Consequences

  She was back behind the issue desk when the meeting ended and the Trustees dispersed. She noted Mr. Portland—tallish, tanned face as though fresh from somewhere far away and hot, and that indefinable whiff of expense: something about the cut of his suit, his coat, she thought of pedigree animals, nurtured only on the best. He was heading for the door, but swerved suddenly and arrived in front of her.

  “Did you take my advice about Françoise Sagan?”

  Molly replied that she had not done so as yet—she intended to get hold of a French edition of Bonjour Tristesse. This was not entirely true, though she had in any case given up on François Mauriac.

  “And are you enjoying life as a librarian?”

  “Very much,” said Molly. And beamed. After all, this man had apparently done her a favor; the least one could do was to be agreeable.

  Mr. Portland seemed to contemplate her. He stood in silence for a moment, then inclined his head. “Glad to hear it—Molly.” The glimmer of a smile, and he was gone.

  Jennifer had been pretending to sort request slips, but was evidently provoked by this anodyne exchange. “I thought you said you didn’t even know who Mr. Portland was?”

  “I still don’t.”

  Jennifer sniffed. “Well, he’s not usually like that with the staff.”

  “Perhaps he’s trying to give me confidence,” said Molly demurely.

  The library consumed her days. In the evenings and at weekends, she consumed London, finding aspects of the city unknown to her during her growing-up years with Lucas. Two or three college friends were around, to serve as company; she made new acquaintances. They haunted cinemas, cheap theater seats, espresso bars. The occasional trip to an Italian restaurant, when they could afford it. But there was little money to spare for such things; by and large, entertainment had to be free or cut-price—a walk in Richmond Park, a ride in the river boat to Greenwich, a bus up to Hampstead Heath.

  This was life as a grown-up, ejected from the nursery of student days. You worked, and then you went forth and did whatever you liked—you enjoyed yourself. Work was the enabling factor: it determined how you could live and, indeed, if push came to shove, whether you lived at all. I am now a wage earner, thought Molly—an entirely grown-up situation. She found this rather exhilarating. It was up to you. You had to navigate as best you could. There would be opportunities, and there would be reverses. Rather like Snakes and Ladders, a game to which Simon had been addicted when younger.

  A few days after the Trustees’ meeting she found a package addressed to her at the library. Within was a copy of a French edition of Bonjour Tristesse, along with a novel by Rosamond Lehmann. A handwritten card said simply: With the compliments of James Portland.

  Over the kitchen Nescafé that evening, she said to Glenda, “If a man sends you books, what would that suggest? An older man.”

  “Books! It’s normally flowers, or perfume. Books I find definitely odd. How old?”

  Molly pondered. “Fortyish, maybe.”

  “Who is he?”

  Molly explained.

  “Well, generally speaking, you’d say he could only be after one thing. It’s the books that are out of step, as it were.”

  “Couldn’t he just be being kind?”

  “I suppose he could…”

  Molly wrote a decorous letter of thanks to the expensive address at the top of the card. And it was several weeks before James Portland appeared in the library again. On this occasion, there was one of the lectures that took place in the main reading room out of opening hours. On such evenings, either Molly or Jennifer was required to attend, in order to arrange and then put away the battalion of folding chairs kept in the storeroom. The lecture was over, and Molly was about to start the process of chair removal, when she noticed him at the door to the room, talking to someone. She stacked chairs, briskly, and then saw him coming toward her.

  “May I help?”

  “Oh no, please don’t. Miss Clarence would be horrified. I mean—thank you so much, but really I can manage perfectly well.”

  “And was Mademoiselle Sagan to your taste?”

  “I liked the way it’s written, but I found the emotional part a bit—intense. Perhaps you need to be French.”

  “Personally,” he said, “I didn’t care for it at all. I assumed that in my case I was the wrong age and the wrong sex.”

  “It was very nice of you to send the books.”

  “Not at all. I am in the trade, so I like to promote reading. Though I suspect you need no encouragement.”

