‘Greetings to you, our nightly companions, somnambulists, snorers, chatterers, moles and all who inhabit our underground world,’ Dore said, using his customary greeting from the stage. ‘We’re gathered here to celebrate the birthday of our fabulous and fearless Mitsy Bouvoir. Silent-movie star, intrepid traveller, confidante and friend to all in the underground. This subterranean world we now call home would be a lot darker were it not for her. Come on up here, Mrs B.’
Supported on either side by Joyce and Adela, Mitsy made her way up the steps and took the microphone from Dore.
‘Darlings, I may have snow on the roof, but I have stories to tell... I’m eighty, but a long way from out.’
A roar of applause echoed up the tunnels as she did a bow.
‘And admirers too, eh, Mitsy!’ Rosie called, pulling outThe Swiss Cottagerand reading from the latest Lonely Hearts column. ‘To the silver-haired screen siren in the last bunk on the eastbound line. You forever have my heart. A fan.’
‘Perhaps the anonymous admirer might choose this moment to reveal himself... or herself,’ Dore said dramatically.
‘No need,’ Mitsy said. ‘I’ve worked out who it is. And he knows what he needs to do to win my heart.’
‘Spill the beans,’ shouted the crowd.
‘A lady never tells,’ she said with a wink.
A fruit cake, which everyone had pooled their rations to make, was brought up on stage and everyone sang ‘Happy Birthday’, their voices echoing along the Bakerloo line platform. Once the last notes died down, Mitsy held up her walking stick to silence the crowd.
‘And now, as it’s my birthday and I can damn well say what I like, I’d like to use this opportunity to express my dismaythat Joyce and Adela’s travelling library is being shut down by council chiefs.’
A stunned silence fell over the Tube station. Mitsy gripped the microphone harder, her voice taut with emotion.
‘It’s thanks to Joyce and her mobile library that I didn’t wither away years ago, lonely and forgotten.’
Joyce stared, stunned at Mitsy’s outburst. Dore’s mouth was a perfect O of surprise.
‘Did you know about this?’ she muttered under her breath to Dore.
‘No, and she ought to be careful,’ he replied. ‘Mr Foster, head of accounts and the library’s executioner, is in the crowd.’
‘I rather think that’s why she’s doing it,’ Joyce muttered.
‘Yes, Mr Foster...’ Mitsy said, narrowing her eyes and pointing her walking stick at a man hovering by the Swiss Cottage underground sign. ‘I’m looking at you. Shame on you. Closing down a much-loved and cherished public library in a time of war is an abomination.’
The crowd turned to stare at Mr Foster, whose arms were tightly folded, his mouth a white-knuckle fist of disapproval.
‘Well, yes, thank you, Mitsy,’ said Dore, hastily taking the microphone back. ‘Have a wonderful evening, everyone.’
As she passed by, Joyce reached out and squeezed Mitsy’s hand. ‘Thank you.’
‘One of the perks of old age is not giving a shit who one offends,’ she muttered as Adela helped her down off the stage.
Maybe it was the emotion of Adela’s revelation, Harry’s deep sadness, or the prospect of the trials ahead, but Joyce had a desperate longing to be alone.
She slipped away from the celebrations and ran up the length of the station platform, until she came to her bunk at the very end. There, she lay down, tired. So very, very tired.
Ten minutes later she felt a presence beside the bunk and opened her eyes.
‘We had a good run, my dear,’ Dore said softly.
For Mitsy, the war had appeared rejuvenating, and she seemed to be reverse-aging. The opposite appeared to be the case for Dore Silverman. Maybe it was overseeing the needs of an underground shelter during the bombings, or juggling the running of libraries in the borough, but his bushy hair was now completely grey, and he’d lost so much weight that he’d had to punch extra holes in his belt. He looked every one of his seventy years.
‘And we could have achieved so much more, Dore,’ she insisted, propping herself up on one elbow. ‘In the four months since this library van’s been running, it’s become the essential service it set out to be. My patrons rely on the mobile library for books they no longer have the time to get to the library to borrow. For the bombed-out and all those involved in war work, reading has become a lifeline, and now we’re about to rip out the plug.’
‘You don’t need to tell me,’ Dore replied. ‘I’ve seen it in action. I know from the letters I receive what a vital job you and Adela have been doing.’
‘So, take the letters to Mr Foster and the rest of that shower down at the council. Show them!’ she urged.
