‘All right, all right,’ Joyce laughed in surrender. ‘I get the picture.’
‘Why don’t you read it? It might inspire you.’
‘I’m the librarian; I ought to be recommending books to you.’
‘I already know what I want,’ he grinned, stepping closer. His right cheek dimpled, and Joyce swallowed.
‘Oh yes, what’s that?’
‘Lord Byron, “She Walks in Beauty”. Do you have it?’
‘In the poetry section.’
‘I’ve read it a thousand times.’
‘So why keep reading it?’
‘Because it speaks to my battered heart,’ he grinned, clutching his chest. ‘The world is so damn ugly right now it helps to cling to the beautiful things in life. Soppy sod I am. Come out with me tomorrow?’ he asked, his eyes dancing. ‘I’d like to show you my favourite library in London.’
The question took her off guard. ‘I can’t. I’m working.’
‘Says here you close at one p.m. on a Sunday,’ he said, pointing to the poster with the library opening hours.
‘Well, I-I have laundry,’ she said defensively, flipping the book open and stamping it.
Harry took the book and grinned. ‘I’ll pick you up at Camden Library at one p.m.’
The air-raid siren started up and he sighed deeply. ‘Here we go again. Best be off. Read Samuel Pepys.’ He smiled, full of mischief. ‘History has the answers. By the way. You look sensational in that dress.’
He picked up his slim volume of poetry and left, the air shimmering in his wake.
Back in Swiss Cottage underground, Adela and Joyce were surprised to find a festive party in full swing. A Christmas tree had been erected in the booking hall, paper chains strung along the bunks and down in the tunnels, a conga line snaking its way up the eastbound platform, at the head of which was Mitsy.
‘Cooey, come and join us darlin,’ Mitsy trilled, a feather boa trembling at her neck.
Mitsy and her gal pals – Lilley and Rosie – congaed past, leaving the scent of Phul-Nana perfume and smelling salts in their wake.
‘They have a combined age of about two hundred,’ Joyce remarked.
‘And they still have more energy than you and me combined,’ Adela intoned, raising one dark eyebrow.
Joyce’s laugh turned to a yawn. ‘Come on, I need a cup of tea.’
They wove their way up the busy station platform. Some shelterers had already snuggled down for the night, or were quietly knitting or reading. Family groups chatted or played cards. Not for the first time, Joyce felt grateful for the family atmosphere of their corner of subterranean London. Wild rumours abounded at some of the nocturnal goings-on in underground shelters. Some joked that in the Tilbury goods yard shelter, nicknamed Hell’s Kitchen, you’d have your wallet stolen and sold back to you by the time you’d made it to the other end of the shelter.
At the far end of the platform, a small makeshift stage had been erected, with a trestle table next to it serving mugs of tea. Taking one each for her and Adela, Joyce wondered whether she could even remember her old life back in Unwin Terrace.
‘Do you think we’re institutionalised, Adela?’ she mused. ‘You know, developed a troglodyte mentality?’
Adela blew the steam off her tea. ‘You think too much. Believe me, there are greater things to worry about.’
Joyce was mortified. ‘You’re right, I’m sorry, Adela. I must sound like such a sop. Earlier I felt like you were trying to tell me something, about your family back in Poland. Won’t you...?’
‘Greetings to you, our nightly companions, somnambulists, snorers, chatterers, moles and all who inhabit our underground world. Sleepers of the underworld, unite!’
Dore was on the makeshift stage, banging a spoon against the side of his enamel cup.
‘Inspired by London’s first mobile library, I bring you London’s first underground newspaper,The Swiss Cottager.’ He raised the newspaper above his head to wild applause.