  Molly said that she had always read quite a lot.

  “And are you now all set as a career librarian?”

  “Gracious, no.” Molly hastily backtracked. “That is—I mean—I haven’t been doing it for long enough to be certain.”

  “Quite so. Well—keep reading. Good-bye.”

  Later, she said to Glenda, “It’s all right. That man. It was sort of in the line of business—the books.”

  “If you say so.”

  Glenda had a boyfriend in the accounts department at John Lewis. The courtship proceeded at a leisurely pace because the plan was for eventual marriage when they had saved enough for the deposit on a house, with an engagement staged at the half-way post, whenever that might be. “When we’ve got about two hundred and fifty quid each,” said Glenda. “Around next Easter, with any luck, if we go easy on Christmas. Then we’ll get the ring.”

  It seemed to Molly that passion thus contained by economic expediency was rather sad, but Glenda appeared to be quite content with things as they were. She made lists of eventual requirements by way of furnishings and equipment, which were to be tied in with the wedding-present list: “That’ll cover quite a lot of it, bar the big stuff.”

  Molly thought of her mother’s two weddings. The second she could dimly remember; Lucas had spoken once or twice of the first, and she had this pale image of her young parents in a bleak register office—made reckless by love. The antithesis of Glenda’s pragmatic approach. In fact, the two experiences seemed unrelated. The difference, she thought, was that her parents had refused to allow their circumstances—her mother’s family, their combined lack of money—to dictate what they did, whereas Glenda and her boyfriend were complying cheerfully with social expectations. They were being good citizens, and not doing anything rash in the name of love. In due course they would have two-point-five children, maintain their mortgage and pension payments, and retire into a tranquil old age.

  Well, you cannot know how you will deal with things yourself until they happen. A good deal had happened to Molly in childhood—too much, indeed—but she reckoned that since then she had not met with any major challenges. She had picked her way through the thicket of higher education, but that was more a question of doing things right. So I don’t know, she thought, if I am a potential Glenda, or the other sort.

  The year flowed from winter to autumn. Suddenly, or so it seemed, Molly had been at the library for nearly twelve months. She was an established figure, an old hand, settled into a state of armed neutrality with Jennifer, and occasional bouts with Miss Clarence, who was appreciative of her efficiency but clearly thought her a potential subversive element: too ready with an opinion, too much a favorite with some of the members. It had been noted that whenever Mr. Portland was in he made a point of having a few words with Molly. It was evident that he took some sort of interest in the girl, and of course it was perfectly proper for him to do so in his capacity as a Trustee of the library, but it did not do for the degree of interest to be—well, overly apparent. Miss Clarence observed, reserving judgment.

  Molly had begun to rather like James Portland. He was never other than courteous and friendly, and was given to the occasional sardonic remark that made her smile—some tempered swipe at the library’s determined resistance to change, or quick savaging of a vaunted new popular title. He liked esoteric books, recherché authors. Indeed, she began to follow his reading tips, and discovered Henry Green and Ivy Compton-B
urnett.

  The library was not given to innovation. Certain practices had been followed for decades, and would apparently remain enshrined forever: the magazines in the reading room should include the Times Literary Supplement, The Spectator, The New Statesman, Punch, but not Vogue, Which? or Country Life; new applicants for membership must supply the names of two referees; Trustees served for ten years; the list of proposed acquisitions was scrutinized by a subcommittee of Trustees; a further subcommittee supervised the lecture list.

  The lectures. Monthly events for the membership. Mostly, they featured an author talking about his or her latest publication—some biography of an eighteenth-century aristocrat, or travel writer’s account of a bold foray into jungle or desert or insightful encounter with a primitive people. Occasionally, local history was the topic; at other times someone had been roped in to talk about ceramics or bookbinding. When on chair duty, Molly would attend the lecture, and was sometimes interested, but mostly rather bored. She felt that the library failed dismally to engage with contemporary issues of any kind. Books were the prompt for many lectures, but they were not allowed to provoke debate or dissension.

