‘Ain’t that a kiddies’ book?’ grumbled an anonymous man further up the bench.
‘Shut your cakehole, Fred,’ shot back the woman next to her. ‘It’s about nature and hope and human connection and all of that... You might learn summat.’
‘All right . . . anything to drown out Jerry.’
The hurricane lamp was hastily passed up the shelter.
‘Right then,’ Joyce said, angling the book into the light and flipping over the page.
For the next hour, she read. She read like their lives depended on it. Ignoring the booms and crumps of the bombs, immersing herself in the tale. Page after page, and still she kept going, even when her voice grew raspy from the smoke and dust. Joyce silently thanked the author for penning such a good narrative that it didn’t let up, plucking each person from their reality and transporting them far away from this hell.
Stories couldn’t stop bombs dropping. But they did offer up a place to escape to.
And suddenly, she was with Dorotha again, striding over the Yorkshire moors, debating why, despite the hard work and low wage, they wanted to be librarians.
Reading calms a troubled mind and whiles away the centuries.
That’s what they had both decided. Never had this statement felt truer than on this savage night.
Finally, the all-clear sounded. The woman next to Joyce started, clutching her chest.
‘We live to see another day!’ She rose creakily and reached for her bag before turning to Joyce and clutching both her hands. ‘Thank you, darlin’. I honestly don’t think I could have survived that night without you reading. I know what I’ll be taking into the shelter with me tonight.’
Nods and murmured agreements sounded up and down the bench.
‘You keep on telling your stories, ducks. You gotta gift, you have.’
Even book-sceptic Fred tapped her on the arm. ‘That was a cracking story, love.’
Together, Joyce and Adela ventured blinking into the gritty dawn light. The air was thick with acidic yellow smoke and the acrid smell of sulphur. Joyce looked about her, disbelief prickling up her spine. A land mine had hit further up, swallowing half the street. There was only a gaping dusty hole where houses had once stood.
‘They didn’t hit the van!’ Adela exclaimed, pointing to where their grand old lady was parked, a thick layer of grime covering her, but nevertheless still standing strong.
Joyce grinned. ‘I think she needs a name, don’t you?’ she asked.
‘What about Bibliobus?’ Adela suggested.
‘I like it, but I think she deserves a more personal name.’
The woman who had been next to Joyce in the shelter was standing close to them, vigorously brushing the dust off her coat.
‘What’s your name, my love?’ Joyce called.
‘They call me Big Nan,’ she called back, stomping into the smoky dawn. ‘Be lucky.’
‘That’s it,’ Joyce said, looking from the plucky book lover back to their van.
‘Nan the library van. Quite befitting of such a stately matriarch.’
Adela smiled. ‘I like it. We’ll always remember the power of reading when we think of her name.’
Behind the wheel, Adela started up the engine and patted the dashboard. ‘Welcome to London, Nan.’
‘Before we go,’ Joyce said, touching Adela on the arm, ‘thank you. For earlier.’
Adela shrugged. ‘You saved me. Now we are even.’
Joyce felt a rush of love for this young woman, a woman she had severely underestimated.
