‘Welcome to the Watch, Joyce,’ Harry said, winking. ‘Best club in town. When I’m not lifting girders, I’m in this place, puttingout incendiaries. Doing my bit to protect our grand old lady of London. This is our esteemed Watch leader, Elfreda Audsley.’
Joyce’s head spun. It stood to reason that a building as significant as St Paul’s would have extra protection, but its own special group of guardians?
‘How many are there of you?’ she asked.
‘About three hundred of us who work on a rota,’ Elfreda replied. ‘We’re a disparate group, from architects to members of the clergy...’
‘And writers,’ Harry interjected.
‘Of sorts,’ she grimaced.
‘A fantastic writer,’ Harry insisted. ‘Elfreda’s written a children’s book calledQuiddlekin, about a sprite who lives at the end of her garden in Surrey.’
‘Ooh, you’ll have to come and do a reading to the children at my shelter,’ Joyce said.
‘I’d love that. If I ever get a night off from this place. Favourite writer?’ she challenged.
‘Easy, Virginia Woolf,’ Joyce replied. ‘I wrote to her last night, asked if she’d come and visit my travelling library.’
‘I’ll insist she comes when I see her next,’ Elfreda said.
‘Wait, you know her?’
‘We were students together at King’s.’
‘Oh, please tell her my friends and I, we’re all librarians, are her biggest fans. Her writing is a balm.’
‘I shall pass that on. In these fractured times, we need kind words like soldiers need bullets.’
‘Why do you do it?’ Joyce asked, curiosity overcoming her. ‘Why come to the epicentre of danger when you could just...’ she trailed off.
‘Hide like a sprite at the end of my garden?’
Elfreda’s eyes gleamed. ‘I think this is women’s chance to prove ourselves, don’t you?’
She tapped her stirrup pump. ‘This is my weapon. This cathedral my battle ground.’
She straightened herself. ‘I’d best be off on my rounds.’
‘Hope you have a quiet night.’
‘Fat chance of that, Harry,’ she grinned, clamping her helmet on.
‘Is Gerald in?’
‘Of course. Lovely to meet you, Joyce. Bye for now.’
She slipped away, through a tiny medieval wooden door, and Joyce felt like Alice in Wonderland, about to fall down into a rabbit warren.
Harry gripped her hand and she felt a charge of heat run through her. She followed as he led her through a maze of long, underground stone passageways, issuing orders: ‘Watch yourself, duck, breathe in.’
On they went, bending down through a narrow door criss-crossed with ancient graffiti.
It all felt like a surreal dream as they rose higher up the cathedral, not by way of its main routes, but like rats scurrying along draughty back passages that were so skinny they had to turn sideways. At one point, Joyce saw the majestic whispering gallery from behind some wood panelling. She turned right and her head spun at the views through a tiny stone window. All of old London, swathed in mists merged into a dark labyrinth of shadows beyond. A maze of tightly packed Victorian buildings clustered around the great cathedral, separated by alleys so narrow that, Harry joked, you could lean out the window and ask the typist opposite to marry you.
Finally, they emerged into a room of such magic, her breath caught in her throat.
Harry watched her expression carefully.
