earlier librarian, and transcribed in the last year by some council employee to be submitted with the draft resolution. There could be nothing obviously,
famously
valuable here, or she’d have heard about it. She thought it likely that it was the distinct lack of anything really “sexy” that made their Edinburgh-based expert reluctant to make the long, tedious journey across country to spend a day holed up in here. Which didn’t mean there weren’t a few books worth more than a hundred pounds apiece to the right collector; only that this consignment wasn’t going to make anyone’s fortune.
None of the books had been marred by reference numbers on their spines, but guessing that it would have gone against the grain of a professional librarian to shelve the journal of Alexander Wall out of alphabetical order, she looked for the far end of the alphabet, and very quickly spotted a slim, pale brown book without a title, almost invisible between
Country Rambles
by Malcolm Waddell and
The Collected Sermons of the Rev. S. Wallace.
“Aw, there you are, darlin’,” she murmured, feeling pleased with herself as she extracted the little book. The first page confirmed her discovery. Handwritten in clear, although rather faded, brown ink on creamy paper was:
Recollections
of
Alexander (McNeill) Wall,
member, R.I.B.A.
and long resident
in
Appleton
She turned to the next page:
I have never claimed, nor wanted, any homeland but this, my beloved Appleton. My parents both were born here, and my father’s father and his father before him. I, however, was born on the other side of the world, on my father’s sugar plantation on the island of Trinidad, and did not set foot on Scottish soil until the ripe old age of ten when, after my father’s untimely death, my dear mother removed us to Appleton. I had been a somewhat sickly child, but I flourished as never before in the cool, balmy ocean air, like a sapling transplanted to more nourishing soil. However, barely had I put down roots before they were wrenched up again; after only four years in Appleton I was sent away to Glasgow, where I was apprenticed to a firm of architects, and thus learned my trade. Lost and lonely as I often felt in the big city, I cannot truthfully regret it, as it is that training which prepared me to become the architect I am now, and fitted me not only to make a living, but allowed me to return at last, to live and flourish in Appleton, and, as well, to make my own contribution to the ‘wee toon’.
Reading the words written so long ago by the man who had built this library gave her a thrill; it was as if the building
did
contain a secret room, and he was still alive inside it. His handwriting was neat and clear, almost as easy to decipher as some printed books. She closed it and held it pressed for a second against her chest, deciding that she would read it quickly herself before mentioning to Graeme Walker that she’d found it.
The rain was still coming down in sheets, so that when she went out the back door of the library she had the impression that it had been built behind a waterfall. A contrary wind even blew it into the shelter of the loggia that ran between the library and the house, so she was showered with spray in the few moments it took her to lock up and wrestle the heavy storm doors into place before dashing home.
The Library House was a charming miniature, built with the same attention to decorative design as the bigger building and echoing its architecture. Although the rooms were small, she loved all the doll’s house details. There was a stained-glass panel above the front door, an Art Deco-style fireplace in the living room, and a decorative glass domed cupola on the roof, which filled the stairway and the tiny upstairs hallway with light. There wasn’t room for half her furniture, but she reasoned that selling it off had not only saved her money on moving and storage, but gave her a welcome excuse for buying
famously
valuable here, or she’d have heard about it. She thought it likely that it was the distinct lack of anything really “sexy” that made their Edinburgh-based expert reluctant to make the long, tedious journey across country to spend a day holed up in here. Which didn’t mean there weren’t a few books worth more than a hundred pounds apiece to the right collector; only that this consignment wasn’t going to make anyone’s fortune.
None of the books had been marred by reference numbers on their spines, but guessing that it would have gone against the grain of a professional librarian to shelve the journal of Alexander Wall out of alphabetical order, she looked for the far end of the alphabet, and very quickly spotted a slim, pale brown book without a title, almost invisible between
Country Rambles
by Malcolm Waddell and
The Collected Sermons of the Rev. S. Wallace.
“Aw, there you are, darlin’,” she murmured, feeling pleased with herself as she extracted the little book. The first page confirmed her discovery. Handwritten in clear, although rather faded, brown ink on creamy paper was:
Recollections
of
Alexander (McNeill) Wall,
member, R.I.B.A.
and long resident
in
Appleton
She turned to the next page:
I have never claimed, nor wanted, any homeland but this, my beloved Appleton. My parents both were born here, and my father’s father and his father before him. I, however, was born on the other side of the world, on my father’s sugar plantation on the island of Trinidad, and did not set foot on Scottish soil until the ripe old age of ten when, after my father’s untimely death, my dear mother removed us to Appleton. I had been a somewhat sickly child, but I flourished as never before in the cool, balmy ocean air, like a sapling transplanted to more nourishing soil. However, barely had I put down roots before they were wrenched up again; after only four years in Appleton I was sent away to Glasgow, where I was apprenticed to a firm of architects, and thus learned my trade. Lost and lonely as I often felt in the big city, I cannot truthfully regret it, as it is that training which prepared me to become the architect I am now, and fitted me not only to make a living, but allowed me to return at last, to live and flourish in Appleton, and, as well, to make my own contribution to the ‘wee toon’.
Reading the words written so long ago by the man who had built this library gave her a thrill; it was as if the building
did
contain a secret room, and he was still alive inside it. His handwriting was neat and clear, almost as easy to decipher as some printed books. She closed it and held it pressed for a second against her chest, deciding that she would read it quickly herself before mentioning to Graeme Walker that she’d found it.
The rain was still coming down in sheets, so that when she went out the back door of the library she had the impression that it had been built behind a waterfall. A contrary wind even blew it into the shelter of the loggia that ran between the library and the house, so she was showered with spray in the few moments it took her to lock up and wrestle the heavy storm doors into place before dashing home.
The Library House was a charming miniature, built with the same attention to decorative design as the bigger building and echoing its architecture. Although the rooms were small, she loved all the doll’s house details. There was a stained-glass panel above the front door, an Art Deco-style fireplace in the living room, and a decorative glass domed cupola on the roof, which filled the stairway and the tiny upstairs hallway with light. There wasn’t room for half her furniture, but she reasoned that selling it off had not only saved her money on moving and storage, but gave her a welcome excuse for buying
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