The Little Wartime Library, page 16
“Don’t think what?” Ruby asked.
“That it’s Mr. Pepper who’s cutting out the racing pages from the newspapers? Even accidentally? I found another cut up yesterday.”
“No, course not,” Ruby replied swiftly, then with less certainty. “Least I hope not. Come on. Let’s set up for book club.”
But as she started to set out the chairs for the Friday night Bethnal Green Bookworm meeting, Ruby shuddered to think what would happen if one of the parents found out about the misplaced pamphlet.
Thirty minutes later, she slid out The Art of Homemaking, giddy with relief. The uncomfortable realisation dawned on her that she was looking forward to their evening tipple earlier and earlier these days. She thought back. When was the last time she’d had a night off the sauce? Well, the rockets hadn’t helped of course. Then there was the worry over her mum. All right, she had a little nip before she left the library to steady her nerves and help her get up those stairs without thinking of Bella. Then again before bed to stop the nightmares. After the war’s over, I’ll stop, she told herself unconvincingly.
She uncorked a bottle and while Clara was greeting Billy at the door, she took a hasty gulp. The liquid hit the back of her throat and she closed her eyes in relief.
“Ready?” she asked, turning round with a painted-on smile.
“As I’ll ever be,” Clara grinned, throwing open the library doors.
Queenie was first in, lowering herself into a chair with an exaggerated groan.
“Fix us one of them drinks, Ruby Red Lips,” she called. “I’m so thirsty, I could spit sixpence.”
“Me and all, darlin’,’’ said Irene, bustling in behind her. “After the day I’ve had, I could drink stairs and passage water.”
“What’s with the teacups, Rubes?” asked Dot. “I can’t face more splosh.”
“Don’t worry, it’s one of my specials. But seeing as how we ain’t supposed to consume alcohol in the library, I’m serving it from a teapot, so if our boss should happen to poke his nose round the door, all he’ll see is the Bethnal Green Bookworms having a nice cup of tea.”
“You are incorrigible, Ruby,” scolded Mrs. Chumbley, stroking Library Cat, who had jumped up on her lap.
“I thought animals were barred from the shelter,” Dot exclaimed.
“She’s making an exception,” Mr. Pepper chuckled.
“Indeed I am. He’s caught over twenty rats this week!” Mrs. Chumbley exclaimed. “He’s doing more for the hygiene of the shelter than the whole of the borough’s sanitation unit put together, which is just as well. I’ve just come from a tedious meeting at the Town Hall regarding the misuse of toilet paper. Seems shelterers are using more than their one allocated square.”
“So, I’m not the only one with a paper shortage,” Clara grinned.
“Clara, dear,” Mrs. Chumbley said. “I overheard a conversation between Mr. Pinkerton-Smythe and the shelter manager in his office earlier. He was asking Mr. Miller, in the event of the shelter library being disbanded, what possible alternative use he could find for the premises.”
A cry went up from the book club.
“But he can’t shut down the library, can he?” said Dot in alarm.
“Calm down, everyone,” said Billy. “Let Mrs. Chumbley speak.”
“Thank you, Billy. It’s important we stay calm. Anger won’t serve our cause.”
“So, what will, Mrs. Chumbley?” Clara asked. “That man will not rest until he has closed this library down. You were a suffragette. Ought I chain myself to the library counter?”
A wry smile passed over the older woman’s face.
“A common misconception. I wasn’t part of the more militant arm. I was a member of the East London Federation of the Suffragettes. We believed in the power of a Women’s Army to bring about change.”
“I don’t understand,” Clara said.
“We knew breaking shop windows and ending up in prison wouldn’t do working-class women any good. So, we opened social centres, a nursery and a cost-price canteen, and even a cooperative toy factory that paid women a living wage. We knew the only way to galvanise support for our cause was by helping people in ways that made a difference to their lives.”
Clara stared at her blankly.
“Pinkerton-Smythe can’t very well close down a public facility that is clearly loved by the community.” She patted Clara on the arm. “Defend this library by engaging a Reader’s Army. Books are your weapons!”
