‘I think Mr Booth wants to be rid of me.’
‘That’s quite possible, my dear. Like most seducers, he’s a misogynist. They always are, don’t you find?’
Sylvia thought, perhaps that’s what Hugh is. A misogynist. The thought was not a pleasant one. ‘I haven’t had enough experience to tell.’
‘I hope you won’t have to learn. Booth cannot abide clever women. All this nonsense about Henry Miller should have been a flash in the pan but he has puffed it up for his own reasons. I got hold of a copy. It’s not a bad book, in fact. Somewhat overblown but not at all bad. I would doubt that those children read it but, if they did, it cannot have done them harm.’
‘Ah, go on!’ the parrot screeched flirtatiously. Miss Crake ignored this.
‘I’ll have a word with Emily. She’s lonely and Booth flatters her. But I’ll also have a word with Clem Austin – he’s got a shrewd head under the Lamb of God clothing and she and he have some sort of connection.’
Walking her guest back down the garden path, Miss Crake stopped to point out a rose. ‘The Holy Rose of Abyssinia.’ She bent to smell the pale pink blooms. ‘The scent is heavenly. JB gave it to me when he left for India.’
Emboldened by this reference to her hostess’s love affair, Sylvia asked, ‘Do you mind that he married someone else?’ and immediately feared that she’d been impertinent.
Miss Crake appeared unperturbed. ‘Sometimes I do. Very much. Sometimes I am relieved. One isn’t consistent.’
‘I liked his book, I should have said so.’
‘I thought you might.’ Miss Crake began to pursue her earlier thought. ‘People are not consistent. That is a modern delusion. No one in the ancient world made such an absurd assumption. The Persians debated all important matters twice: once drunk and once sober.’
‘Which way did they debate first?’ Sylvia asked. She could see a benefit from taking either route.
‘That I don’t recall. It is in Herodotus, who is not reliable, so it may not in fact be true. But the idea holds good. They, or Herodotus, understood that it is a mark of superior wisdom to be able to sustain contrary views.’
Sylvia decided to risk a drink at the Troubadour. Gwen had invited her and she had intended not to go but her visit to Miss Crake had lifted her spirits. The room with its glowing colours, eccentric animal occupants and Miss Crake’s courteous manner and calm observations had revived that part of her that had wilted.
Gwen wasn’t at the pub when Sylvia arrived there. She ordered a lemonade shandy and was paying for it when the organ that can detect a presence behind one’s back told her someone was hovering.
It was Mr Bird and her spirits dipped again at the sight of him. ‘Oh, Mr Bird. Good evening.’
But his faded old eyes looked every bit as fearful as she herself felt. ‘Miss Blackwell, I’m glad for this opportunity. I’ve been wanting to say something.’
She could hardly bear to hear it. ‘Yes?’
‘It’s about all that with our Lizzie.’
‘Yes, I’m sorry Lizzie was involved.’
He gave no sign of taking her apology in, which in truth was only half sincere, and continued as if she had not spoken. ‘The girl’s in a right old state. And now this with the library closing. My daughter too. She’s hopping mad.’
Confused about who it was he was talking about, Sylvia asked, ‘Mrs Smith is?’
‘My daughter Dawn. Dawn was thrilled when Lizzie got to the Grammar and we all knew it was all your doing.’
‘No, Lizzie –’
But he pressed on, ‘And Dawn isn’t bothered about that book. It’s all words, anyway, isn’t it? Words can’t harm. It’s the wife, gets carried away. I said to her, “Now see what you’ve done, only gone and got the library closed that got Liz into the Grammar in the first place.” She loves your library, Liz, goes there all the time, as you’ll know yourself from seeing her there.’ He shuffled off, murmuring, ‘Just wanted to say.’
Gwen appeared and said, ‘I had a bet with myself you wouldn’t come so I didn’t rush. I’m really sorry about the library.’
‘I’d like to strangle Henry Miller,’ Sylvia said. ‘With my bare hands.’
Gwen ordered half a pint. ‘It’s sex, like I said. Gets people going. It’s why Chris and I have to be so careful.’
Sylvia, who had occasionally pondered the precise relationship between her friend and Chris, was aware she was being paid a compliment. All of which combined to make her cycle back to number 5 in a more optimistic frame of mind.
