‘She didn’t like me much, did she?’ Adela observed.
‘She doesn’t like anyone much, I’m afraid. Tell you what, why don’t we catch the bus over to Bethnal Green and see my friend Clara? She’s the children’s librarian over there. Her boss Peter is lovely. I’m sure we can cadge a cup of tea, and she might have some ideas on employment for you.’
An hour and two detours later, they alighted from the number 25 bus and walked along the path through to the library. It was close to five o’clock, and the crisp autumn breeze rustled through the oak trees that cradled the library in their lime green canopy.
Joyce felt the breath catch in her throat as she always did when she stood outside the Carnegie gem. The handsome red-brick library basked in the syrupy early evening sunshine, glowing with the promise of the riches inside. Its elegant sash windows caught the slanting rays of the sun and glowed a burnished gold, so bright that – for one moment – Joyce couldn’t see the ugly anti-blast tape that criss-crossed the glass.
‘What a beautiful library,’ Adela murmured.
‘This library opened eighteen years ago,’ Joyce remarked. ‘Prior to that, this building used to be a lunatic asylum. It’s conversion into a library was funded by Andrew Carnegie.’
‘Who is he?’
Joyce explained about the Scottish steel magnate turned philanthropist, who gave away his entire fortune funding libraries around the world.
As the autumn sun dipped behind the lamppost next to the entrance, it flickered into life, its bulb partially masked to comply with the blackout.
‘You’ll often find lampposts near Carnegie libraries,’ Joyce explained. ‘It’s a subtle reminder that libraries offer enlightenment.’
Adela’s mouth curled upwards, showing off a dimple in her right cheek. ‘I like that. It makes me think that Hitler will never get me in a place where libraries are so valued. My sister always says that libraries are the very last thing humans can do without.’
Joyce squeezed her hand. ‘Come on, let’s find that cup of tea.’
They found Clara and Peter shelving in the historical fiction stacks.
‘Joyce!’ Clara exclaimed when she saw her, and bounded over.
Joyce laughed as she felt the thud of her friend’s body as she swooped her into a hug. The pencil holding up Clara’s loose chignon fell out and rolled under the bookshelf.
‘Botheration!’ she laughed, pushing back a strand of pale blonde hair. Then she spotted Adela behind Joyce. ‘Hallo,’ she said curiously. ‘And who might you be?’
‘This is Adela, Dorotha’s sister. Remember? She came over from Poland last year and has been working in domestic service.’
‘Of course, delighted to meet you.’
‘As I am too,’ said Peter, putting down his books and joining them. ‘Clara told me how you managed to escape shortly after the Occupation. I am so very sorry to hear about your family.’
‘Thank you. You are very kind...’ Adela replied. She looked as if she was about to say more but trailed off awkwardly.
‘Peter. I’m sure our guests could do with some refreshment after braving the wartime buses,’ Clara said perceptively. ‘Would you be a dear?’
‘Yes, boss. Come with me, Adela. Let us leave the SSL to their machinations, and I’ll even see if I can rustle up a pink wafer biscuit.’
Clara squeezed Peter’s arm and winked as he led Adela off.
‘That man is an absolute treasure. You wouldn’t know he’s your boss and not the other way around,’ Joyce remarked, thinking how relaxed and easy their relationship was and how it seemed to reflect itself within the mood in the library.
‘I’m lucky. Peter’s a ray of light. But that’s not why you came all the way over from Camden, is it?’
Joyce shook her head. ‘You always could read me like a book, Clara Button. I’d love to take Annie up on her offer of the library bus and start a round, like you and Peter do with the factories.’
‘Yes, that’s been terrifically popular. As Jo predicted, now that people are working all hours, they can’t get into the library so much, but by taking the books to them in the factory, it’s enabled them to keep reading.’
‘Exactly!’ Joyce said, frustration thrumming. ‘You’re delivering on the society’s promise to take books to people, whenpeople can’t get to the books. And what am I doing? Dusting my mother’s aspidistra and twiddling my thumbs at the library!’
‘You’ll figure it out, Joyce,’ Clara said softly.
Peter and Adela returned with some steaming mugs of tea; they were followed by a small black cat who curled her way around Adela’s legs.
