The Giver of Stars(39)
Mrs Brady mulled this for a moment. ‘Are you familiar with what Mrs Nofcier says? You know of Mrs Nofcier, of course.’
Margery smiled. They all knew of Mrs Nofcier. Mrs Brady would shoehorn her name into a conversation about horse liniment if she could.
‘Well, I was recently lucky enough to attend an address for teachers and parents that the good lady gave where she said – hold on, I wrote this bit down.’ She riffled through her pocketbook: ‘“A library service should be provided for all people, rural as well as urban, coloured as well as white.” There. “Coloured as well as white.” That was how she put it. I believe we have to be mindful of the importance of progress and equality just as Mrs Nofcier is. So you’ll have no objection from me about employing a coloured woman here.’ She rubbed at a mark on the desk, then examined her finger. ‘Maybe … we won’t actually advertise it just yet, though. There’s no need to invite controversy, given we’re such a fledgling venture. I’m sure you catch my drift.’
‘My feelings exactly, Mrs Brady,’ Margery said. ‘I wouldn’t want to bring trouble to Sophia’s door.’
‘She does a beautiful job. I’ll give her that.’ Mrs Brady gazed around her. Sophia had stitched a sampler, which hung on the wall beside the door – To Seek Knowledge Is To Expand Your Own Universe – and Mrs Brady patted it with some satisfaction. ‘I have to say, Miss O’Hare, I am immensely proud of what you have achieved in just a few short months. It has exceeded all our expectations. I have written to Mrs Nofcier to tell her as much several times and I am sure that at some point she will be passing on those sentiments to Mrs Roosevelt herself … It is a profound shame not everyone in our town feels the same way.’
She glanced away, as if deciding not to say more. ‘But, as I said, I do believe this is a true model of a packhorse library. And you girls should be proud of yourselves.’
Margery nodded. It was probably best not to tell Mrs Brady about the library’s unofficial initiative: each day she sat down at the desk, in the dark hours between her arrival and dawn, and she wrote out, according to her template, a half-dozen more of the letters that she had been distributing to the inhabitants of North Ridge.
Dear Neighbour
It has come to our attention that the owners of Hoffman are seeking to create new mines in your neighbourhood. This would involve the removal of hundreds of acres of timber, the blasting of new pits and, in many cases, the loss of homes and livelihoods.
I write to you in confidence, as the mines are known to employ devious and harsh individuals in the interests of getting their way, but I believe that it is both illegal and immoral for them to do what they plan, that it would be the cause of abject misery and destitution.
To that end, according to law books we have consulted, there appears to be a precedent to stop such wholesale rape of our landscape, and protect our homes, and I urge you to read this extract provided below, or, if you have the resources, to consult the legal representative at Baileyville’s court offices in order to put such obstructions in place as may be required to prevent this destruction. In the meantime do not sign any BROAD FORM DEEDS for these, despite the money and assurances offered, will give the mine-owners the right to mine under your very house.
If help is needed with the reading of such documents, the packhorse librarians may be happy to assist, and will, of course, do so with discretion.
In confidence,
A friend
She finished, folded them neatly, and placed one in each of the saddlebags, except Alice’s. She would deliver the extra one herself. No point making things more complicated for the girl than they already were.
The boy had finally stopped screaming, his voice now emerging as a series of barely suppressed whimpers, as if he had remembered himself to be among men. His clothes and skin were equally black from where the coal had almost buried him, only the whites of his eyes visible to betray his shock and pain. Sven watched as the stretcher-bearers lifted him carefully, their job made harder by the low pitch of the roof, and, stooping, began to shuffle out, shouting instructions at each other as they went. Sven leaned back against the rough wall to let them pass, then turned his light on those miners who were setting up props where the roof had fallen, cursing as they struggled to wedge the heavy timbers into place.
This was low-vein coal, the chambers of the mines so shallow in places that men were barely able to rise onto their knees. It was the worst kind of mining; Sven had friends who were crippled by the time they were thirty, reliant on sticks just to stand straight. He hated these rabbit warrens, where your mind would play tricks in the near dark to tell you the damp, black expanse above your head was even now closing in on you. He had seen too many sudden roof falls, and only a pair of boots left visible to judge where the body might be.
‘Boss, you might want to take a look through here.’
Sven looked round – itself a tricky manoeuvre – and followed Jim McNeil’s beckoning glove. The underground chambers were connected, rather than reached through new shafts from the outside – not uncommon in a mine where the owner championed profit over safety. He made his way awkwardly along the passage to the next chamber and adjusted his helmet light. Some eight props stood in a shallow opening, each buckling visibly under the weight of the roof above it. He moved his head slowly, scanning the empty space, the black surface glittering around him as it was met by the carbide lamplight.