-up number 2’s tree and he and the twins went blackberrying with Sylvia and gathered hawthorn for its crimson berries and sprays of dog rose for the scarlet-and-orange hips.

  ‘My mum made those into rosehip syrup,’ June told her. ‘We were dosed with it every winter against the cold after we moved here. But you get it now on the National Health.’

  A mild autumn melted into a foggy November. Sam and the twins wheeled round a guy dressed in a pair of Ray’s discarded pyjamas, in the twins’ old pram, asking for pennies. Sylvia was invited to number 3 while they burned the guy on a bonfire from which satisfying machine-gun volley of loud retorts issued from bangers strategically placed amid the newspaper stuffing.

  After one particularly loud explosion, Mr Collins poked his head over the fence and June offered him a shovel of chestnuts roasted in the embers, which he refused.

  ‘Shirty!’ June said, a little too loudly.

  ‘SHIRTY SHIRTY SHIRTY,’ the twins yelled.