Her improved mood continued over the next week. She still heard nothing from Hugh but Sam, at least, seemed to have recovered enough to be preparing for his 11+.
Ned intercepted Sylvia by the lock one evening.
‘Liz asked me to give you this to pass on.’ He handed her a large envelope addressed to ‘Mr Sam Hedges’. ‘Poor kid, she’s in a right old stew.’
‘I know, Ned. You’d never think a book could cause such a to-do.’
‘I don’t know,’ Ned said. ‘They burned books, didn’t they, the Nazis?’ He seemed about to say more and Sylvia waited. ‘About Auntie Thelma,’ he said eventually. ‘I know what she’s done and it’s not that I’m trying to excuse her. But she’s more or less brought up Dawn’s family. I don’t like to speak ill but Dawn isn’t the most careful mother, she brought up five before Lizzie and it takes its toll. It’s Auntie Thelma who sees they’re all right. Liz would never have got to the Grammar if Auntie Thelma hadn’t taken a hand. To be honest, I think she had a fright over that book. She was worried it might get back to the school and they would take it out on Liz, maybe even expel her, and she’s done well by herself there.’
Sylvia was visited by an image of Mrs Bird in her feathered hat, off to buy Lizzie’s new school clothes. Bustling determined Mrs Bird was a force to be reckoned with. But she had spirit. And she had a kind of largesse, partial but admirable in its way.
‘The thing is,’ Ned went on, ‘Auntie Thelma’s proud of Liz. She’s bright herself but she didn’t have any education. She respects education. That’s why she took to you.’
It was true, Sylvia thought. Mrs Bird had elbowed Lizzie towards the Grammar School and had pressganged her into giving her granddaughter help, help she would never otherwise have had. ‘Well,’ she said aloud, ‘if there’s anything I can do, Ned, to heal the rift.’
‘The trouble with Auntie,’ Ned said, ‘is she won’t climb down. That’s why she and Mum fell out.’
‘Why did they, if that’s not a rude question?’
Ned laughed. ‘Don’t ask! It was some argument over how a priest said the Mass!’
Sylvia caught a glimpse of Lizzie’s card when she delivered it to Sam – a horseshoe set amongst forget-me-nots on a satin background with ‘Good Luck’ embossed in gold letters beneath. Costly, for Lizzie’s surely slender means. So she was pleased that on this occasion Sam did not throw the card away but folded it up and stuffed it in his trouser pocket.
The first of the 11+ exams was due on a Tuesday morning. On the Monday evening, as Sylvia wheeled her bike past number 3, June came to the door and called out to her.
‘What is it, June? What’s happened?’
But June was speechless. She led Sylvia dumbly through to the kitchen, where Sam and Ray were sitting in silence at the table. It was obvious that Sam had been crying.
‘Ray? What’s happened?’
‘The police have been to question Samuel about next door’s fire. He’s made allegations.’
‘Who, Mr Collins?’
‘Claims he has fair reason to believe it was Sam started the fire.’
‘What reason?’
‘He says Sam threatened him.’ June’s eyes were dark with fear.
Sam, his face slimed with snot, cried piteously, ‘I only tipped him the Black Spot.’
Ray looked bewildered and Sylvia said, ‘The Black Spot is in Treasure Island, the book I loaned Sam. But he can’t take something from a child’s b
ook as a real threat. That’s ridiculous.’
‘Seems he can. He’s produced what Sam wrote to go with it. And he’s got chapter and verse, date, time, everything, of the twins telling you Sam was planning revenge. They’ll ask you about it, I reckon, the police.’
‘Jesus,’ Sylvia said. ‘The bastard.’
‘Me and June’s got to go down to the police station tomorrow with him for questioning and we wondered if you’d mind the twins.’
‘Of course I will,’ Sylvia said. ‘But tomorrow’s Sam’s first exam.’
‘We told them that. They said after would be all right.’
‘Oh, Sam,’ Sylvia said. She put her arm round the boy’s stooped shoulders. ‘I am so, so sorry.’
‘I never done it,’ Sam said. His terrified face looked pitifully young. ‘I never. Honest I didn’t, Dad.’
