Marlford by Jacqueline Yallop

evidence – for future generations – of his philanthropy and foresight.’
    â€˜But what good is it, now, to those boys?’
    She had never asked such questions before. He stared at her.
    â€˜What on earth do you mean?’
    She wished she could explain, but he looked at her with such uncomprehending anxiety that it confused her all the more.
    â€˜I don’t know. I just thought… I’m sorry, Mr Quersley, I’ve got a lot on my mind.’
    â€˜Take the books to the readers, Ellie. And then perhaps we can do something ourselves, something to settle us – Shakespeare, perhaps? That would be nice.’ He blushed, smiling at her with sudden warmth, but she had already walked away, carrying the books to the table and showing them to the boys.
    She knew immediately there was nothing to interest them and although, for a while, politely, they bent forward over the illustrations of old bicycles, they wrote nothing.
    Soon enough, they forgot even to turn the pages.
    Tired of the pretence, one of the boys suddenly leanedback, swinging the chair onto its back legs. ‘What did you think of Neil Armstrong, miss? Wasn’t it fab? We watched it at Mrs Turton’s – it was just fab.’
    It was the most mysterious of questions. Ellie came across and, looking over their shoulders, studied a page of dense text that appeared to discuss the geological requirements for laying level rail track.
    â€˜I’m sorry,’ she said, at last. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
    The boys laughed and nudged each other, liking her the more for her joke.
    â€˜You haven’t got anything about that, miss, have you? Nothing about Neil Armstrong? No books about that, not yet? It wouldn’t be out yet, would it, miss?’
    Ellie could not find a way through their gibberish, but she smiled at them anyway, because their exhilaration was so startling.
    â€˜No. I’m sorry. I don’t remember anything by Neil Armstrong. I would know the name, I’m sure.’
    They did not mind. ‘It’ll be on telly again, I bet. All the time. We’ll see it again. We’ll ask Mrs Turton.’
    â€˜Ah.’ She was beginning to grasp something at last. ‘It was on television. I see.’ She laughed at being taken in by their enthusiasm and shook her head, flicking the world back into place. ‘You should be reading books, not watching television. You’ll learn a great deal more from books – a great deal more. Let me find you something on shipping. My grandfather was involved with several shipping lines; there’ll be some excellent books, I’m sure. Just wait here a moment.’
    She hurried again to the stacks, smiling still at the boys’odd excitement. She spent several minutes browsing the shelves on the back wall, edging slowly along, running her hands over the familiar spines and ignoring the archive boxes of deeds and papers, the lines of periodicals and tracts. It seemed important to make the right choice, and she was methodical and intense in her search.
    She picked out two volumes, wiped their covers with her sleeve, and lodged one of her fingers at the page with the most impressive illustrations of steam ships. But, as she turned to retrace her steps, she noticed that there was another reader in the library, crouching by one of the shelves, his back to her.
    â€˜Oh, my goodness – I’m sorry – can I help you?’ She stared at the loose fall of his shirt, unable to think quite what to do with such a visitor. ‘If you’re looking for something in particular…’
    The reader did not answer her. He kept on scanning the books.
    â€˜Hello again,’ he said at last, still crouching, looking at her askance. It did not seem a very clever greeting after such an expectant pause.
    â€˜Dan – I didn’t expect to see you here. I never thought…’ She could not go on; she found she could not