CHAPTER 17
‘Eva! Hello!’ The big-hearted welcome is from Mrs Devi, the manager of the library. ‘I’m so pleased you’ve found time to visit me. I know how busy you doctors are.’
‘Go into Sugar’s room myself and find out exactly what he’s hiding from me.’ The temptation of Danny’s words stayed with me all night. However, I decided against it because by now Sugar would have made sure that his room was as secure as the Bank of England after the attempted burglary. And, more importantly, if Sugar had caught me, in my heart I suspect that may have been a step over the line of trust in our relationship that we might never recover from.
Instead, I’m continuing with my original plan of finding out more information about The Walsh Briefing. The library hosts the most extensive collections of historic materials in North London and its suburbs. It is housed in an imposing Victorian building, a former infants’ school, with lots of reminders of its former function. The two entrances have ‘boys’ and ‘girls’ chiselled into their stone arches and brickwork with biblical texts and Latin phrases to keep Victorian children in line. High ceilings keep it refreshingly cool in the summer but freezing cold in winter. Former classrooms are divided into row upon row of archive material, study rooms and constantly updated display features.
It’s all presided over by Mrs Devi. The unbreakable bonds between me and this formidable woman were forged during my childhood visits to this library. It was Sugar who drilled into me the importance of books. He encouraged me to read a page of the dictionary every day. ‘Increase your word power, girl. Words are power.’ And he took me on weekly visits to this great, magical building called a library. Sitting alongside the magic was a gut-wrenching shame. When I came to live with Sugar and Cherry, I could barely read. Making sure the kids attended school wasn’t at the top of the priority list for those who ran the children’s home. With hindsight, I know it isn’t my shame, nevertheless it was another thing that marked me as ‘different’。 Another thing that my ‘hero’ Sugar changed.
Back then Mrs Devi used to walk with a brisk swing, the beautiful saris she’d occasionally worn making me catch my breath in wonder. I always remember learning the word ‘effervescent’ because it was the day Mrs Devi wore a magenta, brocade sari, the most spectacular sari my young eyes had ever seen. Now there’s something of the matronly aunt about her, with her neatly gathered bun, flat shoes and buttoned-up clothes.
While she checks me out over her gold-rimmed bifocals, I tell her, ‘I’m hoping you can help me with some research.’
Her brow rises with interest. ‘You’ve come to the right place. Family history, is it? Everyone’s doing it these days.’
‘In a way.’
‘We haven’t got many people in today.’ Disapproval sharpens her tone. ‘They’re probably all at home, watching box sets or playing computer games. Peasants.’
I reach in my bag and pull out The Walsh Briefing.
‘I know this is a long shot, but you wouldn’t happen to have more editions of this? I think it was distributed locally. Some sort of newsletter back in the 1990s, possibly earlier too. I’m especially interested in 1994.’
Mrs Devi takes The Walsh Briefing between her fingertips and holds it at arm’s length like a dirty tissue. The corners of her mouth droop with distaste.
Her strong physical reaction prompts me to ask, ‘You know this publication?’
‘Do you know how many people I’ve had to ban from the library in all the years I’ve worked here?’ She doesn’t wait for an answer. ‘Forty-six. That includes members of a wife-swapping coven who tried to find new recruits on my premises.’ I control the twitchy laughter on my lips. ‘The others were drunks and those fallen on hard times who’d come in for a nap in my comfy chairs.’ She pauses for effect. ‘And then there was the odious Mr Walsh.’
‘Tell me about him.’
‘I was acquainted with him many moons ago. He was a local crank who ran this scandal sheet’ – she shakes the copy she holds – ‘for a number of years. He’d come in here to photocopy it and then post it through unsuspecting people’s letter boxes in the middle of the night.’
Mrs Devi’s lips pucker with displeasure. ‘He would demand I put his rag in a prominent position on our magazine rack.’ She lengthens her neck. ‘When I refused he accused me of being involved in the cover-up.’