30
Sylvia had left Dee in charge and intercepted the twins on their way to the caretaker’s office. They pranced back with her to the library, occasionally pulling down their knickers and showing off their bottoms.
‘Don’t do that, Twins.’
‘We like it.’
‘Other people don’t want to see your bottoms.’
‘Mr Jones does.’ Mr Jones was the caretaker.
‘I’m sure he doesn’t.’
Jem weighed in in support of her sister. ‘He does too.’
‘Well, I don’t,’ Sylvia said. ‘Bare bottoms are not permitted in the library.’
If the twins had absorbed any of the anxiety which had overwhelmed the Hedges household, they were expressing it with a heightened energy. In the library hallway they cannoned into Mr Booth. Sylvia almost hoped they would show him their bottoms but instead they ignored him and looked only slightly disconcerted when he barked at them, ‘Little blighters – watch it!’
‘He’s rude, that man,’ Pam opined, when Mr Booth had marched away, mouthing semi-audible obscenities.
‘Yes,’ Sylvia agreed.
The twins looked surprised at this validation from an adult. They scampered down the corridor to the Children’s Library and tried to push open the doors. ‘They is stuck.’
‘Hang on,’ Sylvia called, coming after them.
But the swing doors had a bar bolted across them, fastened with a padlock.
‘Can’t we go in?’ Jem asked.
‘Apparently not.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know. We’ll go home and do something nice.’
‘But I want TO READ,’ Pam roared.
Her sister began to roar too and Sylvia, losing patience, snapped, ‘Shut up, Twins. This is no fun for me either,’ at which they stopped howling and took her hands.
‘Never mind, Sylvia. We will look after you.’
‘Thank you, Twins. It would be nice to be looked after.’
Back at number 5 she made them marmalade sandwiches, her heart pounding with rage. The gross insult of it – barring of the doors to what had been her own small, surely harmless, version of Paradise.
The twins rushed about the garden, swung violently on the gate and fed the donkeys their crusts.
‘We don’t never eat these,’ Pam explained.
When they grew tired of this Sylvia, hoping her seething fury was not too apparent, showed them how to make animals out of vegetables. Pam produced a crocodile from a raw carrot and Jem carved a donkey from a potato.
‘What are they called, your pets, Twins?’
‘My crocodile is called Susan.’
‘Very good. What’s your donkey called, Jem?’
Jem considered. ‘My donkey is called Monkey.’
‘That’s very original.’
‘What’s “original”?’ Pam wanted to know.
‘It means unusual, special.’
‘Is Susan special?’
‘Susan isn’t special,’ Jem declared. ‘There’s loads of Susans.’
Pam gave thought. ‘My crocodile is called Susan Violet Rose Semolina.’
The Town Hall clock had chimed six when Sylvia heard the other Hedges return.
‘Come along, Twins. Mummy and Daddy are home and it’s almost bedtime.’
‘We want to sleep with you.’
‘I haven’t got room.’
‘You have,’ Jem said. ‘You can sleep in the little room and we can sleep in the big bed.’
‘Sorry, Twins. That’s not on.’
But the sight of the wan exhausted faces of the older Hedges prompted her to offer, ‘I can have the girls for the night, if you like. They seem keen to stay.’
June began to say, ‘No we couldn’t –’
But Ray interrupted her. ‘That’s a very kind thought, if you’re sure.’
The twins decided that they should sleep with Sylvia in her bed, along with Monkey and Susan Violet Rose Semolina. They wriggled and gave off squeaky farts and their soft-seeming little feet kicked and poked her throughout most of the night. In spite of this, she was grateful. The children’s warm animal bodies provided a comfort that only one other presence could have supplied.
She shepherded the little girls to school in the morning. Sam didn’t accompany them. He refused to get out of bed. Sylvia considered going to speak to Mr Arnold but she was unsure what she could say. She had not heard how the questioning at the police station had gone and her offer to talk to Sam had been politely refused by his parents.
‘We can’t make him,’ June said. ‘He says he’s failed anyway, so what’s the use?’
It wasn’t one of Dee’s days so Sylvia had no chance to discover from her colleague what had occasioned the barring of the doors. But recent events had brought on a new militancy. She felt almost buoyant on her way to tackle Mr Booth.
