The Librarian

by Salley Vickers

  ‘Shhh, you two. That’s rude.’

  ‘But you said it!’

  ‘It’s him on the fire,’ Sam confided in a whisper to Sylvia.

  The days crawled towards December. In the mornings, frost spangled the skeletons of trees, the hours of daylight grew shorter and the skies grew whiter and then darker. The East Mole children were sent to school in woolly hats and scarfs, and mittens threaded on elastic through their coat sleeves, their chapped knees and lips gleaming with Vaseline. Sylvia developed chilblains. And still nothing was said or done about the library repairs.

  With her return to number 5, Sylvia’s week had become more of a pattern. Nerves on edge, she waited, along with Sam, who had taken to accompanying her to the library on Saturday mornings, for the regular appearance of Hugh and Marigold Bell.

  One Saturday Marigold presented a book for date-stamping with a picture of a castle on the cover.

  ‘I love this,’ Sylvia said. ‘I’m not sure it shouldn’t really be in the Adult section.’

  ‘What is it?’ Hugh Bell picked up the book and read the title. ‘I Capture the Castle. Is it an adventure story?’

  ‘No. Not at all. Except maybe in a certain sense. It’s about a girl growing up. A rather unusual girl in rather odd circumstances. She lives in the castle with her eccentric family. You remember you asked me to recommend a book …?’

  ‘I’ve been waiting with exemplary patience.’

  ‘Maybe this one, then?’

  He scanned the first pages. ‘Right you are. I shall read this and deliver my verdict.’

  ‘You don’t have to like it,’ Sylvia said, feeling self-conscious now. ‘It’s more of a girls’ book.’

  ‘ “Girls’ book”? You can read it first if you like, Dad.’ Marigold went over to talk to Sam.

  Hugh winked at Sylvia. ‘Don’t take that personally. It’s part of her current anti-St Cat’s, anti-girly-stuff campaign. I shall read it and give you an honest report. And I wanted to say we are having some people for Christmas drinks in a couple of weeks if you’re free.’

  ‘When exactly?’ Sylvia asked, as if her diary might be full of competing delights. She was taken aback at being included among the Bells’ social circle.

  ‘Saturday the thirteenth.’

  Hoping she sounded poised, Sylvia said, ‘May I let you know?’

  ‘Sure. But do come. Jeanette has invited some crashing bores and we’re in need of yeast to leaven the mix. Come along, madcap. Miss Blackwell will be wanting to close up.’

  ‘Can I go back with Sylvia and Sam, Dad?’

  ‘ “Miss Blackwell”, please, and you can’t simply invite yourself round like that.’

  Sam looked pleadingly at Sylvia, who said at once, ‘Marigold is most welcome and, honestly, Sylvia’s fine by me.’

  ‘Only when she’s not at work, mind,’ Sam said. Even Marigold must be drilled in the proper forms.

  Marigold’s father said he would collect her around four, if that was all right by Sylvia, and the children ran off ahead along the towpath. By the time she reached number 5 they were swinging on her gate discussing the mistletoe on Mr Collins’ apple tree.

  ‘It’s a parasite,’ Sam was pronouncing.

  ‘I know that. Did you know that mistle thrushes are called that because they eat mistletoe?’ Marigold retorted.

  Sylvia, who guessed from Sam’s expression that he was ignorant of this ornithological nicety, said, ‘Honestly, Marigold, I wouldn’t recognise a mistle thrush if I saw one.’

  ‘They’re bigger than song thrushes,’ Marigold explained. ‘With darker speckles on their breasts. Did you know that, for the Druids, mistletoe was sacred?’

  Sam began to retort and, fearing a revival of the children’s squabble at Stonehenge, Sylvia said, ‘All I know about mistletoe is that you’re supposed to kiss under it. Now what about food for the two of you?’

  Sam asked if they could take it down to the bottom of the garden to their den.

  ‘Yes, but tell your parents that you’re round here first.’

  He came back from number 3 with some jelly cubes on an enamel plate and two jam jars of milk. ‘Dad said OK by him. I got us some jelly.’

  ‘I’ve never had it like that.’ Marigold sounded impressed.

  ‘We have it when there’s no pudding. Can we take your chess set, Sylvia?’

