Stanley let out an audible sigh. ‘What about Jim Tucker?’
June hadn’t thought of Mr Tucker in years, and the mention of his name made her throat thicken.
She’d met Jim not long after she started working at the library. Back then it was still open on a Saturday morning and he would bring his grandchildren in most weeks. June had never paid him much attention, apart from noting that he seemed a bit grumpy, dismissing the two kids whenever they brought him a book. Then one day, about six months after she’d started working there, June was coming home one evening when she spotted Jim sitting on a bench, staring into space.
‘Jim’s grave is over there, you know,’ Stanley said, interrupting June’s thoughts. He was pointing across the road to the churchyard, and June could see the same bench that she and Jim had sat on all those years ago.
She couldn’t remember how their conversation had started that day. But she did remember Jim telling her that he’d had some bad news from the doctor, and he wasn’t very well. June had offered some platitude, at which point he’d stopped her in her tracks. Do you know my biggest regret? June had looked at him, wondering what on earth he was about to confess. I’ve never read a story to my grandchildren.
June had told him it was OK, he could read them one on Saturday, she’d help him choose a book. Jim had shaken his head and told June his deepest secret: that he couldn’t read. He said his wife knew but that all his life he’d managed to hide it from everyone else: his employers, his friends, even his own children. He’d been too stubborn and embarrassed, he said, and now it was too late, and he’d never get to read to them.
‘You know, I used to see you with Jim down by the river,’ Stanley said.
‘He was proud and didn’t want anyone to know I was helping him, so we used to meet in secret after I finished work.’
The lessons had gone on for nine months. Jim had been severely dyslexic and even the simplest words confounded him. But eventually, very slowly, it had started to come together.
‘I remember coming into the library one day before Christmas and seeing Jim there,’ Stanley said. ‘He had his grandkids with him, and they were messing around a bit. Suddenly old Jim pulled a book off the shelf and started to read to them. I won’t forget the look on those children’s faces for as long as I live.’
June could remember it too and smiled. ‘The book was Peter Rabbit. His granddaughter loved rabbits, so Jim had spent weeks practising it.’
‘I’ve been thinking a lot about Jim lately,’ Stanley said. ‘Everything that’s been going on has made me think about all the people I’ve known in this village, and how the library has helped them. How you have helped them.’
He hesitated for a moment, staring across at the churchyard. ‘This is what annoys me most about this bloody council business. What these management consultants with their calculators and spreadsheets will never work out is that the library is about so much more than simply books. Libraries are like a net, there to catch those of us in danger of falling through the cracks. That’s what we’re really fighting to protect.’
He stopped and June waited for the next line, the ‘This is why you need to join FOCL’ chat. But when she looked at Stanley, she could see that his eyes were wet. He hurried to wipe them, and June looked away to allow him some dignity. When she looked back, he had composed himself again.
‘Well, I’ve taken up enough of your time, my dear. You have somewhere you need to be.’
‘I do?’
Stanley reached out and put a hand on her shoulder. ‘You’re busy, remember? That’s why you can’t come to the FOCL meeting tonight.’ He turned to walk back up the hill, the way they’d just come. As he did, she could hear him muttering to himself. ‘Activism. I should have got that one.’
Chapter Eleven
ON FRIDAY MORNING, June was setting up the library when she heard a faint knock at the door. When she pulled it open, she found a woman standing outside, wearing a long dress and a headscarf.
‘Morning. I’m afraid we’re not open for another ten minutes,’ June said.
The woman looked at her in confusion.
‘Ten more minutes,’ June said, holding up ten fingers.
‘Cookbooks?’
June was about to say ten minutes again but stopped herself. Marjorie was a stickler for not allowing patrons in before the official opening time, but perhaps June could bend the rules just this once.
‘Sure, come on in,’ she said, stepping aside. ‘I’m June, the library assistant.’
‘Leila,’ the woman said, in a low voice.
‘Hi Leila. Cookery books are over here.’
‘Cake . . . please,’ Leila said.
‘We have lots of baking books. How about this one?’ June picked up a Paul Hollywood book and showed it to Leila, but the woman shook her head. They both studied the shelf.
‘This?’ Leila pointed at Mary Berry’s face smiling down at them.
‘I’m not much of a baker myself but Mary Berry is very popular. She’s on the TV.’ June started to mime out the charades action for TV programme. ‘You just need a library card and you can take it home.’
Leila frowned again.
‘It’s fine, I can help you with that. Do you have proof of address? Your home?’
Leila nodded and June led her to the desk.
Fifteen minutes later, Leila walked out carrying Mary Berry’s Baking Bible and a library card, and June felt a thrill of satisfaction. It lasted approximately ten seconds until Vera appeared at the desk.
‘What did she want?’
‘Good morning, Vera.’
‘That’s the immigrant I was telling you about. Is she allowed to use the library?’
‘Of course, the library’s open for everyone,’ June said, in her firmest voice.
‘Was that a recipe book she was borrowing?’
‘We’ve got the new Stephen King coming in this week – shall I reserve it for you?’
Vera just gave a grunt and turned to walk out of the library, leaning heavily on her walking stick.
June watched her go. Vera had always been a difficult customer but recently her behaviour seemed to be getting even more hostile, and June made a mental note to say something to Marjorie about it.
