‘Along with saga and historical fiction,’ Joyce replied. ‘She knew how many of their patrons, especially Mitsy, Rosie and Lilley, relied on these books for comfort and escape. Each destroyed book was like another tiny tear in an already painful wound. How much more destruction could London take? There was no military significance to the bombing of a library. This barbaric war suddenly felt personal, as if the dictator was mocking her personally.
‘I don’t even want to think how much that roof is going to cost to repair,’ Dore frowned, his usually cheerful façade faltering.
‘Does anyone mind if I go and clean myself up?’ Adela asked.
‘Course not. You go and have a rest, and thank you, Adela. Again.’ Joyce sighed. ‘Perhaps it would’ve been easier had you evacuated with the Barclay-Millers.’
‘Never!’ Adela replied vehemently.
But despite the steel in her voice, Joyce realised that the young women was trembling, her skin clammy to the touch. ‘Are you sick?’ Joyce asked, placing a hand on her arm.
‘I’m just tired,’ Adela deflected.
Joyce squeezed her arm and dug out a hankie. ‘I miss her too,’ she whispered.
Adela wiped her face, went to say something, but shook her head instead.
‘So very tired,’ she mumbled.
Outside, it started to snow, soft white flakes covering the filthy pavement.
‘Come on, my dear,’ Dore said, shivering. ‘Let’s get you into the warm. I’ll walk you back to the Tube and shout you and Mrs B a nice cup of tea.’ He put his arm around her and winked. ‘Everything feels better after tea.’
And then it was just Joyce and Harry, alone in the library. The air, which usually smelt of leather and paper, was now brackish and rank.
She shivered. Harry stepped closer to her and pulled her into his arms; she did nothing to stop him. She felt his solid chest against hers, his breath warm in her ear as hot tears slid down her cheeks.
Dorotha. London. The library. The Nazis were hell-bent on destroying everything that was dear to her.
Harry pulled up the collar of her coat and whispered in her ear. ‘Don’t lose heart. Come on. I’m taking you for a heart-starter, as my dear old nan called a brandy, and then something to restore your bibliophile’s soul.’
Harry drove her in his battered old Morris to a pub somewhere in Stepney, down a crooked alley. He parked and, as they walked, he slipped his hand into hers. The skin on his palm was warm and slightly calloused. It fitted into hers perfectly. She glanced up at him to find him smiling down at her, a hint of mischief dancing in his silver eyes.
Inside the Queen’s Head, it was warm and cosy, with golden light spilling from candles, and a lady called Queenie bashingout old music hall songs on a piano. After two large brandies, Joyce felt her equilibrium return.
‘Ready?’ Harry took her hand.
‘I’m quite snug here. The snow looks prettier from inside the pub.’
Harry chuckled. ‘Come on, Miss Kindred. I promise you’ll like it. I’m taking you to the best club in town.’
‘Club?’ she panicked.
She glanced down at her old fawn slacks and soiled shirt, filthy from cleaning up the library.
‘Don’t worry, you look beautiful,’ he grinned, tugging her outside.
It was three p.m. by the time they pulled up outside St Paul’s Cathedral. In the dancing flurries of snow, the cathedral dome looked like a giant white-frosted wedding cake. Joyce craned her neck to stare up at the Wren masterpiece.
Harry looked at her, his silver eyes glowing, flecks of snow sparkling in his hair. For a moment, he looked like a sprite. Grabbing her hand, he led her through a flock of pigeons, their wings gunmetal grey as they took to the skies, before skirting round to the side of the building and in through an unassuming wooden door.
They descended via a narrow set of uneven stone stairs and into the gloom of the crypt. It was a mess room of sorts, filled with men and women cleaning and repairing stirrup pumps, drinking tea or reading.
‘Ought we to be here?’ Joyce worried, but Harry looked totally at ease.
‘Harry!’ A tall, assertive woman in a boiler suit clapped him on the shoulder. ‘What are you doing here? You’re not on the rota.’
‘Missed your ugly mugs, didn’t I?’