  ‘I haven’t seen them all afternoon,’ Sylvia said when Hugh arrived in the Hillman just after four. ‘They must be getting cold by now.’

  But other than two empty jam jars and Pavel Prager’s chess set, the den was empty.

  June had taken the twins to see her mother and Ray was watching Grandstand when Sylvia and Hugh Bell went round. Ray hadn’t seen the children all afternoon either.

  Sylvia began to become distraught. ‘I am so sorry. I feel dreadful. I thought they were playing chess or just playing.’

  Hugh said reassuringly, ‘I shouldn’t worry. They’ve probably gone to the foundry.’

  Ray looked grim. ‘It’s out of bounds for ours without an adult since a young lad drowned. Come on. I’ll take a torch. It’s getting dark.’

  But there was no one at the foundry either. Hugh and Sylvia combed the ruins and Ray explored the canal with his torch. They yelled till they were hoarse and Sylvia succumbed to tears.

  ‘I am so sorry,’ she kept repeating.

  Hugh touched her shoulder. ‘Don’t work yourself up. I think I’d know in my bones if anything bad had happened to Marigold.’

  ‘What’s going to happen to my son when we find him is a damn good hiding,’ Ray said.

  ‘Oh no, please,’ Sylvia begged. ‘This is my fault. I should have kept a proper eye on them.’

  But at that moment they heard running steps and two figures shot past them at the bottom of the track.

  ‘Samuel!’ Ray bellowed.

  The figures stopped. ‘Dad?’

  ‘Samuel, come here this minute!’

  ‘We just went into town,’ Sam said. In the louring light he looked scared.

  Marigold said in a simpering tone, ‘It was all my fault, Mr Hedges. Honestly. I persuaded Sam. We wanted to get something for Sylvia – for Miss Blackwell – so we didn’t want to tell her. We thought we’d be back before Dad came.’ Marigold’s bright, confident face shone in the torchlight.

  ‘Samuel knows better than to go into town without saying anything,’ Ray said, but he sounded relieved.

  ‘There wasn’t any need to get me anything,’ Sylvia said. She was touched by the children’s gesture.

  ‘We didn’t,’ Marigold said. ‘We couldn’t find anything nice enough, could we, Sam?’

  Sam said that no they couldn’t. He sounded sulky.

  ‘I’m sorry my madcap daughter gave you such a fright,’ Hugh Bell said, after stowing Marigold into the Hillman. ‘She’s a bit inclined to go AWOL. I’ll tick her off.’

  ‘Oh, please don’t,’ Sylvia said. She could still feel the touch of his hand on her shoulder.

  The following Saturday Marigold and her father didn’t make their usual appearance at the library. Sylvia lingered over the process of locking up in case they were simply late. Sam had not come either. She worried that the events of the week before had caused some trouble – especially in the Bell household.

  She had planned to go into Salisbury after work to buy something to wear for the drinks party – nothing she had already would do. Waiting for the bus, she saw a grey car approaching. It pulled up by the bus stop and Hugh Bell wound down his window. ‘Where are you off to?’

  ‘Salisbury.’

  ‘Hop in. I’m off there too.’

  She sat tongue-tied until he said, ‘We were sorry not to see you today. Marigold’s ill.’

  Relief made her fluent. ‘Oh dear, I hope it’s nothing serious.’

  ‘She’s come down with a nasty cough. Her chest’s her weak spot, so she’s been banished to bed.’

  ‘I hope she recovers soon.’

  The road into
Salisbury was winding and the mid-afternoon light poor. A low mist hung across the road. For some miles he said nothing more than ‘Are you warm enough?’ and ‘Not too draughty for you?’ but, turning on to the main road, he began to speak about I Capture the Castle.

  ‘It’s not a book I would ever have chosen for myself but I found it charming. And amusing. Very.’

  ‘Yes?’ She tried not to sound too pleased.

  ‘What’s the bestseller her father has written that’s a mixture of philosophy and poetry? That made me laugh out loud.’

  Sylvia said, ‘It was called Jacob Wrestling. I’m glad it made you laugh.’ She wondered a little if he’d finished the book. The ending, where devotion is allowed to go unrewarded, had left her melancholy.