“Perhaps we ought to play it safe for a while though,” Ruby interjected. “Stop loaning out the birth control pamphlet, play by the rules for a bit.”
“NO, don’t stop what you’re doing in here.”
Everyone turned, surprised at the unexpectedly vociferous voice.
“This library’s given me back my life.”
Mrs. Caley shifted in her seat, uncomfortable with the scrutiny of the group.
“Go on,” Ruby urged.
“I’ve got nine nippers.” She traced the rim of her teacup. “One for every year we’ve been married, my husband proudly tells it.” She looked up and her eyes radiated hope. “But not this year. Clara lent me reading material that has helped me to understand my body better. I admit, I never thought I’d get through this though.”
The Tenant of Wildfell Hall sat on her lap.
“Thought it might be too, you know, wordy for me.”
“And?” said Clara, leaning forward.
“I’m leaving him.”
“How?” Netty blurted, looking up from the shelf she was dusting. “Where’ll you go with nine kids in tow?”
“To my sister’s in Suffolk for a start.”
For the first time, the group noticed she had a tatty carpet bag under her chair.
“He’s on a night shift. The older ones are down the tunnels as we speak getting the younger ones ready. I’ve saved enough to get us on a train out. We’ll make it up as we go along, once we get out to the countryside.”
She drained her drink and stood up.
“But I wanted to come here and say thanks to you all. For reminding me about the sort of person I used to be.”
“What was it, Mrs. Caley, about this book in particular which made you decide to leave?” asked Mrs. Chumbley.
Mrs. Caley cocked her head.
“I don’t know. I found courage in its pages, I suppose.”
She picked up her bag.
“Better go before I lose me nerve. Be lucky everyone and God bless you all.” When she reached the door, she turned. “Ooh, nearly forgot.”
She placed her library ticket down on the counter.
Netty stared after her, astonished, as she walked out of the library in search of a new life. Ruby glanced at her mother, praying that by some strange osmosis some of that newfound courage would rub off on her. In that moment though, Netty looked so tiny, standing there clutching her duster like it was a white flag. Had she given up? Had Victor and his abuse entirely corroded her spirit? And it dawned on Ruby that this was the worst aspect of it. His coercion and control of her mother was slow and insidious, like a hidden dripping leak that suddenly causes a roof to collapse.
After that, a strange feckless feeling seized the underground group, a kind of euphoria fuelled by Ruby’s potent gin and Mrs. Caley’s liberation.
“Good luck to her, I say,” remarked Queenie. “Her husband always was a wrong ’un.”
“Yeah, but keep quiet on this,” said Pat. “A still tongue makes a wise head! Her old man won’t like it one bit, and he’ll come here looking for her.”
“Pat’s right,” said Mrs. Chumbley. “If anyone asks, we did not see her this evening.”
“See who?” asked Irene, and all at once, everyone fell about.
“If I’d known a book club would be this much fun, I’d have joined myself,” said the shelter manager, Mr. Miller, sticking his head round the door. “Was that Mrs. Caley I just saw leaving?”
“No, she hasn’t been here this evening. Is there a problem, Mr. Miller?” asked Mrs. Chumbley casually.
“No problem. Just wanted to deliver this letter to Ruby.”
Everyone tried their hardest to look sober as he handed the letter over.
“Carry on,” he said, waving as he pulled the library door closed. “If Hitler could see this reading group, he’d hang up the towel now. Cheerio.” His footsteps echoed up the platform.
“Wonder who’s writing to me here?” puzzled Ruby, tearing open the envelope.
“I don’t believe it,” she said, running her hand through her thick blonde hair. “It’s only that GI Eddie. You know the one…”
“Ooh, not many,” interrupted Dot. “The one with the teeth, the muscles and the…”
“Yes, yes, thank you, Dot, we get the picture,” said Mrs. Chumbley. “I thought he was over in France.”
“He was,” Ruby murmured, scanning the letter. “He was injured and wrote this letter from a hospital troop ship on his way back to New York.”
