‘They promised to have it towed,’ she assured him.
There was nothing else to be said, and they began to walk, leaving the park and taking the narrow path to the village.
Scaffolding had been erected on the side wall of the Hepworth Barton Bank, securing it against the sinking land, its accurate angles and solemn pediments giving way to the clasp of the metal poles. A little further up the street, they noticed a new crack in the road; further still, a dribble of muddy water on the library steps caused Oscar to crouch and shake his head. But, inside, everything was as it should have been. Until their routine was interrupted by the unexpected appearance of two boys.
‘It’s about transport, miss,’ the boys explained to Ellie. ‘It’s our holiday homework. Modes of transport.’
They sat side by side at the table by the desk. She brought them books about ships and trains, old maps of canal routes and several technical pamphlets tracing the development of the motor engine.
‘The information might be a little dated, I’m afraid. You see, we haven’t acquired any new books in rather a long time.’ She glimpsed Oscar out of the corner of her eye, stern, flapping his hands hard at her in an effort to prevent such gossip. ‘But there’s something about bicycles somewhere, I’m sure,’ she added, trying to ignore him.
‘What about aeroplanes, miss?’
‘Oh, no, I don’t think so.’
‘There’s that Concorde plane – the new one. We’ve heard about that. Have you got anything about that? That’s so cool.’
‘No – really. I don’t think so. I’m sorry.’
She did not entirely understand the request, but she saw the boys’ disappointment.
‘I’ll have a look though, to make sure. Why don’t you get started on those for now?’
When she went along to search the stacks, Oscar followed her. ‘You’ll put people off coming, Ellie, if you make out the library is somehow – lacking.’ His whisper was sharp; he tidied a row of books so that he would not have to look at her.
‘It’s true, though, isn’t it? In all my life I don’t remember us acquiring any new books.’
‘Sssh! They’ll hear you.’
‘They’re just boys. They’re ten years old.’
‘Such rumours are insidious.’
She was suddenly, inexplicably, tired of it all. She moved on down the narrow stack and pulled out two books on bicycles. She held up the first to him: its blue card cover featured a drawing of a penny-farthing being ridden by a very upright gentleman in a top hat. ‘You see, Mr Quersley?’
He snatched the book from her and opened it, holding it up in turn so that she could see the frontispiece: the Barton family crest, magnificent in green and gold; a bookplate inked in blue in an elaborate hand. ‘This, Ellie, is one of the original books with which your grandfather founded the library in 1895. It’s a very significant piece of history, and tangible evidence – for future generations – of his philanthropy and foresight.’
‘But what good is it, now, to those boys?’
She had never asked such questions before. He stared at her.
‘What on earth do you mean?’
She wished she could explain, but he looked at her with such uncomprehending anxiety that it confused her all the more.
‘I don’t know. I just thought… I’m sorry, Mr Quersley, I’ve got a lot on my mind.’
‘Take the books to the readers, Ellie. And then perhaps we can do something ourselves, something to settle us – Shakespeare, perhaps? That would be nice.’ He blushed, smiling at her with sudden warmth, but she had already walked away, carrying the books to the table and showing them to the boys.
She knew immediately there was nothing to interest them and although, for a while, politely, they bent forward over the illustrations of old bicycles, they wrote nothing.
Soon enough, they forgot even to turn the pages.
Tired of the pretence, one of the boys suddenly leaned back, swinging the chair onto its back legs. ‘What did you think of Neil Armstrong, miss? Wasn’t it fab? We watched it at Mrs Turton’s – it was just fab.’
It was the most mysterious of questions. Ellie came across and, looking over their shoulders, studied a page of dense text that appeared to discuss the geological requirements for laying level rail track.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, at last. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
The boys laughed and nudged each other, liking her the more for her joke.
‘You haven’t got anything about that, miss, have you? Nothing about Neil Armstrong? No books about that, not yet? It wouldn’t be out yet, would it, miss?’
Ellie could not find a way through their gibberish, but she smiled at them anyway, because their exhilaration was so startling.
‘No. I’m sorry. I don’t remember anything by Neil Armstrong. I would know the name, I’m sure.’
