Joyce suddenly felt weary and fought the urge to rest her head against Harry’s chest. He smelt of carbolic and Woodbines, and his shoulders were so broad they looked as if they could carry the load of an entire neighbourhood.
‘I’m sick of people judging me, is all.’
‘Am I supposed to feel sorry for you?’
‘Oh...’ she said, taken aback at his bluntness.
‘I don’t mean to sound rude, but people have been judging me my whole life,’ he shrugged. ‘I’m a boy from the wrong side of Stepney. Folk see me coming and I can read their thoughts. Lock up the silver and reach for the bug powder.’
‘How did that make you feel?’
‘Angry mostly. I took it out in the boxing ring. Left school at fourteen and virtually lived at the Repton.’
‘The Repton?’
‘Boys’ boxing club in Bethnal Green. In the end, I decided if I carried on with that, I’d end up looking like a cauliflower.’
He smiled and tapped his nose. ‘There’s only so many times your nose can get broken. I decided if people thought I was a criminal, I may as well behave like one. I ran with a bad crowd.’
‘What happened?’ Joyce asked, curiosity overcoming her.
‘I was a step away from being a delinquent when I met someone who saw me as something else.’
He ran his hand up the bookcase. ‘A librarian. In Bethnal Green Library.’
Joyce inhaled sharply. ‘You don’t mean . . . Peter?’
Harry looked at her in surprise. ‘Yes, the very same.’
‘I know... Sorry, IknewPeter. I loved him. Did you hear the news?’
Harry nodded sadly. ‘Everyone loved Peter. He was that kind of man. He cared. I was very lucky to meet him at my lowest ebb, and he turned me around. Encouraged me in through the doors to the library, put a book in my hand.’
Harry chuckled. ‘God, I was petulant back then. I told him I hated books. He told me I just hadn’t found the right one. In the finish, I ended up in Bethnal Green Library every day. He even managed to get me writing poetry.’
Joyce smiled wistfully. ‘Why am I not surprised? I miss him.’
‘Me too. “Harry, you’re never alone with a good book,” he used to say. So, I found another version of myself in the library and I ain’t looked back.’
He turned from the books and looked at her, his silver eyes challenging but soft.
‘What I’m saying, Joyce, is that other people’s assumptions of me don’t matter. I save my energy for the page.’
‘You write still?’
‘Course. Every day. It sounds daft, but writing poetry helps to crystallise my thoughts, helps me to make sense of the world.’
‘I’d love to write, but I haven’t a clue what about, and now I haven’t the time.’
‘Rubbish,’ he said with a teasing grin.
Joyce felt wounded. Harry’s straight talking might have felt refreshing to some, but it was a little too close to the bone for her liking.
‘Just start,’ he urged. ‘Put words on a page. Thoughts, feelings, words you like or don’t like. What you ate for breakfast. It can be a stream of consciousness. Just write.’
He looked around the library, before finding the historical fiction bookshelf.
‘Excellent, you’ve got it.’ He pulled out a weighty volume and put it in her hands. ‘Samuel Pepys kept his diary for nine years. He started it on New Year’s Day 1660. He wrote almost every day through wars, plagues and fire, so what I’m saying is—’
