The Little Wartime Library, page 20
“Right here.” She raced through into the reading room, in case in the chaos she’d maybe left it there. But it was gone, and so too was the bowler-hatted gentleman.
“Oh God. Clara will go spare. It’s been stolen.”
“Don’t panic, my dear, it’s not the end of the world,” soothed Mrs. Chumbley, her voice nearly drowned out by the rising crescendo of noise from the Punch and Judy show next door.
But Ruby felt an irrational annoyance. Over the course of the war, surprisingly few books had been stolen, and she liked to feel it was a reflection of the high esteem in which the shelter held them.
“It had to be that queer bloke I left here reading the paper,” Ruby mused.
“Ought we go and look for him?” Mrs. Chumbley asked.
“No point, he’ll be long gone by now,” she sighed. A movement by the door made them both start.
“Netty!” Mrs. Chumbley exclaimed.
Standing at the door to the library, dressed only in her nightie, was Ruby’s mum. Her spindly arms and chest were covered with an embroidery of bruises.
Mrs. Chumbley took off her warden’s coat and wrapped it around Netty.
“Quickly now, dear, you’ll catch your death.”
Netty didn’t even seem to register the coat, she was trembling so violently.
“Pour your mum a brandy,” Mrs. Chumbley ordered.
Ruby did as she was told and pressed the glass to her mum’s lips.
“That bastard has gone too far this time,” Ruby seethed, not knowing where to even start in patching her mum up.
“I’m going to my office to get the first-aid kit,” said Mrs. Chumbley. “I’ll be as quick as I can.”
Netty started to talk, her words tumbling out. “H-he caught me reading Forever Amber. I thought he’d be out for the night, but he come home.” Her voice was so quiet against the noise of the Christmas party, that Ruby had to strain to hear her.
“He said I deserved a hiding I wouldn’t forget…” She stared straight through Ruby, to an unknown place of horror in her head. “He was out of his mind from the drink… He kicked me over and over. Told me I was the devil…”
She gripped Ruby’s hand.
“I thought he was going to kill the baby.”
Ruby was filled with an impotent rage. The abuse was inexorable and terrifyingly inescapable.
“I waited until he passed out and then I ran for it. I couldn’t think of anything else but getting out of there.” She stared at her daughter wild-eyed. “I’ve left him. I’ve finally done it.”
“Why now, Mum? Why this time?”
“I’ve already lost one child,” she whispered and both their thoughts went to Bella. “I won’t lose another.
“Oh God! What’ll happen when he wakes up and finds me gone? There’ll be blood on the moon.”
Ruby felt a cold rinse of fear. And where would be the first place he’d come looking?
She looked at the door and jumped in shock. Mrs. Chumbley was back, but with no first-aid kit.
“He’s coming. I spotted him at the top of the escalators.”
Netty crumpled and Ruby had to hold her up. “He’ll kill me.”
Ruby thought her heart might explode with fear.
“The keys!” screamed Mrs. Chumbley. “Ruby, get the keys, lock the library.”
Her mind turned to soup. Where had she put her keys?
“On second thoughts, forget it, there’s no time,” Mrs. Chumbley said. “He’ll be here any moment. By the look on his face, he’s capable of kicking the door in.”
“What’ll we do?” Ruby cried. “The ventilation chute in the tunnels, can we get Mum out there?”
“No time. Help me move the table,” Mrs. Chumbley ordered, running to the reading room. “We’ll barricade ourselves in.”
Together, they heaved a trestle table across the library and Mrs. Chumbley began to shout.
“Help! Help! We need help in the library!”
But even her deep voice couldn’t compete with the excitable shouts from the theatre as the Punch and Judy show reached its climax.
“Mum, get behind the counter,” Ruby ordered as they wedged the table in front of the door.
Netty stood paralysed in shock.
“For God’s sake, Mum, you have to hide.”
Ruby half-dragged her mum’s rigid body behind the counter.
In a trance-like state, Ruby took her place next to Mrs. Chumbley behind the table.