  ‘The girl Cassandra is enchanting. How old is she? Seventeen? I suggested to Marigold she read it. For all her boasting, it’s a touch above her age range but she’s –’

  Grateful that her choice had proved a success, she interrupted him. ‘Oh, Marigold is quite up to it. I was fifteen when I read it, when it first came out, and I wasn’t half as sophisticated a reader.’

  ‘How old are you now, if that’s not an awfully impertinent question?’

  ‘Not at all,’ Sylvia said, blushing hideously. ‘I’m twenty-five in April.’

  ‘A mere babe in arms.’

  There seemed nothing to say to that.

  ‘What are you up to in Salisbury?’

  ‘Only some Christmas shopping.’

  They were passing through a village and an elderly couple started to cross the road, hesitated and stumbled back. Hugh stopped the car so that they could cross.

  ‘Not a good plan for a local doctor to run over the aged population of Wiltshire,’ he said as the man waved a tremulous thank-you. The car moved off again and he continued, ‘I don’t know if this would interest you but I have tickets for a concert in the cathedral this evening. Jeanette couldn’t come because of Marigold and I’m unlikely to be able to sell the ticket at this late date. It’s The Dream of Gerontius, Elgar, as of course you know, and a favourite of mine.’

  Intending to conceal her ignorance, she said instead, ‘I didn’t know it was Elgar, in fact. I’m a complete novice when it comes to music but yes, please, I’d love to come.’

  ‘That’s settled then. It starts at seven fifteen so perhaps you would allow me to give you an early supper? We’ll pass the George and Dragon when I drop you in the town centre. Is five thirty too early?’

  For the next couple of hours Sylvia was in a frenzy. She went from shop to shop desperately seeking the right frock for the drinks party and another she could change into for the concert. Thank goodness she had drawn enough cash out to be able to just about manage both. But what to choose? Something sophisticated for the drinks party? Something arty for the concert? The choices available to her, none too desirable in the first place, were made impossible by the turbulence of her mind.

  After struggling into and dragging off a medley of garments she settled on a slim green dress for the drinks party and a bolder full-skirted coral-coloured one for the concert. The latter looked all wrong with her sensible librarian’s shoes so with her last ten shillings she bought a pair of black patent pumps from Freeman, Hardy and Willis.

  The shop assistant was approving. ‘They’re all the rage in America. You off to a dance?’

  Sylvia explained it was a concert and the assistant said that might be nice too. She obligingly bundled up Sylvia’s old shoes with her skirt and blouse and let her retouch her lipstick in the staff cloakroom. Her serviceable navy coat now looked all wrong but, too bad, there was nothing to be done about that.

  Then there was the problem of finding the George and Dragon. In the confusion of shopping she had lost all sense of direction and arrived sweating and in a panic ten minutes late.

  She draped the coat over her arm and found Hugh sitting at the bar.

  ‘Well done, you made it,’ he said. ‘There’s no rush, it doesn’t in fact start until seven thirty. I misread the time.’

  He led her to a table and took her through the menu. At his suggestion Sylvia ordered steak-and-kidney pie but she refused beer.

  ‘Honestly, I don’t really like it.’

  ‘A G and T, then?’

  But she refused that too.

  Over dinner, he told her he had been visiting an old army friend. ‘He’s not too well, poor chap. A neurological disease and not a pretty one. I try to keep up his morale. We were both in the Medical Corps during the war and landed up together as POWs towards the end.’

  ‘You were a prisoner-of-war?’

  ‘For four years. My friend was captured at Dunkirk. He and I escaped together in the last weeks.’

  ‘Goodness. How?’

  ‘Nothing glamorous. We bolted from the line we were being led off in under SS orders and we thought, frankly, we’d bought it.’

  ‘Was it awful being a prisoner?’

  His face took on the melancholy aspect she had noted when Dee had talked about Hiroshima. ‘Pretty awful at times. But mostly because of what we heard about what was going on in the camps. For a time I was with some of the Jewish Brigade – the Jerrys moved us about – and these men had a fair idea of the atrocities. They were formidable.’

  ‘Jewish POWs?’

  ‘Oh, very much so.’

  ‘But not put in concentration camps?’

  ‘Not the soldiers, no. But they were conscious, of course, of all that was happening in the camps. Sure you won’t have a drink?’

