Wolcott Street

I can smell you, pressed up close against me like sardines in a tin. Your heartbeat is fast, ba-dum ba-dum ba-dum, like a hummingbird - and I am your wings, wrapped tight around you, keeping you safe. Somewhere, far away, I can hear the whistle of the bombs. Here, I can hear your breathing, I can feel your warmth. We will keep each other safe.

The library on Wolcott Street is large and grand, a showy building which belies the deprivation of the surrounding area. I had you in the flat we still live in today, a dingy, grey building, surrounded by other dingy, grey buildings. The library, though, stands proud and colourful. Red bricks and white wood frame gorgeous windows, windows which for the last few months have been boarded up and blacked out. Usually, this library is our favourite spot, isn’t it, chick? I remember you reading Peter Rabbit books in that chair over there, while I flicked through sewing patterns. I remember flicking through Madeline with you, and you insisting on a yellow coat for your next birthday. I can’t wait for you to start reading Enid Blyton. Rows of brightly coloured children’s books line a few shelves around the seats we used to sit in, directly below the light through a south-facing window. We were happy here, you and me, before Daddy was gone away to France. Saturday morning library trips were the highlight of my week, just you and me, the joy on your face brighter than the warm light streaming in through the windows. I love you so much, my little girl. 

Your grey checked coat is scratching my face. Shifting you slightly disturbs your sleep, and you turn around in my arms to look at me. 

‘Hi, darling. It’s ok. Go back to sleep’. I kiss your forehead, gently, and you snuggle in deeper. I wish I could let you all the way in, keep you safe inside me, lock you away and keep you safe for ever and ever. My big, brave girl. If I could express to you how much I love you, I think it would scare us both. The weight of love can be a heavy burden. Sometimes, I feel dragged down by my love for you, and my love for your father. It’s an anchor. It ties me back to this world. Sometimes, my love for you is so all-consuming that I just want to cry, I  want to go and find Churchill and tell him personally that he has to win this war, has to keep my baby safe, has to keep her daddy safe. You are the best thing in my life. I will keep you safe, I promise.

The rain outside the library does something to dull the whistle of the V2s. Occasionally, one of the wardens will come around with a paraffin lamp, illuminating the dusty dreariness of the library floor, hardwood planks covered in blankets and newspapers. The smell of the newspapers almost reminds me of the smell of the books that used to be in here, the books we used to read. They’re all boxed away now, sent off to the country with all your classmates. I remember you coming home from the first evacuation, the stories of the host families you told me. That night I wept for you. I’m sorry, baby, that you hated it so. I’m glad you’re back. Soon enough this war will be over, and we can go back to smelling the books in the library, not the sulphur of fires. Our house is ok, our library is ok, your school is ok, and we’ll be ok. 

Small particles of dust dance along the floor in the beam of the paraffin lamp. From the corner of my eye, I can see the other families, huddled in here with us. Their feet must be as cold as mine are, sticking out from under their hastily knitted blankets. Wool is expensive these days, so all my blankets are just as long as you. You keep me warm, anyway. My feet poke out from the end of this grey woollen blanket, and they’ve gone so cold I can’t feel them. I hug my arms tighter around you, my little radiator, and pull you close - as much for my own sake as for yours.

Nothing bad ever happened in a library.

Thick whispers hang in the air. Four or five soldiers are sitting by the door, discussing the day’s events sotto voce, and there are a few women talking about food supplies by the science and nature section. Mostly, though, you can hear muted sniffles and shallow breaths. You’re not the only child in here, there’s a couple of boys sitting at the feet of the soldiers, and a girl sleeping a few metres away from us. I’m glad you’re sleeping, baby, but I don’t know how you do it. I didn’t think my lies were that convincing when I told you everything will be alright. Can you convince me?

Your little hands, gloved and warm, are pressed up between our chests. I can see that you’re dreaming, it almost looks like you’re playing piano - fingers twitching, mice scurrying through the air in your mind. I want to hold your hands, tell you everything will be ok, and we can leave now, lead you out through the exit of the library, back down the streets, back up the stairs, back -

I don’t move. My job is to hug you, as tight as I can, and never let you go.

One day you will face this world without me, you will conquer anything you set your mind to, you’ll show those men who’s boss and you’ll be happy. Tonight is just a momentary blip, darling, we’re safe down here. Everyone knows knowledge is power, haven’t I told you that? One day you’ll be able to tell your children, ‘books saved my life’, and we’ll smile and share the memory of this terrible night with a bittersweet look. We’re safe down here. Nothing bad ever happened in a library. Nothing bad ever happened in a library. Nothing bad ever hap-

Brigadier Williamson’s log

8/12/1940: Long night, with little sleep. Four V2 bombs hit the Minet library, four confirmed dead, eight injured. Thought to be children killed. What if it’s my girls?