Alma by William Bell Page A

McGregor, Alma thought briefly—and, she hoped, not unkindly—of the blue herons that waded in the shallows of the Springbank River. The librarian had a long neck and legs like stilts. Her feet stuck out to the sides, her hands were big and bony. Behind her wire-rim spectacles, Miss McGregor’s complexion was florid, her broad, high forehead shiny, her black hair pulled back severely in a tight bun.
    A person has to be careful when talking to Miss McGregor, Alma reminded herself as she approached the counter behind which the head librarian sat over her desk. If you asked Miss McGregor, “Do you have any books on such-and-such?” she would tow you through the stacks like a barge, loading your arms with books and chattering away about each volume as she plopped it on the pile. It helped if you could make your question as exact as possible.
    “Hello, Alma,” Miss McGregor said from her chair.
    They exchanged pleasantries for a few minutes, then Alma got to the point. “I’m trying to find out as much as I can about RR Hawkins,” she began, “and—”
    “Wonderful writer!” Miss McGregor exclaimed as she jumped to her feet like a meadowlark taking flight. “Wonderful. Come on, I’ll—”
    “No, wait!” Alma exclaimed, bringing the librarian to a halt. “Um, I’ve looked at everything here, and—”
    “The encyclopedias?” Miss McGregor queried, somewhat crestfallen. “The
Who’s Who?”
    “Yes,” Alma replied.
    Miss McGregor raised her finger as if to make a point. “Ah, but we’ve a vertical file on RR Hawkins. Let me—”
    “Read it,” Alma cut in, feeling almost guilty.
    “Hmm,” Miss McGregor said to herself, returning to her chair and folding her legs under her desk.
    “I was just wondering if you know of anywhere else I could look,” Alma said.
    Miss McGregor pointed to a chair beside her desk. “Sit down, dear.”
    Alma slid into the wooden chair.
    “There’s one more thing we can try,” Miss McGregor said. “I don’t think there are any biographies of RR Hawkins, but I’ll make enquiries, just to be sure. And we’ll try an inter-library loan. One of the larger libraries may have something. We try our best here, but we’re a small operation compared to some.”
    “Thank you, Miss McGregor.”
    “She’d be proud, you know,” the head librarian said, nodding her head. “RR Hawkins would. If she knew that you loved her books so much.”

CHAPTER
Ten
    T he first storm of the season roared out of the northeast, driving snow before it like a flock of manic sheep. Alma walked to school with icy flakes pelting her face and at the end of the day slogged through more than a foot of snow, the bitter wind at her back, coating her with white as she pushed down Little Wharf Road to the Chenoweth house.
    After her duties in the cosy sitting room had been performed, Alma headed home in the dark. The alley behind the Liffey was rutted and churned by delivery trucks, and the door to the apartment wouldn’t open until she cleared away the snow with a broom her mother had left leaning against the building.
    There was a note on the table. “Come meet me at the library,” it said. Alma sighed, put her coat and hat, mitts and boots back on, locked up and headed for the library. She arrived just as her mother came out the big oak doors, wrapping her scarf around her neck.
    “Come on,” she said. “We’re eating at a restaurant tonight!”
    A restaurant! Alma couldn’t remember the last time she’d been in one. A waste of money, Clara always said. What had changed her mind?
    “What’s your fancy, young Miss?” Clara asked.
    “Anything but fish and potatoes.”
    Clara laughed. “Fair enough.”
    A short while later they were seated in a booth at the Fireside Café, a silly name, Alma thought, since the restaurant had no fireplace. The window looking onto the street was coated in steam, the blue-and-white checkered tablecloth fresh and crisp. The restaurant was, despite the weather,