  ‘I don’t drink much, not alcohol anyway.’

  ‘I think I’ll have another.’ He ordered a beer and when it came smiled and said, ‘It had its down sides, of course, being cooped up like a ruddy chicken, but it had its up sides. We enjoyed ragging the Germans. They couldn’t understand why, when we misbehaved and they doled out what they considered demeaning punishments, we all greeted them with roars of laughter. And we amused ourselves putting on plays and so forth. I made, I’m told, a passable Brutus.’

  ‘I like Shakespeare,’ Sylvia said, and wanted to sink through the floor. What an idiotic, vacuous thing to say.

  He smiled at her. ‘Me too. How about a brandy to warm you up before we walk to the cathedral? It’s nippy out and cathedrals can be cold as sin.’

  She had thought he hadn’t noticed her change of dress but when the brandy came he said, ‘That’s a charming colour. It suits you. What would you call it? Flamingo?’

  ‘The girl in the shop called it rose.’

  ‘I’m hopeless about women’s clothes. Jeanette always says so.’

  The mention of his wife closed down her power of conversation.

  It seemed to have closed down his too and they walked through the cathedral close in silence. The night was frosty and the stars behind the outlines of the soaring spire made splinters of light in the vast fabric of the sky. Sylvia, a little tipsy after the unaccustomed brandy, skidded in her new shoes and he took her arm.

  ‘Here. I don’t want to be ferrying you to hospital with a broken limb.’

  At the cathedral entrance he said, ‘Wait here a mo, would you mind?’ and went over to the man who was checking tickets.

  Sylvia stood in the vestibule of the great Gothic structure, her heart pounding. It was as if she was standing on tiptoe on the cliff edge of some momentous discovery. Stepping outside again, she peered up at the lofty shape of the spire reaching way up into the immeasurable dark.

  ‘You’ll need your coat on,’ Hugh suddenly said behind her.

  The wooden chairs stood in unmarked rows and he spent some time deliberating where they should sit.

  ‘I’ll get us some programmes. With any luck they’ll have printed the libretto. It’s awful tosh but I confess I’m a bit of a sucker for Newman.’

  She knew nothing about Cardinal Newman either and said so.

  ‘He made a stir by leaving the Anglican Church and going over to Rome.’

  He came back with two program
mes and Sylvia read the opening lines:

  Jesu, Maria – I am near to death,

  And Thou art calling me; I know it now.

  Not by the token of this faltering breath,

  This chill at heart, this dampness on my brow –

  (Jesu, have mercy! Mary, pray for me!)

  ’Tis this new feeling, never felt before,

  (Be with me, Lord, in my extremity!)

  The brandy ran through her veins, warming her, as she sat on the hard chair by Hugh Bell in the solemn dimness of the half-lit cathedral. Unfamiliar as old Gerontius was to her, she was in sympathy with his ‘feeling never felt before’. She knew what it was to have those feelings and prayed that she had adequately camouflaged them.

  And then the music began.

  Sylvia never forgot that evening when she first heard the dying Gerontius passing through the pains of Purgatory and meeting the priest, whose resonant bass spoke to her of surpassing wisdom, and the angel, whose fiercely sweet admonitions seemed to ravish and open her heart. When at last the old man reached the precincts of Paradise and the orchestra gathered to one glorious, inimitable chord, she turned to her companion a face wet with tears.

  Silently, he passed her a handkerchief.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said when it was over, and blew her nose.

  ‘For heaven’s sake, don’t be. I’m glad it was such a success.’

  ‘Success’ didn’t do it justice. ‘Oh, yes.’

  He steered her through the chattering crowd into the cold dark. ‘Another brandy to settle you?’

  ‘I’m not sure I want to be settled.’

  ‘That’s the spirit. Home, then?’

  They crossed the close and he took her arm ready to escort her over the road. Above them a fragile fingernail clipping of pale light emerged from a sailing cloud.

  ‘Look,’ she said, pointing. ‘A new moon. We should wish.’

  ‘What would you wish for, Sylvia?’ But he had stooped and was gathering her body to his, so she didn’t answer.

  17

  ‘I have wanted to do that since I met you in the foundry.’

  They were in Hugh’s car, where there had been more fervent embraces.

  ‘I didn’t know,’ she said.