The Last Library

by Freya Sampson

  June put the book down and gave Linda her most reassuring smile. ‘I really appreciate your concern. But I love my life. I wouldn’t change a thing.’

  ‘Well, in that case I assume you’ll be coming to the summer fete this afternoon?’

  The smile disappeared from June’s face. ‘Ah, well I’m a bit busy today.’

  ‘Come on, you said yourself that War and Peace is crap. And you used to love the fete.’ Linda pulled herself up off the sofa and handed June her empty mug.

  ‘Really, Linda, I’ve got lots on this—’

  ‘I’ll knock for you later,’ Linda said. ‘And I know what you’re like, young lady, so don’t you dare try and pretend you’re not here.’

  Chapter Three

  AT THREE O’CLOCK, June made her way up the hill towards the village green, trailing behind Linda. It was a boiling hot day, the sun blazing down in a cloudless sky, and she could already feel herself getting red. June had never been a fan of the summer, and not just because of the sunburn that tormented her pale, freckly skin. Even at primary school, while most of her classmates had spent the long summer holidays playing down by the river, June had preferred to stay in the cool of the library, with her best friend, Gayle, and a pile of good books.

  Chalcot Summer Fete had been the one exception to that rule. The smell was the first thing that used to hit her as she walked up the hill: the intoxicating mix of fresh popcorn and candyfloss that sent all the kids wild with excitement. As soon as she’d smelt it, June would grab Gayle’s hand and they’d run away from their mums towards the village green, squealing in delight as they spotted the bunting-topped stalls holding hook-a-duck and splat-the-rat, the sweet stand with its lurid array of Panda Pop bottles, and the competition tent where the local WI would battle it out over marrows and cakes.

  ‘Right, I’ll meet you in the bar tent in half an hour,’ Linda said, once they’d arrived. ‘If you see my Jackson, tell him I’ve got some pocket money for him.’

  Linda bounded off and June began to make her way through the fete, trying to stay calm as the crowd of people surged around her. Everything was exactly as she remembered it: children charging around playing tag between the stalls, the smell of burnt sausages and the buzz of the old Tannoy system. There was the raffle, run as it always was by the local Brownie troop, and a table of novelty animals made by the Knit and Natter group who met at the library every Wednesday. June turned her face away as she walked past them; she always found it uncomfortable talking to patrons outside of the library, without her professional armour of a ‘LIBRARY ASSISTANT’ badge and a date stamp. She reached the end of the aisle and turned right towards the competition tent, and then stopped in her tracks. Up ahead, next to the bouncy castle, was the white elephant stall.

  June’s first instinct was to turn and run in the opposite direction, but the crowd behind her was too thick and she found herself being swept towards it. As she got nearer, she saw the table was covered with the usual strange assortment of goods: she spotted a garden gnome, a salad spinner and a pile of Barbie dolls in various states of undress. All objects that were no longer needed by their owners and had been given away to be sold for charity.

  ‘Do you know why the white elephant stall is my favourite?’ June’s mum used to say. ‘It’s a place for the unloved, the outcasts that nobody wants. And I’ve always loved an underdog.’

  June’s mum had run the stall for fifteen years, making it one of the most successful at the fete. June used to join her every year, eating sweets and listening to her mum chatting to customers. As the librarian, everyone in the village knew Beverley Jones, and there was always a stream of people stopping at the stall to say hi or have a gossip.

  ‘You’re like a celebrity,’ June once said to her mum, having watched in awe as she’d talked to an elderly lady for five minutes, remembering the names of every one of her grandchildren.

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ Beverley had said. ‘Although some days my job is more like a social worker than a librarian.’

  Even when Beverley was sick with cancer, nauseous and vomiting from another round of chemo racking her body, she’d still insisted on running the stall.

  ‘Who’ll find all those sad things a new life if I don’t?’ she’d declared, as June pushed her wheelchair across the bumpy playing field. Beverley had been too weak to do much more than sit behind the table that year, but almost every person at the fete had come over to say hello, to give her a hug and wish her well.

