was the apprentice work. Ours is much lighter – physically lighter, and also the windows in the lantern are larger. And we’ve got a spire which here is an integral part of the design.’
He was like a boy in his pleasure. It had never struck me before how attractive enthusiasm can be, the sort of enthusiasm that reaches out to other people.
‘What are you going to do with this?’ I asked him.
‘We’re planning an exhibition. The dean thinks we should do more to attract the tourists. Without the income we get from them it would be very difficult to run this place. Do you think I could leave it in that corner for now? He’ll want to come and see it. But would it be in your way?’
We moved the Octagon where he suggested. David glanced at the table where I worked, which was underneath one of the windows.
‘How are you getting on?’
‘I’m nearly halfway, I think. I had to have a week off over Easter.’
‘Any surprises?’
‘Lady Chatterley’s Lover.’
He stared at me, then threw back his head and laughed. ‘What did you do with it?’
‘I gave it to Canon Hudson.’ I decided not to mention that I had read it first. ‘Apparently it’s the unexpurgated 1928 edition and it might be worth something.’
‘But we’d have to sell it anonymously.’ He gestured towards my card index. ‘I’d like to have a look through there sometime, if I may.’
My excitement drained away. Indeed, up to that moment I hadn’t been aware I was excited, only that I was enjoying myself. But now it was spoiled. Suddenly it seemed improbable he was interested in what was in the library for its own sake. Perhaps this was something to do with his campaign for the Theological College.
‘I’m sure Canon Hudson wouldn’t mind,’ I said.
‘I’d better leave you to your labours.’
At the door he paused. ‘By the way, I should thank you.’
‘It’s nice to have an excuse for a break.’
‘I don’t just mean now. I mean at home. I don’t know how Janet would have managed without you. Especially with her father around.’
I felt myself blush. I couldn’t stand much more of this new David, considerate, enthusiastic and worst of all grateful.
‘Of course, I’m not sure how long he’ll be with us,’ he said, and the old David emerged once again. ‘In the nature of things it can’t be for ever.’ Then he smiled and the gears of his personality shifted again. ‘Bless you,’ he said, as priests do, and slipped out of the library.
I think coincidence is often a label we attach to events to confer a fake significance on them. But it makes me feel uncomfortable that on the same afternoon, a few minutes after David left, I had my first encounter with Francis Youlgreave.
I was cataloguing Keble’s three-volume Works of Richard Hooker. On the flyleaf of the first volume, opposite the bookplate of the dean and chapter, was the name F. St J. Youlgreave. Presumably Youlgreave had owned the book and later presented it to the library.
There was a strip of paper protruding from the second volume. I took it out. The top was brown and flaky where it had been exposed to the air but most of the strip had been trapped between the pages. It looked like a makeshift bookmark torn from a larger sheet. Both of the longer edges were ragged. One side was blank. On the other were several lines of writing in ink that had faded to a dark brown.
… a well-set-up boy perhaps twelve years old. He said he was going to visit his sister and their widowed mother who lodge in Swan Alley off Bridge Street. His name is Simon Martlesham and he works at the Palace where he cleans the boots and runs errands for the butler. It is curious how people of his class, even the younger ones, smell so unpleasantly of rancid fat. But when I gave him sixpence for helping me back to the house, he thanked me very prettily. He may be useful for …
Useful for what?
I made a note of where I had found the scrap of paper and put it to one side to
He was like a boy in his pleasure. It had never struck me before how attractive enthusiasm can be, the sort of enthusiasm that reaches out to other people.
‘What are you going to do with this?’ I asked him.
‘We’re planning an exhibition. The dean thinks we should do more to attract the tourists. Without the income we get from them it would be very difficult to run this place. Do you think I could leave it in that corner for now? He’ll want to come and see it. But would it be in your way?’
We moved the Octagon where he suggested. David glanced at the table where I worked, which was underneath one of the windows.
‘How are you getting on?’
‘I’m nearly halfway, I think. I had to have a week off over Easter.’
‘Any surprises?’
‘Lady Chatterley’s Lover.’
He stared at me, then threw back his head and laughed. ‘What did you do with it?’
‘I gave it to Canon Hudson.’ I decided not to mention that I had read it first. ‘Apparently it’s the unexpurgated 1928 edition and it might be worth something.’
‘But we’d have to sell it anonymously.’ He gestured towards my card index. ‘I’d like to have a look through there sometime, if I may.’
My excitement drained away. Indeed, up to that moment I hadn’t been aware I was excited, only that I was enjoying myself. But now it was spoiled. Suddenly it seemed improbable he was interested in what was in the library for its own sake. Perhaps this was something to do with his campaign for the Theological College.
‘I’m sure Canon Hudson wouldn’t mind,’ I said.
‘I’d better leave you to your labours.’
At the door he paused. ‘By the way, I should thank you.’
‘It’s nice to have an excuse for a break.’
‘I don’t just mean now. I mean at home. I don’t know how Janet would have managed without you. Especially with her father around.’
I felt myself blush. I couldn’t stand much more of this new David, considerate, enthusiastic and worst of all grateful.
‘Of course, I’m not sure how long he’ll be with us,’ he said, and the old David emerged once again. ‘In the nature of things it can’t be for ever.’ Then he smiled and the gears of his personality shifted again. ‘Bless you,’ he said, as priests do, and slipped out of the library.
I think coincidence is often a label we attach to events to confer a fake significance on them. But it makes me feel uncomfortable that on the same afternoon, a few minutes after David left, I had my first encounter with Francis Youlgreave.
I was cataloguing Keble’s three-volume Works of Richard Hooker. On the flyleaf of the first volume, opposite the bookplate of the dean and chapter, was the name F. St J. Youlgreave. Presumably Youlgreave had owned the book and later presented it to the library.
There was a strip of paper protruding from the second volume. I took it out. The top was brown and flaky where it had been exposed to the air but most of the strip had been trapped between the pages. It looked like a makeshift bookmark torn from a larger sheet. Both of the longer edges were ragged. One side was blank. On the other were several lines of writing in ink that had faded to a dark brown.
… a well-set-up boy perhaps twelve years old. He said he was going to visit his sister and their widowed mother who lodge in Swan Alley off Bridge Street. His name is Simon Martlesham and he works at the Palace where he cleans the boots and runs errands for the butler. It is curious how people of his class, even the younger ones, smell so unpleasantly of rancid fat. But when I gave him sixpence for helping me back to the house, he thanked me very prettily. He may be useful for …
Useful for what?
I made a note of where I had found the scrap of paper and put it to one side to
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