The library door seemed to jump as Victor’s foot made impact.
“Sssh,” Mrs. Chumbley mouthed, raising her finger to her lips. “Don’t move.”
“Where is she?” Victor’s voice was thick with drink. “She’s the devil! I’ve come to kill her!”
An almighty smash crashed the door, and splinters of wood skidded across the library. The door was only made of cheap plywood; it wouldn’t hold out much longer against Victor’s rage.
Thud! Thud! Thud! His heavy boot pummelled at the door until Ruby could make out the tip of his foot.
“Oh God,” she whimpered. “He’s nearly in.”
“Keep holding!” Mrs. Chumbley ordered, using her body to block the table against the door.
With one enormous grunt, the door smashed in, sending the trestle table and Ruby flying across the floor.
“Where is she?” he roared, flailing around, his body lurching drunkenly.
Ruby struggled to get up, but books were raining down on her head as Victor swept them off the shelves. He seemed gigantic in his rage.
“I won’t have my wife reading books, you hear me!” he bellowed, flecks of spittle flying from his mouth. “You’re all wicked, the whole flamin’ lot of you. Filling women’s heads with nonsense.”
“Victor, you must calm down,” said Mrs. Chumbley.
He ignored her and, dragging Ruby off the floor, he pinned her to the bookshelf.
“Where is she?”
Ruby tried her hardest not to let him see her fear, but it was there, leaping like flames in her throat.
“She ain’t here,” she said, looking him square in the eye. “Even if I did know where she was, I wouldn’t tell you.”
“Liar!”
His fingers squeezed harder, pressing the pale flesh around her jugular as if he could wring the truth from her.
“Tell me or I’ll kill you.”
His face was twisted with rage and paranoia and, for the first time, Ruby could see the full extent of his sickness. He clapped one hand over her mouth and struck her with a hard, stinging slap.
Her head cracked off the bookshelf. Strange, nebulous shapes drifted at the edge of her vision. Behind him, she saw her mum rise from behind the counter.
“I’m here, Victor.”
Ruby tried to talk, to say the words to stop her mum, but breath wouldn’t come. And then she was being thrown from the library.
Her back hit the curved tiled wall, just under the red-and-blue-tiled Bethnal Green Underground sign. She slid down onto the platform floor, pain bursting behind her eyes.
17
Clara
They’d reached the bottom of the escalator when Billy caught hold of Clara’s hand.
“Please let’s leave the library. Just for one evening, Clara. You look wretched.”
“Oh, thanks,” she laughed.
“You know what I mean. It was a long walk to Mile End and back. Why don’t I take you to the Salmon and Ball and buy you a stiff drink? Ruby can lock up, can’t she?”
Clara stared at the group gathered round the Christmas tree, their faces bathed in the light of the candles they were holding. “Silent Night” washed over her, and she felt overcome with weariness.
“That does sound tempting. But can you just give me five minutes? I accidentally picked up Ruby’s keys earlier and I need to drop them back.”
He kissed the top of her head.
“Very well, but let’s not spend too long in the library. We need the rest of the night to celebrate… hopefully.”
“Celebrate what?”
But Billy wasn’t listening. He was sinking down onto one knee.
“Billy,” she muttered, looking nervously at the carol singers. “What are you doing?”
“Something I should have done properly months ago,” he replied, taking her hand. “Clara, will you marry me? I can’t wait until the end of the war. I don’t want to waste another minute.”
The singers tailed off and turned to stare, smiling expectantly.
“B-but why now?”
“Because when we find the girls, I want them to have a proper family home. If that’s what they should like. And you and I together, as man and wife, can provide that.”
He smiled.
“And also, I’m madly in love with you.”
“I-I don’t know what to say!”
“Try yes,” urged a woman in the Salvation Army band.
Clara looked from the faces of the hushed crowd, back to Billy. What she saw staring back was the purest love she had ever seen. Why had she been so intransigent since her husband’s death, giving 100 percent of herself to the library? She couldn’t make a mausoleum of her heart forever.