  Three months later, her mum had passed away.

  June hadn’t been back to the fete since.

  Tears started to blur her vision, and she turned and pushed her way back against the flow of people towards the exit, panic rising in her chest. She should never have come. June pictured the familiar comforts of home – her mum’s possessions, Alan Bennett and her books – and increased her pace.

  As she was passing the face-painting table, she heard a voice behind her.

  ‘June!’

  For a split second she wondered if she could pretend she hadn’t heard and make a run for it, but then June felt a hand on her shoulder and turned around to see Stanley Phelps, dressed in his tweed suit and tie.

  ‘How lovely to see you, my dear.’ He was smiling at her, but his expression turned to concern when he saw her tear-stained cheeks. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m fine, thanks,’ June said, wiping her face. The last thing she wanted was a library visitor taking pity on her.

  ‘Well, I’m very glad to have bumped into you. Did you catch the Morris Dancers? And have you been into the Competition Tent yet?’

  ‘No, sorry.’

  ‘Oh, you must go in, the standard is particularly high this year. There’s a miniature version of the Hanging Gardens of Babylon made entirely from root vegetables. Why don’t I show you now?’

  ‘I was actually just heading home.’

  ‘But the Victoria sponge judging is in fifteen minutes and you don’t want to miss that. Last year the woman in second place was so angry she threw her cake at Marjorie Spencer’s head.’

  ‘Thanks, but I—’

  June was interrupted by a commotion to her right, and she and Stanley turned to see Mrs Bransworth, wearing a homemade sandwich board daubed with the words ‘Protect Chalcot High Street’ and ‘Local Businesses, Not Big Chains’.

  ‘Our village is being destroyed,’ Mrs B bellowed, causing a nearby child to drop her ice cream in surprise. ‘We’ve lost our butchers, our greengrocers, and now the bakery is being threatened too.’

  ‘She’s been marching round like this for the past hour, yelling at anyone who’ll listen,’ Stanley whispered to June. ‘And anyone who won’t listen, for that matter.’

  ‘The council are putting up rents and selling off our Green Belt land to those bloody property developers. We need to tell them we don’t want bookies and estate agents in our village – we want local businesses that serve the community.’

  ‘Keep it down, love, some of us are trying to have fun,’ shouted a man.

  Mrs B stopped and unleashed a torrent of abuse at him.

  Stanley moved towards them. ‘Come on, June, we’d better step in before she starts a fight.’

  June froze, feeling trapped. There was no way she could help; she was far too shy to make either of them listen to her, and the one time she’d tried to break up a fight at the library, she’d ended up making the situation worse. She glanced at Stanley, standing between the gesticulating man and a red-faced Mrs B, and then turned and hurried towards home.

  Chapter Four

  ON MONDAY MORNING, June unlocked the door a little before nine o’clock and stepped into the welcoming silence of the library. This was one of her favourite parts of the day, before Marjorie and the patrons turned up, when it was just her and seven thousand books for company. She liked to walk around the room, breathing in the heavy, still air, and sometimes, when she closed her eyes, June imagined she could hear the books whispering their stories to each
other.

  One of her earliest memories was of visiting Chalcot Library when she was four, shortly after her mum started working there. The building had felt huge and imposing as June walked in under the clock tower, books everywhere she looked, the lending desk so tall she could barely see over it. Her mum had given her a library card, and June could still remember her delight as she was told that she could take home twelve books and swap them whenever she wanted new ones. Once she started school, June and Gayle would spend most afternoons together in the Children’s Room, playing and reading. And later, as a teenager, June would come alone to do her homework and chat to her mum, the library a haven of calm after the crowded, noisy classrooms of high school.

  Now, more than two decades after her first visit, June knew that Chalcot Library was actually pretty small, even by provincial village library standards. Visitors regularly complained about the poor lighting, unreliable heating and terrible acoustics. But for June, the building always retained some of the magic she’d felt coming here for the first time. Even after ten years of working here herself, ten years of underfunding and depleted resources, the library was still a place of wonder, especially early in the morning with no one else around.