They did not mind. ‘It’ll be on telly again, I bet. All the time. We’ll see it again. We’ll ask Mrs Turton.’
‘Ah.’ She was beginning to grasp something at last. ‘It was on television. I see.’ She laughed at being taken in by their enthusiasm and shook her head, flicking the world back into place. ‘You should be reading books, not watching television. You’ll learn a great deal more from books – a great deal more. Let me find you something on shipping. My grandfather was involved with several shipping lines; there’ll be some excellent books, I’m sure. Just wait here a moment.’
She hurried again to the stacks, smiling still at the boys’ odd excitement. She spent several minutes browsing the shelves on the back wall, edging slowly along, running her hands over the familiar spines and ignoring the archive boxes of deeds and papers, the lines of periodicals and tracts. It seemed important to make the right choice, and she was methodical and intense in her search.
She picked out two volumes, wiped their covers with her sleeve, and lodged one of her fingers at the page with the most impressive illustrations of steam ships. But, as she turned to retrace her steps, she noticed that there was another reader in the library, crouching by one of the shelves, his back to her.
‘Oh, my goodness – I’m sorry – can I help you?’ She stared at the loose fall of his shirt, unable to think quite what to do with such a visitor. ‘If you’re looking for something in particular…’
The reader did not answer her. He kept on scanning the books.
‘Hello again,’ he said at last, still crouching, looking at her askance. It did not seem a very clever greeting after such an expectant pause.
‘Dan – I didn’t expect to see you here. I never thought…’ She could not go on; she found she could not be entirely sure, for a moment, that it was him; it seemed already as though she might simply have imagined him, a wish.
‘No. I suppose not.’
Ellie gripped the books close to her body. ‘Are they coming to fix the van?’
‘No, no – not immediately. It’s nothing like that. I just came in to the market, to stock up. I’m… shopping.’ He stood up. ‘I noticed the library and came to investigate. I find books irresistible.’ He pushed at his spectacles, his mouth set hard.
‘Oh, yes.’ Ellie was breathless. ‘So do I. I remember the lines and say them back to myself, when I’m on my own. It’s a whole world to me, the world of books. Sometimes I think it’s saved my life.’
He took a step away from her. ‘It’s more study, for me. Textbooks, you know, and political commentaries.’
Ellie dropped her gaze. ‘Oh, yes. Of course. Yes, I see.’
‘Do you work here then?’ He nodded towards the stacks.
‘Well, I suppose so.’ She was surprised by the idea. ‘I assist Mr Quersley – he’s the librarian.’
‘You didn’t say you had a job.’
‘Well, it’s not a job, as such.’
‘What is it then?’
‘I’m not altogether sure.’ Her smile faded. ‘Look – I have to take these books to the boys. I promised them.’
B
ut he followed her, and, after she had delivered the books, they went out onto the front steps, as though they had agreed it, standing by the open doors, watching the drift of the street.
When Oscar emerged from the stacks he saw them standing together, on the threshold. He stood quite still for a moment, trying to take in such an unexpected sight, and then he rubbed his palms with sudden ferocity on the sides of his trousers to clean the dust from them.
Ellie caught a glimpse of the movement out of the corner of her eye.
‘Oh, Mr Quersley. This is one of the people…’ But she had not told him about their visit to the house, and knew she could not say anything now. ‘I met him yesterday,’ she said instead. ‘And already he’s come in – to the library. As a reader.’
‘A reader?’
Ellie supposed this must be why he had come. ‘I think so.’
Oscar was unprepared for such an unlikely claim. The visitor seemed very young, rather shabby. There was confidence, arrogance even, in the way he leaned towards Ellie. Perhaps there had been a mistake.
‘Ah – I see. Yes, very well. So you’d like to join the library, sir?’ His doubts leached through, unwelcoming.
Dan bristled. ‘Actually, I was just looking.’
‘It doesn’t cost anything to join.’ Ellie was encouraging.
‘That was one of Braithwaite Barton’s express conditions. All this’ – Oscar gestured briefly at the dingy rows of books nearest to them – ‘all this, for the people, for free, for ever.’