Mr Booth shuffled some papers out of sight when, without knocking, she entered.
‘Mr Booth, when I came back to the library yesterday afternoon the Children’s Library door was barred. Why?’
Mr Booth lowered his eyes and addressed the desk. ‘I was under the impression you’d left for the day.’
‘I was away for fifteen minutes at most to collect my neighbours’ children from school. Dee was aware that I would be returning.’
‘Mrs Harris had to leave. I have been asked to implement various security measures.’
‘I think you might have warned me.’
‘The Committee is of the view that in the light of various acts of delinquency we are obliged to put greater security in place. And Miss Blackwell, I had planned to say nothing of this in view of your imminent departure, but you force my hand.’ His eyes glimmered with unguarded aggression. ‘I might as well tell you that it is your own intimacy with these delinquents that has resulted in these measures having to be effected. There was another example of it only yesterday afternoon.’
‘You are not suggesting that a pair of five-year-old girls are delinquents, Mr Booth?’
For a moment she wondered if he was about to strike her. My God, he hates me, she thought. He truly hates me.
Mr Booth apparently collected himself. ‘A decision has been made that until you leave the council’s employment you should not be left alone in charge of the library.’ He appeared to address this to a calendar on the wall behind her. Sylvia had observed the calendar, which was open at April 1956 with a picture of some gaudy daffodils.
‘Decided by who, whom? And why? In case I tear up all the books?’
Mr Booth’s eyelids rolled down over his marble eyes. ‘The Committee has made its recommendation.’
Too angry to call on Dee, too apprehensive to go home to hear the Hedges’ story, Sylvia suddenly badly wanted her father. She dug in her bag for her purse but it didn’t contain enough coins for a trunk call.
She wandered on aimlessly and came to the Anglican church, an ugly building surrounded by a flint-encrusted wall enclosing spotted laurels and brooding pink hawthorn.
She had never been in the church nor been tempted to enter it but with a tinge of irony speculated, Maybe God will help? Not
hing else seemed likely to now.
To her annoyance, the Reverend Austin was inside, talking to a woman whom Sylvia recognised as Mrs ‘Packard’. She ducked away but the vicar saw her and called out, ‘Be with you in a sec.’
Mrs ‘Packard’ hurried out of the church and Sylvia waited reluctantly. She had no desire to commune.
‘Splendid to see you,’ the vicar said. ‘I’ve been hoping for a chat.’
‘Oh?’ The last thing she needed was uplift.
‘I had a natter with Flee Crake the other night. I was abreast, via the WI grapevine, of what has been happening but she was able to enlighten me further. Clever woman.’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m fairly thick with Emily Thorneycroft – we both like to go to bed with a Trollope.’ Sylvia said nothing to this and he said a little reproachfully, ‘It’s a joke.’
‘Oh. Oh yes, I see.’
‘Between ourselves, and not to betray too much of a confidence, it sounds as if Emily has been given a somewhat distorted account of events by your boss.’
‘He hates me, Mr Booth,’ Sylvia said, with a spear-thrust of anger. ‘Why does he hate me?’
The vicar sat down and patted the pew beside him, indicating that she should sit too. ‘I’m not sure one needs a reason to hate but I can suggest a few in his case.’
‘What? I’ve done nothing but try to build up the library.’
‘Ah yes, but that in itself is reason enough. You are a reproach, my dear. A perpetual reproach. He has done little or nothing for the library and then you come down like the Assyrian on the fold and start to work your magic. It showed him up as what he fears he is, inadequate. Add to that the fact that you are young, clever, vital, attractive and everyone likes you. The East Mole youngsters are devoted to you, you must see that.’
‘Nobody likes me,’ Sylvia protested. ‘I’m a pariah.’
If the vicar found this faintly amusing, he kept quiet about it. ‘My dear, nobody hates you,’ he said gently. ‘If Booth seems to hate you, it’s because he hates himself. He’s a not very clever, not very attractive, let’s face it, vain man who parades himself as something he is not and is married to a woman he despises – quite wrongly, Helen Booth is worth ten of him – all of which conspires to make him feel he is a failure. And nobody likes him. Not even Mrs Harris, I suspect. You don’t like him either. I don’t suppose you ever did, even before all this.’
The Librarian Page 24