She shook her head.
“He’s enclosed an address in New York to write back… reckons he’ll never forget the night we spent together. Apparently…” Her grin stretched further. “The thought of our last night together is what kept him going and now he’d like to repay me by sending me over books from America. He’s got a sister who works for Macmillan Publishing in Manhattan, apparently.”
Her hands shook as she read on.
Sweetheart, I can’t stop thinking about you. I hated leaving you alone in that hotel room, especially after…
Ruby folded the letter abruptly, aware of everyone’s eyes on her. How could she admit she’d told Eddie about the disaster, spoken the unspeakable?
Instead, she tipped her head back and a throaty laugh poured out. “What a load of old flannel.” Ruby knew she was hiding behind her caricature, but somehow it was easier this way.
She went to scrunch up the letter.
“Don’t you dare!” screeched Irene, snatching it.
“The least you can do,” said Mrs. Chumbley, taking out official Bethnal Green Borough Council headed paper from her bag, “is write back.”
“Very well,” Ruby replied, taking the paper and a pen. She refilled her teacup and chucked it back in one gulp.
“Here, I was reading about some racy book they’re publishing in America, Forever Amber or summat like that,” said Irene. “Get him to send us a few copies of that.”
With the gin coursing through her veins, Ruby scrawled out a reply before stamping a full stop with a big red kiss.
Pat whipped it out of her hands and read out loud.
“If you’re in the mood, write to me and I’ll be in the nude.”
“Ruby! You never did!” Clara gasped.
“Don’t worry, Cla. It’ll never get past the censors.”
“You want to hope not, Ruby Red Lips,” said Pat, wiping her eyes. “Else you’ll have half the American Army turning up here. You beat all, you do.”
A shadow fell over the door and Library Cat’s ears went back.
“V-Victor!” Netty stammered. “What you doing here, love?”
Just like that, Ruby sobered up.
“I’ve come to take it home.” He glared at Clara. “It’s not to work here no more.”
The laughter of moments earlier froze in the air.
“May I ask why?” Clara said.
Victor looked around the group suspiciously.
“I know what goes on here.”
“What the hell are you on about, Victor?” Ruby demanded.
“This library’s the talk of my club,” he went on. “Loaning out books written by Jerries. Pamphlets showing young unmarried women how not to have a baby. It’s disgusting is what it is!”
Ruby’s stomach clenched.
“And Clara’s having it away with that conchie,” he sniffed, pointing to a stunned-looking Billy. “And her husband not yet cold.”
“Oh, shut up, you ignorant fool!” Ruby exploded, leaping to her feet. “Her husband’s been dead four years now. You married Mum six months after your wife died.”
“And she dabbles in the occult,” he went on, ignoring Ruby.
Ruby laughed out loud.
“Now I know you’re off your nut!”
“It’s true. She can guess people’s favourite books. In the old days, she’d have been lashed to a ducking stool.”
Billy stood up.
“You’ve said your piece. I think you better leave.”
“You going to make me, are you, conchie boy?” he taunted.
Mrs. Chumbley stood up.
“I’m banning you from this shelter, Mr. Walsh. Leave now.”
He smiled grotesquely. “With pleasure.” He clicked his fingers like he was calling a dog to heel.
“Get here now.”
“Mum, don’t go,” Ruby pleaded, but Netty was already out of the door.
Victor shook his head.
“This is what happens when you give women books.”
After he left, Clara put her head in her hands.
“Ignore him, darlin’,’’ Pat soothed.
“Yeah, everyone knows he’s full of drink,” Queenie agreed.
“Full of shit, more like,” Ruby muttered. How much more could she take from that man? She could already picture the scene when she got home. Broken crockery, broken teeth, more bruises to add to her collection?
What was the point of tricking the Old Bill into arresting him? They only released him as soon as he sobered up. Besides, “flying plate night” wasn’t just confined to her household. The police didn’t care. They’d happily hunt down a lone rapist, but never mind the women who were getting beaten senseless night after night. That was all right, because the attacker was their husband.