‘It’s fine. Thanks, man.’
‘We’re available four evenings and two mornings a week, and by appointment, if necessary.’
‘Yeah, I was just looking.’
‘So – you don’t have a particular interest, sir, which drew you here, with which we could assist, perhaps?’
Dan looked away from him, back to the street, where a woman wheeled a pram cautiously around one of the fractures in the ground. The uneven slump of the roof-lines opposite seemed somehow ignominious.
‘I’m into political economy, actually.’ He faced up to Oscar now, a challenge. ‘Well, political science in general, I suppose.’
Oscar was surprised. ‘Machiavelli?’
Dan shrugged. ‘Only as history.’
‘You’re a scholar?’
‘Kind of, I suppose. I’m at university, and I read stuff. All kinds of stuff.’
Oscar rubbed his hands again, more fiercely. ‘But you don’t study Machiavelli?’
‘Not much. Why would I?’
‘Why?’ Oscar seemed astounded by the question. ‘If I may say so, I would have considered a grounding in Machiavelli essential to a proper understanding of political science – indeed, to an understanding of how politics works anywhere, of how the world works anywhere – even here, in Marlford. We have several copies of The Prince in the library collection, one of which I have annotated with some care. I can direct you to the entry in the catalogue, if it is of interest.’
‘Yeah, well… thanks, but I think I’ll give Machiavelli a miss, man.’ Dan smiled tightly. ‘It’s a bit – out of date.’
Oscar reeled at the slight. ‘I think you’re mistaken. I consider it timeless. I find it unerringly apposite – I refer to it without hesitation.’ His eyes settled on Ellie for a moment, narrowing, as if he was making a calculation.
When he spoke again, his voice had lost its enthusiasm. ‘May I ask who it is, then, that you read? Perhaps John Stuart Mill?’
‘You want to know?’ Dan sniffed while he considered his answer. ‘Well then, Marx. And Guy Debord – and Lukács, of course.’ He uttered the names carelessly. ‘They’re modern, you know. Modern thinkers, man. Have you heard of them?’
Oscar did not answer. He had found a loose thread on his sleeve and pulled it out between his thumb and forefinger, twisting it hard before pulling it sharply to sever it from the tweed.
When the emergency tailoring was complete, he spoke abruptly. ‘I’m not sure this is quite your thing, Ellie. I think perhaps I should deal with this request myself.’
‘I don’t think we can help him at all, can we, Mr Quersley?’ she replied. ‘I’ve never seen any of those names in the catalogues. I would remember.’
He glared at her, a warning. ‘Perhaps if you could continue your research with these two little boys. They seem to have finished with the volume on automobiles.’
The children were comparing the length of their middle fingers by measuring them with a wooden ruler, the books pushed to one side of them.
Dan gestured loosely at the packed shelves. ‘I take it you haven’t got anything, then? No Debord hidden away amongst the knitting patterns or Mrs Beeton, or whatever it is.’
Ellie collected the books from the boys’ table. ‘It’s a very good library,’ she said, firmly.
‘Yeah, man, I suppose. If you need to read up on etiquette – or the rules of billiards.’ He snorted a quick laugh but did not quite meet her eyes. ‘Looks like the place is falling down, anyway. Perhaps that’s for the best.’
Ellie was stiff. ‘If you need me, Mr Quersley, I’ll be with the boys.’
‘Yes, yes. That’s quite right.’ Oscar offered her a slight bow and then moved thoughtfully towards Dan, addressing him in a strained undertone, anxious that Ellie should not hear him. ‘Young man… the names you mentioned – there’s nothing quite like that in the collection, I admit, although as regards historical material—’
‘The world moves on, man.’
‘Well, yes, indeed – quite so. And the philosophy of political economy is one that interests me a great deal. Perhaps if we were to talk—’ He felt the buzz of possibility in his head.
‘No, I don’t think so. If there’s nothing to read, I’d probably rather help Ellie with her work.’ Dan shrugged. ‘Thanks, man.’
