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Well, yes. She had. But other than Mr. Bell, she doubted if any of these people had ever set foot in the library before. Some she recognized from around town, others—the factory workers from Bristol, probably—were strangers. Somewhere, a baby was squalling, two of the men seemed to be trading fishing stories, and Mrs. Norris was aiming a scrutinizing glance at Avis’s middle.
This was not the sort of gathering likely to impress Miss Louise Cavendish, who had taken up her usual chair, fanning herself and observing the chaos with an expression difficult to read.
“I can’t say I wantedthis.” Like Rosa’s fairy tales always taught, it paid to be careful what one wished for.
“Well, like it or not, Avis, not everyone’s a fancy highbrow like you and Louise. And aren’t books for all of them?”
Avis felt a stab of guilt. Of course they were. But all these years, the modest association fee had kept library patrons to only a certain class of people in Derby. Ginny had opened their doors wider than the Cavendishes—or Avis—had ever expected or intended.
But was there anything wrong with that?
She could do this. Shewoulddo this. Avis leveled her shoulders and marched over to the group.
“Attention, everyone!” All eyes turned to her, a few pausing in their annihilation of her gingersnaps. She hadn’t made nearly enough to go around, and they would run out of chairs, and the room was boiling hot and ... “I’m so sorry. I wasn’t expecting...”
She trailed off and spotted Ginny trying to get her attention. When their eyes met, she jutted her face toward the ceiling.“Chin up. You’ve got this.”
“That is to say”—this time Avis’s smile was real—“welcome to the Blackout Book Club.”
The applause that followed filled the small library, and thenew members began to settle into chairs, waiting expectantly. Mrs. Whitson even gave her a dimpled wave of encouragement.
There. That wasn’t so bad. And Ginny was right, this would demonstrate significant community interest in the library, maybe even garner a few new long-term members.
This time, when she looked over at Miss Cavendish, she couldn’t help a bit of smugness in her expression.You see? I told you people cared.
The older woman merely shut her fan to reveal a raised eyebrow and frown that indicated this wasn’t the coup it felt like.
But still, it was something. Perhaps things were finally starting to go right.
Notes from the Blackout Book Club—June 13, 1942
Taken by Martina Bianchini
Members in attendance: Avis always records this, but there are so many of us—twenty-one, including the children.
Book under discussion:TheCode of the Woostersby P.G. Wodehouse
Avis gave me this notebook and told me to write down what people say during the meeting. It’s difficult to keep up, and my handwriting is not good, but I’ll try.
Only two of the new members raised their hands to say they’d finished the whole book for the discussion. Most seemed to be there to listen, so we began.
Louise started with “Wodehouse is the comic writer of this century.” Most agreed. Freddy argued for Oscar Wilde, but he admitted Jeeves was a wonderful character. I said I didn’t understand many of the jokes, especially the ones with British slang. Then I wished I hadn’t said anything because everyone stared at me, and it seemed like I was the only one who felt that way.
Rosa laughed every time Ginny used a phrase from the book like “utter rot,” “tut-tut,” and “dash it!” Gio asked if Jeeves, Miss Cavendish’s dog, was named after the character in the book (he was). They sat quite still during most of the discussion, along with the two new children.
Delphie wanted to know if the idle rich of Britain really were as brainless as Bertie in the novel, and Louise said it was an exaggeration, but that nobility and titles made people lazy because they didn’t have to work for their money.
Ginny started to say something like “It’s not like youworked for your fortune either,” but I knew where she was going and kicked her. Mamma would say it was my “act of Saint Francis” for the day—a small deed of peacekeeping. Though I think Francis would have found some other way to interrupt. We can’t all be saints.
Freddy said the last war, and especially this one, might break down distinctions between nobles and commoners even in Britain, as men of all classes serve together. It was a beautiful thought.
One of the new members, a tall man with a bright red tie, asked what we thought of stealing back something that had been stolen from you first. Many people talked at once, and I couldn’t sort them all out, but we ended by deciding that in a comedy, ethics might not be the point.
Then Miss Cavendish talked about the “great danger of premature romantic entanglements.” I think she was looking at Freddy the whole time. I hope he isn’t in any trouble.
Avis wanted to know what the P.G. in the author’s name stood for. Delphie guessed Peregrine Griswold, and Ginny insisted it was Pudgy George. Miss Cavendish added Pelham Grenville to the list. We all agreed that was terrible, until she told us that was his actual name, showing a biography to prove it. Avis declared a formal apology from the Blackout Book Club to P.G. Wodehouse.
That was the end of the discussion. Afterward, a woman I didn’t recognize asked Avis if she had any other announcements to make. She blushed and changed the subject to our next book.
