There was no mirror in the library, so Joyce had no idea what she looked like, but it felt divine against her skin.
‘There’s silk stockings and a red lipstick in there, too. And you’ll need this to keep out the cold,’ Mitsy added, pulling out an expensive-looking coat with a fur collar.
‘I-I don’t know what to say, Mrs B,’ Joyce stumbled. ‘This is wildly extravagant spending your money on me. You must’ve spent a fortune.’
‘It’s my money and I shall do what I like with it,’ she insisted. ‘It my gift to you for saying thank you. For all the years of delivering my books, even though I know you weren’t supposed to, and for looking after me so diligently. Now, I shall let you get to your launch. I’m meeting Rosie and Lilley back at the station and we’re going together.’
‘Don’t you think the outfit is a little over the top? I’m only a librarian,’ Joyce worried.
‘My dear, there is no such thing asonlya librarian. Toodle-oo!’ With a wave of her walking stick, she was gone.
‘You look like a film star,’ Adela exclaimed. ‘If Dorotha were here, I do not think she would recognise you.’
‘I scarcely recognise myself,’ Joyce replied.
She buckled up as Nan’s engine rumbled throatily to life and Adela put the grand old lady of literature into gear. They headed to St Pancras Town Hall, where Dore had told her to expect a handful of press. But when they pulled up, Joyce’s eyebrows shot up.
‘Oy vey!’ Adela exclaimed. ‘You’d think the king and Churchill were coming.’
It was a freezing Saturday between Christmas and New Year, and Joyce hadn’t expected anyone to leave their home and brave the elements, but the steps to the town hall were swamped with people bundled up against the cold. The fog that mingled withthe smell of cordite and drains did little to diminish the crowd’s collective excitement.
Joyce counted over fifty journalists, and even a camera withMovietone Newsemblazoned on the side. Curious kids and housewives swelled the numbers.
They slid to a halt and Dore opened the van door with a flourish.
‘Behold, our good lady librarians. Would you be so good as to share with the press and public your pioneering scheme?’
Joyce had never been comfortable with public speaking, but she could hear Dorotha’s deadpan voice in her ear, ‘Imagine they’re all in their pants!’
Joyce took a deep breath and stood above the crowd on the fold-down steps. But even the fine frock and extra dollop of warpaint hadn’t bolstered her nerve.
‘For the first time in any Metropolitan area, a travelling library is being put into operation in London,’ she declared. Her voice, wobbly to begin with, grew steadily more assured. ‘We are proud to present Books for the Bombed. We’ll be calling at different stops in the borough, chiefly shelters and WVS depots, as well as ARP depots, Balloon Barrage units and the Home Guard. If people cannot get to the books, we shall take books to the people, offering a library to your door.’
‘Bill Bartlett.Daily Mail,’ interrupted a rotund man with a combover. ‘It’s not really a library though, is it? How many people can you get in there?’
‘Fifteen to twenty,’ Joyce replied defensively. ‘We carry two thousand books on open-access shelves, with a wide array of choice from historical fiction, biography, children’s books, poetry, romance and more.’
The journalist raised one eyebrow. ‘Lord help us if Hitler hears of this. Women drivers and a van full of bodice-rippers. I dare say he’ll throw in the towel now.’
A ripple of laughter ran over the crowd and, to her horror, Joyce realisedMovietone Newswere filming. She was acutely aware of a blotchy red rash staining her neck.
The journalist tapped his yellowing teeth with his pen. ‘I’d say you’re wasting your time and public funds. You honestly think any members of the Civil Defence will borrow books from this? No offence, sweetheart, but it looks more like a mausoleum than a mobile library.’
Dore, looking enraged, opened his mouth to object, but another voice cut over his.
‘Harry Harding, Heavy Rescue for St Pancras. I, for one, can’t wait to use the mobile library. I work long shifts and can’t get to my local branch. It’s just the sort of thing my pals and I need to help us while away the hours between raids.’
A rush of electricity swept through Joyce’s body. She searched for Harry in the crowd, trying to work out where his voice was coming from, and when her eyes finally met his, he crossed his strong arms and winked. Suddenly, she didn’t seem to feel the cold.
‘None of us are averse to a bit of romance,’ Harry heckled, ‘contrary to the image we may present. Now, with respect, Mr Bartlett, why don’t you shut your cakehole and let the lady finish what she was saying.’
‘Hear, hear!’ Dore shouted, and the crowd applauded.
‘Thank you,’ Joyce replied, flustered. ‘You can find leaflets and posters around the borough advertising the twelve sites we are to be stationed at, and when.’
Joyce was stunned at Harry’s robust defence of her. It was an unexpected feeling, to know that a man she’d met just once could care enough to stick his neck out for her.
She turned her sights on theMailjournalist and something inside her snapped. How dare he come here today to judge her? Two months ago, she had read an essay that Virginia Woolf hadwritten published inNew Republic. In it, she had asserted that women in this war were weaponless. How, therefore, could they fight for freedom without firearms? Woolf had urged all women to fight with their minds and their ideas instead. Well, this was Joyce’s big idea, and she wasn’t about to let this misogynist belittle her.