  Other things struck her as unprogressive or downright impractical. Why allow Trustees to serve for ten years, which meant that you were stuck with people like that garrulous old fellow of whom everyone complained? Equally, why allow a self-perpetuating oligarchy to impose its taste upon the acquisitions list? Why not expand the intake of magazines? Why enforce the referee rule for new members, which implied some sort of social scrutiny, when all you needed to know was whether they were in a position to pay the subscription? From time to time she went so far as to voice these ideas to Miss Clarence and Jennifer, and was rewarded with some coolly dismissive remark. When, occasionally, a radical-minded member would raise one of the same points, she would concur warmly, if unwisely.

  It was Lady Chatterley’s Lover that triggered the crisis. Along with all other up-to-the-minute readers, Molly had bought a copy of the Penguin edition when the outcome of the trial made these available. You couldn’t not. The papers had made much of it for weeks; the confrontation between the posse of bright, young, articulate people, some of them academics, who trooped in to give evidence for the defense, and this archaic judge, who apparently thought that people still had servants: “Would you want your family or your servants to read this book?” So she had bought the book, and thought “Gosh!” here and there, and had found it not really to her taste, but that was Lawrence rather than the sex—I mean, the business with the flowers was too fey for words, you could only laugh. And the paperback was still in the holdall that she brought to work, when, one day, Jennifer spotted it. She said nothing, but her sudden frozen posture electrified the cloakroom, where she and Molly were hanging up their coats.

  Molly followed her gaze. “Have you read it yet?”

  “Certainly not,” said Jennifer, scandalized.

  Molly smiled sweetly. “You really should. It puts into perspective everything that was said at the trial. And after all that was what the trial was all about—that people should be able to read what they want to read and make their own judgments. Actually…I’ve just had a good idea. It would be a brilliant subject for a lecture here—a discussion of the whole issue of book censorship, get that Richard Hoggart or someone to come…” She checked herself in the mirror, tidied her hair, and sailed out into the day’s work, leaving Jennifer in a condition of speechless outrage.

  Subsequently, Molly would wonder what on earth came over her that day. Was it a fit of evangelical highmindedness or—and she had a sneaking feeling that this was the truth—the spirit of sheer mischief? She was a trifle bored at the library, irritated by its stubborn conservatism, increasingly footloose. It was a devil-take-the-consequences moment.

  During the lunch hour, she drafted a letter to the chairman of the Lectures Committee. The letter was phrased with careful diffidence, saying how much she personally appreciated the opportunity to hear such interesting speakers, but wondering if the committee had thought of introducing an element of discussion, prompted perhaps by contemporary issues. For instance, the current debate on the legalization of homosexuality and the reform of the abortion laws—both of these matters extremely pertinent to literature, and indeed informing the work of various writers of the twentieth century. And then, of course, there was the recent trial and the publication of Lady Chatterley’s Lover, a most fruitful subject.

  That evening, she wrote out the letter. The following morning, she found the address of the lady in question, and posted it.

  The heavens fell the next week. A tight-lipped Miss Clarence handed her a note from the Chairman, summoning her to an interview with himself and representatives of the Trustees.

  She had wondered if Mr. Portland would be there. He was not. It was the ladies in navy suits and another man with whom she had occasionally exchanged pleasantries. The atmosphere was pained and somber. The chairman wanted to know if she understood that it was not her place, as an assistant librarian, to volunteer advice on the running of the lecture series. Molly replied that she did, really—she had simply been struck by some thoughts, and had wanted to share them. One of the ladies said regretfully that she understood that Molly had been quite critical recently of various aspects of the library’s administrative policies. Molly was unable to deny this, and indeed found that she had no wish to do so. The other lady wondered if Molly felt that this job was quite right for her. The other man observed that the library had certain practices, you know, and did not entirely welcome an element of discord. The exchange between the two sides of the table drifted into a kind of stalemate, until after a few minutes more Molly found that somehow she had given in her notice, and would not be working at the library with effect from Friday week.

