for the drama to unfold. The storyteller relinquishes control and the characters begin to move of their own accord.
Robbie Hunter’s entrance brings this story to the edge of the Rubicon. Am I going to cross it? Perhaps it is not yet too late to turn back. To fold them all away, gently, between layers of tissue paper, in the boxes of my memory?
I smile, for I am no more able to stop this story than I am to halt the march of time. I am not romantic enough to imagine it wants to be told, but I am honest enough to acknowledge that I want to tell it.
And so, to Robbie Hunter.
Early next morning, Mr Hamilton called me to his pantry, closed the door gently behind and conferred on me a dubious honour. Every winter, each of the ten thousand books, journals and manuscripts housed in the Riverton library was removed, dusted and re-shelved. This annual ritual had been an institution since 1846. It was Lord Ashbury’s mother’s rule originally. She was mad for dust, said Myra, and she rightly had her reasons. For one night in the late autumn, Lord Ashbury’s little brother, a month shy of his third year and favoured by all who knew him, fell into a sleep from which he never awoke. Though she could find no doctor would support her claim, his mother was convinced that her youngest boy caught his death in the ancient dust that hung in the air. In particular she blamed the library, for that was where the two boys had spent the fateful day- playing make-believe amongst the maps and charts that described the voyages of long-ago forebears.
Lady Gytha Ashbury was not one to be trifled with. She put aside her grief to draw from the same well of courage and determination that saw her abandon her homeland, her family and her dowry for the sake of love. She declared immediate war; summoned her troops and commanded them banish the insidious adversaries. They cleaned day and night for a week before she was finally satisfied that the last hint of dust was vanquished. Only then did she weep for her tiny boy.
Each year thereafter, as the final coloured leaves fell from the trees outside, the ritual was scrupulously re-enacted. Even after her death, the custom remained. And in the year 1915, it was I who was charged with satisfying the former Lady Ashbury’s memory. (Partly, I’m sure, as penalty for having observed Alfred in town the day before. Mr Hamilton gave me no thanks for bringing the spectre of war shame home to Riverton.)
‘You will be released early from your usual duties this week, Grace,’ he said, smiling thinly from behind his desk. ‘Each morning you will proceed directly to the library where you will begin in the gallery and work your way down to the shelves on the ground level.’
Then he bid me equip myself with a pair of cotton gloves, a damp cloth and an acquiescence befitting the awesome tedium of the chore.
‘Remember Grace,’ he said, hands pressed firmly on his desk, fingers wide apart, ‘Lord Ashbury is very serious about dust. You have been given a great responsibility and one for which you should be thankful-’
His homily was interrupted by a knock at the pantry door.
‘Come in,’ he called, frowning down his long nose.
The door opened and Myra burst through, thin frame nervous as a spider’s. ‘Mr Hamilton,’ she said. ‘Come quickly, there’s something upstairs that needs your immediate attention.’
He stood directly, slipped his black coat from a hanger on the back of the door, and hurried up the stairs. Myra and I followed close behind.
There, in the main entrance hall, stood Dudley the gardener, fumbling his woollen hat from one chapped hand to the other. Lying at his feet, still ripe with sap, was an enormous Norway spruce, freshly hewn.
‘Mr Dudley,’ Mr Hamilton said. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I’ve brought the Christmas tree, Mr Hamilton.’
‘I can see that. But what are you doing
‘Aye, she’s a beauty,’ said Dudley gravely, looking upon the tree as another might a mistress. ‘I’ve had my eye on her for years, just biding my time, letting her reach her full glory. And this Christmas she’s all growed up.’ He looked solemnly at Mr Hamilton. ‘A little too growed up.’
Mr Hamilton turned to Myra. ‘What in heaven’s name is going on?’
Myra’s hands were clenched into fists by her side, her mouth drawn tight as a crosspatch. ‘It won’t fit, Mr Hamilton. He tried to stand it in the drawing room where it always goes, but it’s a foot too tall.’
‘But didn’t you measure it?’ Mr Hamilton said to the gardener.
‘Oh yes, sir,’ said Dudley. ‘But I never was much of a one for arithmetic.’
‘Then take out your saw and remove a foot, man.’
Mr Dudley shook his head sadly. ‘I would, sir, but I’m afeared there’s not a foot left to remove. The trunk’s already short as can be, and I can’t go taking none from the top now, can I?’ He looked at us plainly. ‘Where would the pretty angel sit?’
We all stood, pondering this predicament, the seconds yawning across the marble hall. Each of us aware the family would soon appear for breakfast. Finally, Mr Hamilton made a pronouncement. ‘I suppose there’s nothing for it then. Short of lopping the top and leaving the angel with neither perch nor purpose, we’ll have to stray from tradition-just this once-and erect it in the library.’
‘The library, Mr Hamilton?’ Myra said.
‘Yes. Beneath the glass dome.’ He looked witheringly at Dudley. ‘Where she’ll be sure and achieve her full postural opportunity.’
So it was, on the morning of 1 December 1915, as I perched high atop the library gallery at the furthest end of the furthest shelf, steeling myself to a week of dusting, a precocious pine stood glorious in the library centre, uppermost limbs pointing ecstatically to the heavens. I was level with her crown, and the fecund scent of pine was strong, impregnating the library’s lazy atmosphere of warm dustiness.
The gallery of the Riverton library ran lengthways, high above the room itself, and it was hard not to be distracted. Reluctance to begin is quick to befriend procrastination, and the view of the room below was tremendous. It is a universal truth that no matter how well one knows a scene, to observe it from above is something of a revelation. I stood by the railings and peered over, beyond the tree.
The library-usually so vast and imposing-took on the appearance of a stage set. Ordinary items-the Steinway and Sons grand piano, the oak writing desk, Lord Ashbury’s globe-were suddenly rendered smaller, ersatz versions of themselves, and gave the impression of having been arranged to suit a cast of players, yet to make its entrance.
The sitting area in particular bore a theatrical spirit of anticipation. The lounge at centre stage; the armchairs either side, pretty in William Morris skirts; the rectangle of winter sunlight that draped across the piano and onto the oriental rug. Props, all: patiently awaiting actors to take their marks. What kind of play would actors perform, I wondered, in such a setting as this? A comedy, a tragedy, a play of modern manners?
Thus I could happily have procrastinated all day, but for the persistent voice inside my ear, Mr Hamilton’s voice, reminding me of Lord Ashbury’s reputation for random dust inspections. And so, reluctantly, I abandoned such thoughts and withdrew the first book. Dusted it-front, back and spine-then replaced it and withdrew the second.
By mid-morning I had finished five of the ten gallery shelves and was poised to begin the next. A small mercy: having begun with the higher shelves, I had finally reached the lower and would be able to sit while I worked. After dusting hundreds of books, my hands had become practised, performing their task automatically, which was just as well, for my mind had numbed to a halt.
I had just plucked the sixth spine from the sixth shelf when an
