eight high-backed chairs. Having settled myself for a long wait, I was surprised when the door opened after only a few minutes. A younger librarian entered, hauling a book trolley on which rested twenty huge volumes. He manoeuvred it along the narrow gap and parked it next to me. I angled my head to read the gold leaf lettering.
Derby Herald 1996 Jan – - Mar
He cleared his throat. “I’m... uh... sorry to be shutting you away like this. Dr Bowers – you spoke to him – he said it was for safety.”
“Mine or his?” I said, failing to keep the edge from my voice.
The young librarian chuckled. “He fears some of the older patrons would be overcome with shock. There won’t have been a woman in the reading room for – well, since it was a church.”
“But it isn’t forbidden?”
“No one’s pressed the point before. But I fear they’ll draft a rule after today. Dr Bowers is probably trying to gather a quorum of the trustees as we speak. It’s a shame. I should have liked to see you stride into the reading room. It would have been entertaining. Apoplectic seizures and the like – we have books on the subject if you cared to deepen your knowledge.”
“Perhaps another day,” I said. “Or maybe not if the rules change. But thank you.”
“If you need anything else, I’ll be directly outside.”
Once the door was closed, I hefted the first volume onto the table and lifted the cover. The paper was foxed with brown spots. A musty smell wafted up as I turned the first page and began scanning the headlines. The information I was looking for would be buried somewhere on an inside page.
The wall clock ticked laboriously as I worked. When the first volume was finished, I slid it across the table and replaced it with 1996 April–-June.
Skimming old newspapers is difficult for someone curse-blessed with an excess of curiosity. So many stories were hinted at by each headline. Murders, marriages, missing persons, patents rejected and notices of surgical demonstrations. Several times I found myself reading articles I should have brushed over. But soon I had moved on to July–September. A large stain ran through the pages, speaking of some accident in the past. A leaky roof, perhaps. October–December showed more of the same damage. But the beginning of 1997 was in better condition. And it was here that I found my first clue.
Under the heading, FEEDING THE DESERVING POOR, I read:
The households of several of the city’s leading families have banded together to lend assistance and education to the deserving poor. Using the best nutritional science and spare food donated for the purpose, seventy-five destitute but deserving families were fed on Sunday by volunteers, including the wives of several prominent businessmen.
There were no names and little more information except the recipe – an unappetising pea and barley soup, fortified with carrots, potatoes, onions and cattle bones. But the date and the description of the event matched the story Mrs Raike had told at the Abbey Park rally. I licked my finger and turned the pages, searching more carefully now. The next report came two weeks later.
DERBY SOUP KITCHEN BOOMING
Crowds gathered, Sunday, for the distribution of food to Derby’s deserving poor. The new soup kitchen on Upper Wharf Street has become a lifeline for many of the city’s destitute.
Again, there was no mention of Mrs Raike. Indeed, women were only referred to in terms of their relationships to named men. I sat back and stretched my neck which was becoming uncomfortable.
The following weeks yielded three more articles. The local businessmen were now calling for donations of food to help with their work. An empty warehouse had been procured. There was even a photograph of men and women standing next to a wagon- load of onions. The picture was of poor quality, the faces little more than smudges. I looked from one to the next, vainly searching for any similarity to Mrs Raike. The caption
Derby Herald 1996 Jan – - Mar
He cleared his throat. “I’m... uh... sorry to be shutting you away like this. Dr Bowers – you spoke to him – he said it was for safety.”
“Mine or his?” I said, failing to keep the edge from my voice.
The young librarian chuckled. “He fears some of the older patrons would be overcome with shock. There won’t have been a woman in the reading room for – well, since it was a church.”
“But it isn’t forbidden?”
“No one’s pressed the point before. But I fear they’ll draft a rule after today. Dr Bowers is probably trying to gather a quorum of the trustees as we speak. It’s a shame. I should have liked to see you stride into the reading room. It would have been entertaining. Apoplectic seizures and the like – we have books on the subject if you cared to deepen your knowledge.”
“Perhaps another day,” I said. “Or maybe not if the rules change. But thank you.”
“If you need anything else, I’ll be directly outside.”
Once the door was closed, I hefted the first volume onto the table and lifted the cover. The paper was foxed with brown spots. A musty smell wafted up as I turned the first page and began scanning the headlines. The information I was looking for would be buried somewhere on an inside page.
The wall clock ticked laboriously as I worked. When the first volume was finished, I slid it across the table and replaced it with 1996 April–-June.
Skimming old newspapers is difficult for someone curse-blessed with an excess of curiosity. So many stories were hinted at by each headline. Murders, marriages, missing persons, patents rejected and notices of surgical demonstrations. Several times I found myself reading articles I should have brushed over. But soon I had moved on to July–September. A large stain ran through the pages, speaking of some accident in the past. A leaky roof, perhaps. October–December showed more of the same damage. But the beginning of 1997 was in better condition. And it was here that I found my first clue.
Under the heading, FEEDING THE DESERVING POOR, I read:
The households of several of the city’s leading families have banded together to lend assistance and education to the deserving poor. Using the best nutritional science and spare food donated for the purpose, seventy-five destitute but deserving families were fed on Sunday by volunteers, including the wives of several prominent businessmen.
There were no names and little more information except the recipe – an unappetising pea and barley soup, fortified with carrots, potatoes, onions and cattle bones. But the date and the description of the event matched the story Mrs Raike had told at the Abbey Park rally. I licked my finger and turned the pages, searching more carefully now. The next report came two weeks later.
DERBY SOUP KITCHEN BOOMING
Crowds gathered, Sunday, for the distribution of food to Derby’s deserving poor. The new soup kitchen on Upper Wharf Street has become a lifeline for many of the city’s destitute.
Again, there was no mention of Mrs Raike. Indeed, women were only referred to in terms of their relationships to named men. I sat back and stretched my neck which was becoming uncomfortable.
The following weeks yielded three more articles. The local businessmen were now calling for donations of food to help with their work. An empty warehouse had been procured. There was even a photograph of men and women standing next to a wagon- load of onions. The picture was of poor quality, the faces little more than smudges. I looked from one to the next, vainly searching for any similarity to Mrs Raike. The caption
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