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As soon as Ginny had seen the librarian’s wrinkled skirt and tousled hair, she’d asked what was wrong outright. It was a raw thing, Mr. Montgomery having to be so far away for the picket patrol, but Ginny thought she knew what he felt. Restless, that was it. What she wouldn’t give to be on a boat, breathing in the salt air, letting it blow her braid over her shoulder toward shore. It was peak season now, when the lobstermen would stay out from dawn till dusk, pulling in teeming hauls....
“. . . and I hear Hollywood is trying to buy the rights to make it into a musical.” Earl Bell’s voice—somehow he hadn’t used up all his words during the book discussion—cut into her daydream.
Ginny laughed. “Stuffy old Higgins breaking out into song? It would never work.” She tried, and failed, to picture his linguistic exercises paired with a tap dance number.
“We won’t find out, I’m afraid,” Mr. Bell said, absently wiping sweat off his balding head with a handkerchief. “Stout old G. B. Shaw said something along the lines of ‘over my dead body,’ and that was that. Preserving the integrity of the work and its commentary on class distinctions, etc.” He shrugged. “Of course, the fellow is in his eighties, so it’s really only a matter of time.”
“Oh, and so a person of eighty is halfway into the grave, is that it?” Delphie snapped, her eyes narrowing in on poor Mr. Bell like the bomb that flattened Coventry Cathedral.
Ginny felt sorry for him. Delphie wasn’t one to cross lightly. Her bosom had settled at low tide, her figure beamy, as they’d say on the island—like a good ship, wide enough around the hips that you had to give room. If she was all curves below the neck, though, she was all lines and angles above it, her thin gray hair tightly pulled back and wrinkles giving her the look of a perpetual scowl. Or maybe she really was always scowling, and it wasn’t the wrinkles’ fault.
While they argued, as always, Avis went around to collect their copies, some new, others used, a few shared between members now that the club had grown. The ones the library didn’t keep were donated to various drives and charities.
When Avis got to her, Ginny gripped the book tighter. “Can I keep it? Please?” She resisted pointing out that Avis owed her, seeing as she’d eaten three rock-like scones without complaining.
Her perfectly plucked brows tilted up. “You liked it that much?”
“I want to send Mack my copy. Books are better shared, you know?”
That, and she felt guilty that she hadn’t sent any packages his way since boot camp. She’d used the excuse that she was trying to save money, but really, people mostly sent cigarettes, chocolate, and socks. Nothing expensive. It was more that itjust felt so . . . sweetheart-like to send a gift. Like something you’d do if you were the type to seal letters with a lipstick kiss or sign themYours with Love.
Silly.The play and some chewing gum, she decided. That wasn’t so hard, was it? Mack would let out a whoop at mail call, that’s for sure. He said he always looked forward to her letters.
She tried to picture him sweating on the deck of a battleship in the Pacific ... and realized it was getting harder to remember his face, other than that troublemaker grin of his. “Mack’s not much of a reader, so I’ll mark my favorite bits to make it easier.”
“And if your soldier doesn’t like it, at least he could use the paper to roll cigarettes,” Mr. Maloney added, taking away chairs to put back at the periodical tables.
“That’s awful!” She swatted at his shoulder, which he dodged, chuckling. But she’d meant it. Funny, a few months ago, she’d have thought nothing of that idea. Hadn’t she used one of her brother’s school readers to prop up the crooked table leg back home? But now it seemed plain terrible, like spitting on a cross or something. “Books are meant for reading, and that’s all.”
He wisely slammed his mouth shut under the moustache. Trimmed better than usual, she noted, and was that a new suit? Good for him, getting out of that pawn shop for an hour or so.
As for the rest, some of the newer members had drifted over to the fiction section to see if Shaw had written any other plays, and Gio was deep in a heated argument with Mrs. Follett’s oldest girl, a pretty thing with a stubborn streak hidden under deep dimples, about whether books where the dog dies at the end were even worth reading.
Instead of bustling about her to-do list, wheeling a shelving cart like it was a battering ram, Avis was still standing by the circle of chairs, clutching the stack of books and staring blankly toward the blackout curtain–framed window.
Oh boy.She was in a bad way today. Something had to bedone. Ginny sidled up to her. “You know, I wasn’t sure at first, but you’ve done a good thing here with this club, Avis.”
Only a slow blink told Ginny that Avis had heard her, but then Avis tilted her head toward her. “Do you really think so?”
Ginny clapped her on the back like Pa did with his fellow lobstermen during a slow season. “I’m sure of it.”
The smile Avis gave her was a hesitant, tired one, but it was there. Ginny felt a burst of irritation at this Russell fellow, the one who had never once come to a book club meeting and now had run off on some grand adventure. If this is what love and marriage did to a person, maybe it wasn’t worth it.
As the others drifted away, leaving only the Regulars, as Avis liked to call them, Louise cleared her throat. “I noticed,” she said casually, “that the corner theater is showingMrs. Miniver.”
It had been for a month, not that Louise probably paid much attention to the marquees. “It’s a huge hit,” Ginny said. “They say they’ll need a wheelbarrow for the Oscars it’ll win.”
Louise raised an eyebrow at that, then looked down to pull on her rich-person gloves. “I thought it might, perhaps, be beneficial to discuss the translation of a novel to a different medium....”
Ginny gaped. “Louise! Are you really suggesting we go to themovies?”
The woman colored delicately. “Well, yes.”
Well, would wonders never cease. “Not sure how long it’s been since you’ve been to the theater, but films have sound now. And color too, some of them.”
“I am aware, Ginny, thank you.” The words came out with an edge, like a spoonful of cod liver oil, but that was just Louise’s way, Ginny had learned. She turned to the others. “Is anyone interested?”
“Sounds like fun to me,” Freddy said, with his usual easy smile.