  She said to Lucas “Well, that’s it. Unemployed.”

  “Was it the turquoise skirt, and those earrings? I always felt you didn’t dress the part.”

  “No, it was Lady Chatterley’s Lover.” Molly explained.

  Lucas sighed. “Well, I suppose you can argue that you fell on your sword for freedom of speech. An interesting entry for the curriculum vitae. So where next? Tribune? The New Statesman?”

  “It’ll be back to the Sits Vac pages. I’ll find something.”

  It is her last day at the library. There have been furtive farewells from those members in the know. Miss Clarence and Jennifer have remained coolly neutral.

  James Portland comes in. He is in need of a particular book, which Molly helps him to locate. She writes out the issue slip, and he says, “Thank you, Molly. See you next time.”

  “Actually,” says Molly. “I shan’t be here, I’m afraid.”

  “Oh?”

  She explains, leaving out a good deal, principally the Lady Chatterley matter. She no longer feels entirely compatible at the library, she says, and they feel the same way about her.

  James Portland considers this, impassive. At least, no—not entirely impassive, because there is the impression of a man who is doing some quick thinking. Then he fishes in his wallet for a card, which he hands to her. “Would you like to come and see me at this address on Monday morning? Shall we say ten o’clock?”

  “I’m not sure what I’m here for,” says Molly.

  “I hope that you are about to apply for a job.”

  She stares at him, startled.

  “I am in need of…an amanuensis.”

  “I don’t know what that means.”

  “I need a personal assistant. Someone who will deal with all the day-to-day stuff for which I don’t have time. Make phone calls, travel arrangements, book theaters and suchlike. I have a secretary in my office who deals with all business related matters but I prefer to keep private and professional life separate—and my activities spread far beyond publishing. I am a collector and a patron, in a modest way. I have an extensive library here that is in desperate need of arranging and cataloguing—a task for which you are now eminently well equ
ipped. Can you type?”

  “Not very well.”

  “Then you will need to do a crash course, for which I shall pay. Shorthand we won’t bother with because I don’t like dictating. I’ll make the job three days a week to start with, in order to fit in the typing course. Hitherto, I have been getting in someone from an agency, which is unsatisfactory. I would prefer a permanent arrangement. The salary would be what you were getting at the library plus twenty percent—promotion, you note. So what about it?”

  The room in which they sat was full of books and pictures: glass-fronted bookcases, paintings each with discreet lighting, so that they glowed against the walls. Over the marble fireplace there hung a large abstract oil painting that seemed in some vague way familiar. There were thick oriental rugs on the floor, a great bowl of roses on the table; the tall window looked out onto a leafy square. It was very quiet. Somewhere else in the house a phone rang, and then stopped. James Portland waited, looking directly at her, smiling.

  “I’ll apply,” said Molly.

  There was an Italian couple—Maria and Carlo—who lived in the basement and served as cook and butler. There was Maureen, the daily cleaner. There was George, the chauffeur, who sat outside in the sleek black car until James Portland was ready to go. And now there was Molly, in her small office on the top floor, with her desk, her telephone, and her filing cabinets. Here, she received daily instructions from her employer—call the following people, arrange this, order that—and a sheaf of handwritten letters to be typed up. She was a buffer zone, she came to understand, between James Portland and the world; she kept at bay those to whom he did not wish to speak, she filtered through the more privileged. She negotiated with travel agents, restaurants, box offices. She fended off the importunate. She came to know who was who, and where they stood in the hierarchy of those seeking access. She sent flowers to hostesses, and bought birthday presents for nephews and nieces. She acquired a telephone manner, a voice that she hardly recognized: “I’m calling from Mr. Portland’s office…” Once, she looked up in the midst of such a conversation and saw him watching her from the door. She was a month into the job. When she had put the phone down she said, “Am I doing it right?”