Billy’s love was teaching her that life was rich and big and full of possibility, even in wartime. The simple joys of existence that grief had rubbed out. Being with him had felt like discovering doors in her library she hadn’t noticed.
“You would do that? When we find the girls, you’ll help me take care of them?”
“I would do anything that you ask of me, Clara.”
“Even if they never returned to Jersey and stayed with us for life?”
“For life.”
“Then my answer is yes.” She began to laugh and shake. “Yes, I will marry you, Billy Clark.”
Billy leapt to his feet in a great rush of energy and picked her off her feet.
“Billy,” she laughed, holding on to her hat as he swung her round. The crowd burst into applause and started cheering. The mood in the station became electric as the crowd surged forward to pump Billy’s hand and kiss Clara’s cheek.
Ten minutes later, they managed to extricate themselves and the band serenaded them with “O Holy Night.”
They watched the singers in silence, Clara luxuriating in the feel of being nestled in Billy’s arms, still not quite able to believe her brave new beginning. The girls were still missing, the library still in jeopardy, life was fragile, but hope had spun a net around her heart.
“Shall we go and get that drink now?” he whispered.
“Yes. Just as soon as I’ve dropped those keys back. Also, I really want Ruby to be the first person I tell.”
He laughed. “I guess I’m going to have to get used to saying yes once we’d married.”
“Too right you are,” she grinned, until a sudden disturbing thought occurred to her.
“Will you want me to leave the library, only—”
He placed one finger gently on her mouth.
“Clara. I would never, never ask you to choose between being my wife and being a librarian. It’s who you are.”
Relief melted through her.
“Come on.” She tugged his hand in the direction of the library.
As they walked, a high-pitched scream sounded from somewhere deep up the westbound tunnel.
“Sounds like Santa’s going down a storm in the theatre,” Billy remarked.
“Of course, it’s the children’s Christmas party this evening,” Clara replied.
They turned left and hurried down the platform, but as they got nearer, the screams grew louder, reverberating off the tunnel walls.
“That’s not coming from the theatre,” Clara said. “It’s coming from the library.”
“Is that Ruby?” Billy asked, straining his eyes against the dim light. At the furthest end of the platform, at the entrance to the library, stood two figures, yelling and hammering on the door of the library.
“Oh my God, it is Ruby,” Clara cried. “What’s happened?”
Billy dropped her hand and began sprinting, his long legs easily outpacing Clara’s. By the time she reached him, she couldn’t work out what had happened.
“Rubes. What’s going on?”
“It’s Victor!” cried Mrs. Chumbley. “He broke in, in a fearful rage. He threw me and Ruby out and he’s got Netty in there.”
“Run, Mrs. Chumbley,” Billy ordered. “Call the police.”
“There’s no time, don’t you see?” Ruby turned on them, helpless with terror. “He’s going to kill her.”
A thud and a muffled cry sounded from inside.
She gripped Billy’s arm.
“Do something. He’s used a table to block the door.”
A noise, so awful it didn’t even sound human, halfway between a sob and scream, rang out.
“He’s killing her!” Ruby screamed, covering her ears. “Oh God, he’s killing her!” Billy’s whole face blanched. Turning around, he began to run.
“Billy, stop, wait,” Mrs. Chumbley called after him.
Clara stared after him in disbelief.
“Looks like it’s up to us,” Mrs. Chumbley said and, raising her foot, she kicked once, twice. “Come on!” she urged.
Together, Ruby, Clara and Mrs. Chumbley kicked again and again, but their combined force couldn’t break through whatever was holding the door fast.
“Listen,” Ruby ordered. They stopped, their breath coming hot and heavy. The silence was ominous. Clara thought Ruby might implode as she threw herself at the door again and again, wild with fury. Clara closed her eyes against the horror, the helplessness of this situation. On the other side of that door, a woman was being beaten to a pulp.
She opened her eyes and there was Billy, armed with a metal shovel.