  June began her setting-up routine: turning on the computers, stamping and putting out today’s newspapers, restocking paper in the printer. She normally enjoyed the quiet, meditative nature of these jobs, but this morning she couldn’t relax. It was going to be another scorching day and June was hoping that families would decide to go to the park or the river rather than come here for Rhyme Time. Yet when she unlocked the front door at ten o’clock, there were already several parents with small children waiting to come in, along with Stanley.

  ‘Good morning, my dear. Isn’t it a beautiful day?’ Stanley didn’t wear a hat, but if he did, June imagined he’d tip it to her. ‘I’m sorry I lost you in all the commotion on Saturday. Did you hear that Mrs Bransworth nearly got arrested for disturbing the peace?’

  ‘Is she OK?’

  ‘Of course – you know how she loves a fight. Would you be so kind as to clock on for me?’

  ‘Sure,’ June said, following him over to the computers. Stanley had recently opened an email account to communicate with his son in America, although he’d not managed to log in once without June’s help. She typed in his password.

  ‘Thank you,’ Stanley said. ‘Are you on your own this morning?’

  ‘Yes. Marjorie has a meeting so I’m covering Rhyme Time.’

  He must have heard the tremor in June’s voice because he gave her an encouraging smile. ‘I’m sure you’ll be marvellous. I’ll save the crossword until you’re done.’

  By ten thirty, the library was full of buggies and the noise levels had risen by ten decibels. When she couldn’t put it off any longer, June made her way to the Children’s Room and peeked in through the door. Most of the floor space was filled with children and adults, all facing towards the front, where a single empty chair stood. An unbidden image flashed into June’s mind of her mum sitting in that very spot, dressed in a pair of dungarees, at complete ease as she strummed a guitar and sang to the delighted children.

  Gripping the door handle, June exhaled slowly and walked into the room, her mouth dry as she picked her way to the front.

  ‘Hey, you’re not Marjorie,’ said a small boy, who she recognised as a serial book-destroyer.

  ‘Hello everyone, I’m June.’ Her voice came out as a weak croak.

  ‘Speak up, love. We can’t hear you at the back,’ called one of the mums, who borrowed psychological thrillers.

  ‘Where’s Marjorie?’ said her friend, who secretly took out Mills & Boon romances.

  ‘She’s busy, I’m afraid,’ June said.

  There were ‘Awwws’ from several of the children.

  ‘I want “A Big Red Truck”,’ shouted the book-destroyer.

  ‘We can get the toy box out after the session,’ June said.

  ‘Noooo, the song.’

  ‘Ah, sorry, I’m not sure I know that one.’ She heard a tut and felt her cheeks growing hot. ‘How about “Old MacDonald”? One, two, three . . .’

  All eyes were on her. When no one started singing, it dawned on June that she was going to have to go first. All she could hear was the pounding of blood in her ears.

  ‘Old MacDonald had a farm . . .’ June hadn’t sung in public for years and her voice was a small, tuneless squeak. She saw an unfamiliar woman raise her eyebrows and there were a few titters from the children.

  ‘E-i-e-i-o.’

  Still no one joined in and June wiped the sweat from her top lip. Her heart was hammering and when she closed her eyes she was back at school, standing in front of the class and hearing the whispers and sniggers of her teenage peers.

  ‘And on that farm there was a . . .’

  There was an agonising pause before a boy shouted, ‘Cow!’

  June saw that it was Jackson and gave him a grateful, ‘E-i-e-i-o.’

  A few people joined in now. By the time they got to the second verse most of the room was singing and June lowered her voice.

  They sang a few more nursery rhymes: ‘Wheels on the Bus’, ‘Incy Wincy Spider’, ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star’. But the children kept asking for songs she’d never heard of, songs about spacemen and sleeping bunnies, and when June apologised for the sixth time, she could see some of the parents exchanging looks.

