A Girl in Winter Read Free Page A

the Lending Library and to the Reading Room. The only piece of furniture was a large double-sided stand, painted duck-egg green, for Official War Photographs. This was now covered with pictures of destroyers, aeroplanes , and tanks in the desert: sometimes urchins crept in and stared at them, or prised out the drawing-pins to steal. High up on the walls, in the shadow from the blacked-over windows, hung worthless paintings by local artists.
    What would they imagine from her letter? To them, the phrase ‘working in a library’ would call up a picture of calf-bound aisles, with her holding hushed conversations with professors, or drowsing at a mahogany desk: they would be under the impression that the work involved some form of studying, unaware that library assistants are forced to do everything to books except read them. They certainly would not visualize the daily round of string bags, trembling old men, tramps reading newspapers through magnifying glasses, soldiers asking to consult a medical dictionary. Not that they were stupid, but these things did not come into their ken. Or was it simply that she could not imagine them having any thought of such surroundings as these?
    Perhaps she should not have written to them. On her arrival in England over a year ago, she had thrashed that question out with herself, and decided that she should not. They would not want any such unexpected liability from the past. And it might even be that they would dislike dealing with her because of her nationality, for the English, she found—and the Fennels were nothing if not English—were characterized in time of war by antagonism to every foreign country, friendly or unfriendly, as a simple matter of instinct. It might even be socially awkward for them to meet her again. And although as the months passed she came to think these things less and less likely, she had kept to her original decision mainly from shyness, though therewere minor questions, such as whether they still lived at the same address, that also deterred her.
    When she had written, therefore, she had written on an impulse—a reflex action from seeing their name in the papers, or rather, a name she connected with them. She had written to Jane, because Jane had been mentioned, and Katherine was troubled by misgivings that either or both the parents might by now be dead, and there was even the chance that Robin had been called up and already killed or wounded. It was not very likely, but she thought it best to go softly until she knew how matters stood. So a week ago she had been waiting anxiously for a reply. And it had come—not from Jane, which was understandable in the circumstances, but from Mrs. Fennel, written on the same notepaper that Robin had used, with the house and the village and the telephone number stamped boldly in blue at the head of each page. The mere sight of this brought such emotion that she could hardly read it, and had to go through it several times before she could gather its meaning. They were glad, Mrs. Fennel said, to hear of her again: they had often wondered what had happened to her, but they had never dreamed she was in England again. She should have written to tell them. Jane thanked her for her sympathy, and would write herself later. In the meantime, she would send Katherine’s address and the news of her to Robin, who was in the army (though still in England) and would no doubt write to her himself. In closing, the three of them sent their very best wishes.
    She had written off at once a letter of thanks—stupidly, for there was nothing to thank them for. But thankfulness was what she felt. That night she had been too excited to sleep, and had smoked many cigarettes, finally, after midnight , starting to dust her room and set it to order, half for something to do and half because she felt the need to make some kind of preparation. Really she would have liked tohave gone out and walked the empty streets. But that was against the police