Joyce hardly dared to look, but the cracking of glass under foot forced her to. The whole library was covered in a ghostly veil of dust, and a biting December wind whistled through a hole in the ceiling.
It wasn’t anywhere near as bad as the bombing of Bethnal Green or Exeter Library that Clara and Jo had experienced, but even so, it was a blow to Joyce’s morale all the same.
Her romantic fiction display near the door was terminal, and at a rough guess they’d lost close to 500 volumes.
‘Looks like we’ve lost our religion,’ Dore called from the theology stacks with no irony.
‘And biographies from S to Z,’ Adela added.
Plaster dust was coated so thickly over the rest of the library that they wouldn’t know what could be salvaged until the clear-up began.
‘I’ll go and fetch Nan,’ Adela suggested. ‘At least that way we can store some books in the van while we secure the roof.’
‘Need any help?’ It was Harry, sticking his head round the door.
‘How did you know?’ Joyce asked, a warmth kindling inside her at the sight of him.
‘I work in Civil Defence. We hear aboutallthe damage in the borough. I’m off today, so thought I’d come and lend a hand. Brought some Heavy Rescue pals, too.’
Joyce could have wept with relief when a small team of burly men with shovels and wheelbarrows filed in.
Harry was so calm, cheerful even, as he set to work, organising the group into brigades and whistling as he got stuck in.
Joyce couldn’t believe the difference it made.
‘Your man’s a miracle worker,’ Dore whispered as they watched him set up a ramp on the steps and push a wheelbarrow of books down it.
‘Hush, Dore,’ she scolded, admiring the flex of Harry’s biceps. ‘He’s not my man.’
Dore wiggled one eyebrow up and down. ‘But he wants to be!’
‘Stop it,’ she laughed, swiping at him. ‘You can’t know that.’
‘Can’t I?’ he replied archly, pulling outThe Swiss Cottagerand turning the page to the Lonely Hearts column.
‘Honestly, Dore,’ she chuckled. ‘Only you can start a newspaper up midway through the Blitz and include a Lonely Hearts column.’
‘Listen to this. “To the beautiful woman who sleeps in the last bunk at the far end of the eastbound tunnel, to quote William Shakespeare...An angel is like you, and you are like an angel.Your secret admirer.”’
Dore held his hand to his heart. ‘It was left anonymously on my desk. I’m swooning.’
‘You don’t know that Harry wrote that, or that it was intended for me.’
‘There’s only one man I know who recites poetry. And you sleep in the last bunk!’
‘You’re incorrigible. Enough of this tittle-tattle, we’ve work to do,’ she scolded, but Dore caught her sneaking a glance at Harry, and she blushed as he pretended to fan himself.
The rest of the morning passed in a cloud of soot and soggy books.
Adela fetched flasks of tea and great chunks of bread pudding, donated by the café down the road, and they worked on, fortified by the tea and stodgy cake. Joyce was surprised how much easier she found manual work these days. Her arms were becoming more defined and muscled by the day. Lumping heavy boxes of books from the library to the mobile library, as well as dashing from the underground to the library, was changing her physique. Her mother would doubtless disapprove of her new appearance. Dyed hair was, according to her, for ‘actresses and gay-time hussies’, but there was little chance of her seeing it. In a recent letter, her mother informed her a doctor had advised her against visiting London on account of a newly acquired case of angina.
By one p.m., Joyce couldn’t believe the change. The library had been cleaned up, a tarpaulin secured over the hole in the roof to make it weathertight and the salvaged books reshelved.
‘There you go, your library is a little more open to the elements than usual, but no reason you can’t reopen for business after the New Year,’ Harry remarked.
‘Thank you,’ Joyce said, dusting down her hands and gazing around. What had once been her very own book-lined palace of dreams now looked sad and forlorn, a gaping hole where romance had once been. Many books by their most popular romance authors, from Ethel Dell to Denise Robins and the queen of romance herself, Barbara Cartland, were waterlogged and damaged beyond repair.
‘Do you know, I once tried to count up the number of times Ethel used the words “passion”, “tremble”, “pant” and “thrill”,’ Dore remarked. ‘I gave up after fifty. She’s looked down upon by the cultural elite, but much-loved in libraries.’
