‘I’d say the £450 it cost to equip and run this mobile library is a small price to pay for the benefit it will bring to people’s morale,’ she stated, her voice getting stronger with every word. ‘Books, libraries, education, knowledge, culture and learning are all the enemy of dictatorship and the foundations of freedom and democracy, wouldn’t you say, Mr Bartlett?’ She breathed in, trying to calm her racing heart. ‘People without books are like houses without windows. Books will strengthen us to beat Hitler!’
‘Bravo, bravo!’ Dore cheered, clapping wildly. ‘I think this proves that we are following out the request of local authorities to not only maintain, but also extend the public library service. Now, without further ado, I’d like to ask His Worship the Mayor to step forward and give his blessing to the library.’
Joyce found her gaze travelling back to Harry. He was leaning against a wall at the back of the crowd, thumbs hooked in his boiler-suit pockets. They locked eyes and he gave her a thumbs-up. It was just the tiniest of gestures, but it made Joyce feel ridiculously happy.
The mayor and dignitaries took over. Flashbulbs popped. The next thirty minutes passed in a jumbled blur, with Joyce fielding questions and posing for photographs as she officially stamped the library book of their first-ever loan, a copy of Winston Churchill’sInto Battlefor the mayor.
Finally, she stepped outside and scanned the streets, hoping to catch a glimpse of Harry, but he’d vanished.
‘Joyce, that was outstanding,’ Dore said, finding her outside and pumping her hand enthusiastically. ‘You are wonderful. And you, Adela. Without you both, none of this would have been possible. Over fifty journalists, can you believe? We have been launched, filmed and feted, wouldn’t you say.’
Joyce chuckled. ‘Dore, you’re in danger of imploding.’
‘I am, I am, my dear,’ he said, leaning in conspiratorially. ‘And whoever was that handsome Heavy Rescue man? He made short shrift of that muckraker.’ Dore didn’t pause for breath before he continued. ‘Now, the BBC have asked to film you as you drive on your rounds. That’s all right, isn’t it?’
Joyce quickly realised the question was rhetorical as the BBC reporter and cameraman jumped into their van before she could even answer. ‘We’ll follow on behind.’
‘Thank goodness I have you, Adela,’ she muttered.
She reached down and scanned her list. ‘Right, an ARP unit on Camden Square, then the shelter on Arlington Road, then...’
‘Joyce,’ Adela said softly, placing her hands over Joyce’s own. ‘Breathe. Take a moment to see what you have achieved.’
‘Whatwehave achieved.’ Joyce felt emotion choke her. ‘I seem to have lost a great deal lately.’ Her thoughts roamed to Dorotha, to Peter, to her mother. ‘But I have gained a very good friend in you.’
She stared at the diminutive, dark-haired woman, so young, yet strangely so old and so fearless. It occurred to her, she didn’t really know Adela at all. She had seen her bravery and her formidable work ethic, unleashed in the Blitz, but there was a part of her, perhaps the fundamental part of herself, that she kept hidden from the world. Her flight from Nazi persecution had encased her in a protective shield that deflected any attempt at intimacy.
‘You know, Adela, you can share anything you want with me and I promise always to listen. And help if I can.’
‘No one can help me now,’ she muttered. Joyce gazed at her, puzzled.
‘Adela, I—’
But Adela started the engine, cutting off further conversation. ‘Let’s go, we don’t want to keep the BBC waiting.’
It was the most surreal day of Joyce’s library career. All day long, they drove Nan, bumping through the cratered streets, amazed and overawed to find long queues already formed at every one of their twelve stops. If Joyce had ever been in any doubt that the borough needed a mobile library, those fears were quashed as she greeted the streams of well-wishers and patrons, new and old.
It hadn’t taken long to find a natural rhythm. Adela would pull down the folding steps and in rushed the eager crowds, desperate to see inside London’s first mobile library.
Joyce would recommend and issue the books, as well as sign up new patrons, while Adela chatted with customers, occupied small children, posted up more library notices and even made tea from a small portable gas stove, all while the BBC filmed.
Every neighbourhood had its literary predilections.
In Hampstead they had had a hankering for philosophy. A Balloon Barrage Unit, staffed entirely by women, had a thing for whodunnits, and the good ladies of the WVS liked cookbooks with a side order of smut. “Would you be a dear and reserve me a copy ofLady Chatterley’s Lover?” whispered a woman in blue.
Joyce’s confidence grew with every stop.
Their penultimate stop, Swiss Cottage underground, drew their biggest crowd, at the front of which was Mitsy with her two new friends, Rosie Cohen and Lilley Richardson.
‘I knew you’d do it, darling. I’m so proud of you,’ Mitsy said as they hopped off the van. ‘Now find me a Barbara Cartland in that van, won’t you? The spicier the better.’
‘Ooh not many,’ chipped in Lilley. ‘It’s bleedin’ cold down them tunnels. Something mucky might raise the temperature.’
Joyce shook her head, unable to stop her laughter. These women were unstoppable when they got together, their lascivious laughter ringing up the tunnels. Joyce was happy for Mitsy. It was the most alive she’d ever seen the elderly lady.
After the requisite steamy books were stamped, the three women scurried back underground.
Their last stop of the day was a Civil Defence depot in Highgate village. Adela went off to hand out leaflets while Joyce tended to the small crowd.
