Prologue
Joyce
London, Sunday 3 September 1939
During the third annual meeting of the Secret Society of Librarians, British Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain declared war on Nazi Germany.
The SSL, as they called themselves – because who didn’t love an acronym – had gathered at their usual bolt-hole for the weekend. Joyce’s uncle had an attic flat that smelt of stewed prunes and paperbacks in Bloomsbury, where the great and good of the female library world gathered for one weekend every year to grouse about their male bosses and drink Gin & Its so strong they’d blow your eyeballs out. But this year, proceedings had a gloomy air, and it was nothing to do with the aftermath of Evelyn’s homemade gin.
The static from the wireless reverberated Chamberlain’s voice right into Joyce’s skull.
‘I have to tell you now that no such undertaking has been received, and that consequently this country is at war with Germany.’
The declaration was followed by a dust-laden silence.
Joyce glanced around the table at all the strong, capable women who made up the Secret Society of Librarians.
Jo from historic Exeter Library. Grace from Channel Island paradise St HelierLibrary in Jersey. Beth from bustling Coventry Central. Evelyn from salt-brined Plymouth. Annie from the market town of Barnstaple. And she, Joyce Kindred,from just up the road in Camden. Clara, from beautiful Carnegie gem Bethnal Green, was due to arrive any minute.
The only member absent from the proceedings – despite being very much a lynchpin of the group – was its founder, Dorotha. Dorotha was in Poland, where she currently lived.
What a disparate group they were. They hadn’t a huge amount in common. Apart from a love of books, a passionate belief in the transformative power of reading and a determination that libraries were invented for all, not the privileged few.
Turned out that’s all you really needed in order to hang on to your sanity. They’d all met over the stacks at a Library Association Summer School at the London School of Economics in the summer of 1936. Ostensibly, the six-week course had been to prepare them for their Library Association exams, but in reality it had given them so much more than a working knowledge of the Dewey Decimal system. It had given them an unofficial sorority, a community of like-minded souls who understood the sting of being passed over for promotion in favour of a Library Boy with infinitely less experience. There were no rules or secret handshakes. They left that kind of thing to the men’s clubs. The only unofficial rule was to be kind and supportive.
It was Evelyn who broke the silence. It usually was. ‘Well, we may as well have a drink,’ she reasoned, sloshing a large slug of gin into seven teacups. ‘Soften the edges.’
The sun muscled out from behind a cloud, and a stream of sunshine filtered into the room, striking the bookshelves. The hardback spines dazzled russet and gold.
‘What ought we drink to? The advance of fascism?’ scoffed Annie.
‘No,’ Joyce paused as they all turned to look at her. ‘To Dorotha,’ she insisted.
At the mention of their friend and founder, trapped in Poland, a collective shudder ran through the group.
‘Have you seen the news?’ Jo asked. ‘Poland’s on fire!’
Beth held up her hand. ‘Please don’t, Jo. I can’t bear it.’
‘Dorotha is tough,’ Joyce insisted.
The group raised their glasses to Dorotha and tried to wipe from their minds the horrendous Pathé news footage they’d seen of columns of Polish refugees fleeing bombed cities and towns.
Annie lit up a Black Cat and surveyed them through the blue haze. ‘Joyce is right. Dorotha’s the toughest woman I’ve ever met. She’ll find a way to turn this war to her advantage. Which is precisely what we ought to be doing.’
‘Black market?’ Beth gasped.
‘No, you dolt,’ Annie teased. ‘To opportunities.’
‘I don’t follow,’ Joyce said, taking a drink and appreciating the warmth that snaked down her throat.
Annie’s shrewd blue eyes flickered over the group. ‘The only thing certain with war ischange.’ She curled her voice deliciously around the word. ‘Admit it, isn’t that something we’ve longed for all these years? That maybe a ray of light might creep into our respective workplaces.’
‘Come on, who here isreallyhappy with the direction their careers are taking?’
Annie turned to Joyce. ‘You got passed over for a sixteen-year-old boy despite the fact you’ve acres more experience than him. In fact, darling, I’m sure I’ve knickers older than him.’
She turned to Beth. ‘And Beth, dear heart, don’t tell me you’re happy with only being allowed to run children’s story time.’