Rage mushroomed through Ruby’s chest, hot and toxic. If she had a knife, she honestly thought she could thrust it through Victor’s guts. Instead, she reached for the teapot of gin, took a deep slug and felt it sluice through her veins.
Clara’s hand rested on hers, cool and calming. She didn’t need to say anything, Clara could tell when one of her episodes was brewing.
“I think we need to face facts,” Clara said to the group, without taking her hand from Ruby’s, “that people are talking. How’s it got out that we’re loaning out that pamphlet?”
“Search me, Cla,” Ruby said. “I can’t see Mrs. Caley saying anything. Perhaps it was one of the factory girls?”
“I’m going to check he’s really gone,” Mrs. Chumbley said, squeezing Ruby’s shoulder as she passed.
When she came back, she looked uneasy.
“Is he still out there?” Mr. Pepper asked.
“No, it’s not that.” She gripped the back of her chair. “Did you not just feel that tremor?”
“Probably my stepdad’s knuckles dragging along the platform,” Ruby joked lamely and the group laughed, grateful for the release of tension.
“No, hush everyone,” Mrs. Chumbley ordered.
Shouts, followed by the pounding of feet.
Panic slammed down on all their heads.
“Rocket’s come down in Russia Lane!” The shriek tore through the shelter.
Then another, “The allotment’s copped it!”
“The allotment!” Pat gasped, her teacup falling to the floor and smashing. “That’s where Sparrow and Tubby are!”
13
Clara
Billy was on his feet in seconds, followed closely by the rest of the book group.
As they emerged from the Underground, it felt like they’d walked out into the thick of night. Footsteps slapped on the pavement, ragged breaths, the clanging of ambulance bells, and all Clara could think was, Please, God. Not again.
By the time she reached Russia Lane, Clara was separated from the group and, for a moment, she whirled round, disorientated. Where was she? The allotment was gone. Now there was nothing but a smoking hole in the ground.
“Sparrow! Tubby!” she called, horror choking her voice.
“Out the way, love!” yelled a voice and Clara stepped back as a stretcher transporting the crumpled remnants of a human was carried past her.
The impact of the rocket was meteoric; the hole seemed scorched into the earth, a black, bottomless pit. A cordon had been placed around it and ten feet away, she saw Pat smash her way through it. It took the combined efforts of five rescue workers and Mrs. Chumbley to hold her back as she fought against them. “My boy! My boy!”
She stumbled towards Pat before tripping over something. She looked down. It was a child’s foot, neatly cut off above the ankle.
Clara didn’t remember getting home, other than one minute she was in the allotment, the next she was shaking violently on her doorstep. Billy put her to bed, wrapped extra blankets round her and insisted she try and sip some sweet tea, but she was in a state of deep and profound shock. He made a bed out of a bundle of blankets and slept on her floor.
Sometime around 3 a.m., she woke, and the shock wore off, to be replaced by a terrifying rage. In her despair, she lost control, sliding from the bed and pummelling her fists against the warped wooden floorboards. Agony and misery poured out of her. All she could see was Sparrow’s face. She pictured him digging his allotment, elbow sticking out of his patched-up woolly. The quiet pride with which he had showed off his onion beds, the fizzing energy he put into everything he did. He was a good kid, a child of his time who had pitted his wits against a world that seemed determined not to let him succeed.
Her husband’s death she had borne because he was a soldier. Sparrow was a boy. And Tubby… She didn’t even think of him half the time as a child, he was that grown up. But he was a child. A twelve-year-old eviscerated by a scientist’s rocket. What world was this? Grief cracked open her heart and a howl seeped from deep within.
“Clara, stop,” begged Billy, taking her in his arms. “You’ll hurt yourself.”
“They were kids, Billy. Just children. Why?”
Clara eventually fell asleep in Billy’s arms, exhausted and hollowed out by grief sometime around 5 a.m. When a smoky dawn slid through the blackout blinds, she was up and getting dressed.