  ‘Do you know any actual nursery rhymes?’ said the Mills & Boon mum.

  ‘I am sorry, but I don’t usually do this.’

  ‘What’s the point of Rhyme Time if you can’t sing the songs?’

  ‘I really am sorry.’ Tears pricked at June’s eyes. Please, please don’t start crying in front of all these people.

  ‘For god’s sake,’ said the psychological thriller mum, and she stood up and pulled her grumbling daughter out of the room.

  The other children were starting to fidget, and the parents were talking amongst themselves. June looked around for something, anything she could do to reclaim the room. On one of the low boxes was a discarded copy of The Very Hungry Caterpillar, one of June’s favourite stories when she was little. She grabbed the book and started to read, even though no one was listening.

  When she got to the last page, June looked up and realised the whole room was silent, entranced by the story. There was a wonderful, peaceful pause.

  ‘I want another one,’ a little girl said, breaking the spell. ‘I want The Gruffalo.’

  ‘I’m sorry but that’s all we have time for today.’ June stood up and started tidying before anyone else could complain.

  Most of the families drifted off home and June made her way towards the office to get a glass of water, her heart still racing. Behind her, she could hear a couple of the parents giggling as they walked out, and June’s heart sank at the thought they were laughing at her. She was just relieved that Marjorie hadn’t been there to witness what a disaster it had been, although no doubt someone would take great pleasure in telling her soon. And they’d be right, of course. What kind of library assistant couldn’t take a simple children’s session without almost crying?

  It was twelve o’clock and the start of the lunchtime lull. The only other people in the library were Stanley, snoozing behind a newspaper in his chair, and Mrs Bransworth, skulking around the shelves muttering to herself. June sat down at the desk and took a few deep breaths, filling her nostrils with the comforting scent of the library. As a child, she used to believe that each book had its own smell, specific to its story, and the smell of a library was the combined scent of thousands of different tales. She once explained this theory to her mum, telling her that the Children’s Room smelt best because everyone knew that kids’ books had more exciting stories than grown-up ones. For months after that they’d played a game whenever they read a book together, deciding what particular aroma the story had. The Secret Garden, for example, smelt of mud and roses, while Charlie and the Chocolate Factory
smelt of both sugar and cabbage soup.

  ‘Excuse me, can I take these out, please?’

  June looked up to see a tall pile of books in front of the desk, with a pair of eyes blinking at her over the top. ‘Of course you can, Jackson.’

  Linda’s eight-year-old grandson was one of June’s favourite visitors to the library. He was homeschooled, and from a young age he’d come on his own, clutching his library card as if it was his most prized possession. He was a voracious reader and was already breezing through books intended for children twice his age.

  ‘Ah, Lord of the Flies is a great choice,’ June said, taking his books. ‘If you enjoy this, you might like Watership Down too.’

  ‘I read that when I was seven.’ Jackson wiped his nose on the sleeve of his bright purple jumper, no doubt knitted for him by Linda. ‘Do you have a copy of Oliver Twist? I’m doing a project on the Victorians and Stanley said I’d enjoy it.’

  ‘Let me check for you.’ June typed it into the computer. ‘Did you know this library was once a Victorian school? I can help you do some research about it, I’m sure we have some old photos in the archive.’

  ‘Yes please,’ Jackson said. ‘Did you know that the Victorians used to make orphaned children live in workhouses, and they weren’t even taught to read and write? I read about it in the encyclopaedia here.’

  Linda often complained that Jackson should be outside playing with children his own age, rather than spending so much time in the library. But for June, the boy was a kindred spirit. She recognised the look in his eyes every time he walked in, that mixture of anticipation and excitement at the promises held within the shelves. And she understood implicitly what it felt like to be more at home with books than people, to prefer the adventures and travels within their pages to those in real life.

  There was a crash at the front door, and a young man wearing an ill-fitting suit came rushing into the library, his face a dot-to-dot of angry red pimples. ‘Have you heard the news?’

  ‘Sorry, what news?’ June said. ‘Who are you?’