‘Miss Barton does not work.’ Oscar was suddenly too loud. Everyone looked at him, surprised; even the two boys glanced at him fearfully, in case they were in trouble.
‘No?’ Dan was confused. He frowned at Ellie. ‘I thought you said—’
She tried to explain. ‘No – I meant… you see, the Bartons – I’m a Barton…’ But it all seemed too embarrassing suddenly, too complicated. ‘Well, it’s a hobby, I suppose. A kind of a hobby.’ She placed the books down very carefully on the table, brushed the front of her skirt and felt each of the pins in her hair. They watched, her distress mesmerizing.
‘Here – miss?’ One of the boys leaned towards her kindly, holding out a page torn from his notebook. ‘We’ve drawn you a picture of Neil Armstrong on the moon. Look, you see? In his spacesuit and everything. You can have it if you like.’
She took the gift and stared at the bulbous figure, crudely done, smudged, but somehow astounding.
‘I listened,’ Dan said. ‘Well, sort of. It crackled on and off, so I didn’t get much – it was only on the radio at the squa—’ He stopped himself just in time, glancing quickly at Ellie. ‘Yeah, well, it was a shame, man, with the radio, but even the bits I caught… it was amazing.’
Ellie’s interruption snapped between them. ‘Do you know what this is, Mr Quersley?’ She held the drawing towards him.
‘It’s Neil Armstrong.’ Dan winked at the boys.
She ignored him. ‘I can’t make head or tail of it.’
Dan stared at her. ‘Don’t you know?’ He paused, looked hard at her. ‘Man, you really don’t know, do you?’
She stiffened. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I really don’t know. There are many things I do know, but this is not one of them.’
‘But that’s the moon landing. Neil Armstrong is one of the astronauts on the Apollo 11 mission. You must have heard of it? Even here – surely you’ve heard of it? Don’t you have a radio, even? Newspapers?’
She still held the paper out. ‘Mr Quersley?’
Oscar cleared his throat. ‘We haven’t talked about it, Ellie.’ He took the drawing from her at last and glanced at it. ‘It’s very good, boys, very good.’
Dan’s eyes were wide open. ‘My God – you really haven’t heard—’
‘This is… something has happened? This man, this Mr Armstrong, has landed on the moon?’ She tried to piece it together, but Ellie had nothing more than the boys’ drawing and the bizarre expression worn by Oscar Quersley. ‘Is that right?’
She looked at Oscar, unbelieving. He nodded.
‘Surely you must have—?’ Dan began again, but she cut him off, her anger crisp, translucent.
‘A man has walked on the moon. And you’ve kept this from me? Something of this – magnitude?’
The boys were giggling.
‘No, no, Ellie – no.’ Oscar shook his head, a series of quick apologies. ‘I haven’t kept it from you. You misunderstand – I’ve done nothing on purpose. It’s simply that we haven’t discussed it. Remiss, on my part, perhaps, but not purposefully obstructive. I just didn’t consider that it might be – important.’
‘Important?’
‘Relevant, then. Not relevant. There didn’t seem the right moment, when it would have been relevant.’
She snatched the drawing back from him. ‘This is mine.’ Her voice was rasping, like dried leaves on old stone. ‘I’ll leave you to finish here, Mr Quersley. If you could.’ She gestured towards the boys, who stifled their giggles and cowered, afraid that Ellie might come at them and shake them in her anger, but she simply walked out, crossing the street and disappearing from view as a lorry passed.
‘Blimey!’ Dan whistled through his teeth.
‘She can sometimes be imperious,’ Oscar said. ‘It’s her breeding. It comes naturally.’
‘No, not that, man – I mean, not knowing about the moon landings. Not even knowing that.’
Oscar did not quite answer. ‘I’ve known Miss Barton all her life. I have a great respect for her, a great admiration,’ he said, instead.
Dan shook his head. ‘Well – that’s like… that’s evidence, isn’t it, man? Right there – of just how isolated these kinds of people are. How obsolete.’ He pressed his spectacles against his nose and pushed the curl of his hair behind his ears. He looked out after her, following the line she had taken down Victoria Street.
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