“Move out of the way,” he ordered. Using the heavy shovel like a battering ram, he bashed it against the door, once, twice. Finally, the heavy impact of steel on wood pushed the stack of tables Victor had wedged under the door handle enough for Billy to force his way in.
The scene that greeted them was beyond anything Clara could imagine. Books were scattered everywhere, and sprawled on top, pinned down among the pages, was Netty.
Her husband’s hands were clamped around her neck, the force turning his knuckles white.
In one fluid movement, Billy wrenched him off Netty and Victor sprawled breathless on the floor. In that moment, Clara prayed he’d come to his senses, sober up and, after a few curses, storm from the library.
Instead, he rose with surprising speed for a drunk man and launched himself at Billy, headbutting him with a hollow crack. Clara screamed. She hated herself for her total inability to do anything but scream, even as the men careered crazily back and forth around the library, like they were taking part in some grotesque dance. Victor wasn’t tall, but he was a solid man. Billy barely recovered from being headbutted before Victor landed the next punch in his guts.
Billy doubled over, but Victor dragged him up by his collar until their faces were inches apart.
“This is for getting in my way before, conchie boy,” Victor taunted, plunging his fist like a hammer into his solar plexus.
The blow sent Billy skidding on his back across the library and he hit the counter with an inhalation of pain.
Billy’s stunned gaze was so wide you could see all the whites of his eyes, at first Clara thought in pain, but then she realised, in shock.
“You…” he spluttered, clutching his chest but with recognition dawning behind his eyes. “It was you who attacked Clara!”
Clara whipped round and stared in horrified disbelief at Victor.
“Yeah and when I’m finished with you, I’ll finally sort out that bitch,” he grunted, drawing back his fist.
Clara closed her eyes, unable to watch. She heard the solid knock of bone against wood, the skid of paper, then a hollow, wet-sounding crack. It could have been ten seconds, but it felt like hours.
When she opened her eyes again, she realised Billy and Victor had crashed their way out of the library, onto the platform outside.
Images came to her in snapshots. Mrs. Chumbley was running up the platform, scattering the assembled crowds, calling for someone, anyone, to call an ambulance. Ruby cradled her mother in her arms, the pair of them looking the other way.
Victor lay face down on the platform, a red bloom spreading up the concrete. And standing over him, holding the shovel in his hand, stood Billy.
Clara’s throat muscles were so stiff with horror that at first she couldn’t speak, until finally a mournful sob broke from her.
“B-Billy, what happened?”
Billy gazed at the prone figure vacantly, then at the shovel in his hand. The incredulity on his face shifted at last to a kind of horror at what he had just done. He stared at his hands in disbelief.
“I’ve killed him,” he breathed, reaching out to the tiled wall to steady himself. “Oh God, Clara, I’ve killed a man.”
3 January 1945
The New Year slithered in on a cloud of freezing fog. News broke that the Red Army was barely 160 miles from Berlin, but Clara barely noticed global events. The news that had unravelled on their own doorstep was explosive and deeply shocking.
At the police’s insistence, the underground library had closed for two weeks to allow the febrile atmosphere to settle and the blood stains on the platform to be scrubbed clean. The summons to the town hall to see Mr. Pinkerton-Smythe came daily, but every day since the death of Victor Walsh, Clara had spent with Billy, coaxing him to open up. Apart from trips to the police station to give a statement and walk Beauty, he’d refused to leave his flat in Stepney, and he’d taken leave from his beloved ambulance station.
“It’s been ten days now, Billy,” she implored when she went round one drizzly Wednesday morning with fresh beigels from Rinkoffs. “If you don’t want to talk, at the very least, you must eat.”
He refused to take a warm beigel, just kept staring out of the taped-up windows of his self-imposed prison. Food wasn’t the only thing he was refusing. The bruises round his eyes from where Victor had headbutted him had faded to a yellowy mustard colour, but he wasn’t remotely interested in letting Clara smooth on anything that might help him to heal.
“Billy,” she repeated softly.
