‘I said, can you not see the sign?’ she said, gesturing to the side of the van.
The man stomped off.
‘Come on,’ Joyce said, feeling a stab of disappointment, ‘we may as well head to the last stop.’
She hadn’t been expecting bunting and cake, but it would have been nice if a few of their patrons had turned out to wish them well. The whole of Swiss Cottage underground knew it was their last day, after all.
They pulled up outside St Pancras Town Hall. As they did, Joyce realised the steps were crowded with people, busier even than when they had launched the library here four months ago.
‘Must be a run on free disinfectant,’ she mused.
‘I don’t think so,’ Adela replied, turning off the engine. ‘Look closer.’
Every person on the steps or milling about outside the town hall was reading. There must have been close to 200 people, all holding a book in their hand.
Joyce and Adela glanced at each other.
‘What on earth . . .’ Joyce breathed.
At their arrival, a tiny figure in a feather boa rose to her feet on the library steps. Mitsy was holding a placard in one hand and a megaphone in the other.
‘Don’t close the book on our mobile library,’ she said, her voice reverberating off the town hall.
Flanking her were Lilley and Rosie.
‘Save our library! Save our library!’ More people joined in with the chant, adding their angry voices to the protest.
Speechless, Joyce scanned the febrile crowd. Half of Swiss Cottage underground were gathered on the steps, reading or chanting. And faces she’d not seen in a while, like Nan, who she had first read to all those months ago in the shelter. All the regulars on their stops were here, clutching homemade banners that made Joyce’s blood race.
In war, libraries bring us peace. KEEP THE MOBILE LIBRARY ON THE ROAD, and her personal favourite... Save our library. Bookworms will die.
And sitting together on the top step were Harry and Elfreda, wordlessly reading Virginia Woolf’sA Room of One’s Own. He glanced up from the pages and smiled at her, his gaze so full of love. In that moment, Joyce fell that bit harder.
She felt something tug at her hand. She glanced down and saw the little boy from the school hall in Canning Town. He was holdingPeter Panin one hand and a sign in the other.
Reading saved my life.
His mother Jean stepped forward shyly. Gone was the exhausted, traumatised woman she had last seen boarding a coach. In her place was a calm, rosy-cheeked woman.
‘Don’t worry,’ she smiled. ‘We only got the train up from Kent for the day. When I heard about this protest, I knew I had to come and support you.’
‘You didn’t have to do that, Jean,’ Joyce gasped.
‘Oh, but I did. What you did for us...’ she broke off, struggling not to cry. ‘It was the first bit of real kindness I’d been shown for many months.’ She laughed through her tears. ‘And as for him, he’s virtually read the print off that book.’
She broke off. The town hall door swung open and a bespectacled man stood, puce with anger.
‘You’re causing a public spectacle that is detrimental to morale.’
‘Take your morale and shove it up your hole!’ Lilley yelled, grabbing the megaphone off Mitsy. ‘Save our library... Save our library...’
Dore strode up the steps.
‘Aah good, Mr Silverman, disperse these people immediately.’
It was only a fleeting glance, but Joyce noticed it. Dore looked at Mitsy. She smiled and nodded. Dore drew himself up to his full five-feet-two-inch height.
‘I shall do no such thing, Mr Foster. These people have a right to protest. This mobile library is the glue that holds together our community. Need I remind you that the Public Library Act 1850 was a social reform designed to improve the physical and moral health of the British public. We ought to be ushering people through the door, not closing it in their face!’