She felt a buzz in her pocket and pulled her phone out. There was an email icon on the screen, and when June clicked on it her stomach dropped. It was from Gayle:
Hi stranger, long time no see! Mum’s told me you want to come to my hen do – that’s so sweet!! It’s at Oakford Park, two weeks on Saturday, starting at midday. Come in fancy dress, the theme is film heroines, and we’re going clubbing in the evening. I know the girls have got some wild stuff planned, so leave your inhibitions at home!!! See you then, Gx
June read the email twice with a growing sense of dread. This was even worse than she’d feared: fancy dress . . . clubbing . . . wild stuff. She had to find an excuse not to go, even if it meant incurring the wrath of Marjorie. She went to put her phone back in her pocket, and as she did it slipped through her fingers and fell on the floor. Cursing under her breath, June got down on her hands and knees to retrieve it from under the desk.
‘Hi. I’d like to take out the librarian.’
June jumped at the sound of Alex’s voice, banging her head on the bottom of the desk. ‘Ouch!’ She sat up, rubbing her head. ‘Sorry . . . what did you just say?’
‘I said, I’d like to take out the librarian, please?’
June felt her face getting hot. She opened her mouth to speak, but as she did, Alex lifted up a copy of The Librarian by Salley Vickers.
‘It’s for my auntie, she’s come to stay.’
‘Oh right, of course,’ June said, standing up and snatching the book off him.
‘I’ve finished The Great Gatsby. You were right, it’s amazing,’ he said, oblivious to her embarrassment. ‘Although what a terrible bunch they were. Gatsby may have known how to throw a good party, but I wouldn’t want to be m
ates with him.’
June and Alex had been swapping book recommendations over the past month. June had shared some of her favourite classics, from Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland to Tess of the D’Urbervilles, and after a few false starts with horror books, Alex was now lending her some of the fantasy and science fiction that he’d loved as a teenager.
‘How are you getting on with The Hobbit?’
‘Good,’ June said, relieved to be back on the safe subject of books. ‘I never thought I’d enjoy Tolkien, but it’s great.’
‘Isn’t he an amazing storyteller?’
‘I can now see why people love fantasy novels: they’re the perfect escape from real life.’
‘Things still bad here?’
June lowered her voice. ‘Yes, but I can’t talk about it now.’
‘Well, how about we go for a drink tonight and you can tell me then?’ June waited to see if she’d misunderstood again, but Alex went on. ‘My aunt’s helping in the takeaway today so I’ve finally got a night off. I was thinking of going into Mawley for a change of scene; I’d love some company if you’re free?’
June busied herself stamping his book so she didn’t have to reply straightaway. It was Friday night, which meant the pub would be crowded and noisy, and once they’d talked about books then what would they say to each other? June imagined the strained silence between them, Alex necking his pint quickly so he could escape from her.
‘I can’t tonight,’ she said, handing him back the copy of The Librarian.
‘Oh, that’s a shame.’
‘I’m sorry, I’ve just got lots on. I have to—’
‘Well, well, what do we have here?’ Linda was standing behind Alex, grinning at them both. ‘Are you George’s boy? Look at you all grown up! Your dad tells me you’re a solicitor now.’
‘Er, yes. Hi . . .’ Alex looked to June for help.
‘This is my next-door neighbour, Linda,’ she said.
‘Next-door neighbour? Is that how you describe me to people?’ Linda arched an eyebrow. ‘I’ve known June since she was four; I was best friends with her mum. When she was little, she used to run round my back garden completely naked and—’
‘Do you need to return those?’ June said, pointing at the books in Linda’s hand.
‘Oh, yes please, love. They may be a little overdue.’ She turned to Alex. ‘June always cancels my fines for me.’
‘It’s useful to have friends in powerful places,’ he said, with a smile.
June was aware of Linda winking at her madly over Alex’s shoulder, and she prayed her face wasn’t still as red as it felt.
‘I’m afraid I’ve got to dash now,’ Alex said. ‘I’m sorry you can’t come tonight; maybe we can grab a drink some other time?’
‘What’s that?’ Linda said. ‘You’re not busy tonight, are you, June?’
‘Actually, I am,’ she said, glaring at Linda and hoping she’d get the message.
‘Doing what, reading boring old Russian books? Surely you can give that a miss for one night.’ June opened her mouth to respond, but Linda was talking to Alex. ‘June’s a shy one, as you might have noticed, so she takes a bit of coaxing to let her hair down. But I’m sure she’d love to go out for a drink tonight, wouldn’t you, love?’
June wanted to resist, but she knew that Linda was not going to let this one go without a fight. ‘Sure, that would be great.’
‘Cool,’ Alex said, although he looked bemused by the exchange he’d just witnessed. ‘Meet at seven outside the takeaway?’
As soon as he’d left the library, Linda looked at June with satisfaction. ‘He seems like a charming young man. And so handsome . . .’
‘Linda, why did you just do that?’ June said with a groan.
‘Do what? I know you wanted to go on a date with him really, you were just being coy.’
‘It’s not a date! He only asked me for a drink because he feels sorry for me and all his real friends are in London.’
‘All right, love, keep your knickers on. Even if that’s true, when was the last time you had a night out?’
June didn’t want to answer that question, so she started scanning the books. ‘Linda, this one is four weeks overdue,’ she said, holding up a copy of Marie Kondo’s The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying. ‘You can’t keep them that long; Marjorie would be furious if she found out I wipe your fines.’
‘Oh, never mind that old battleaxe. It was a good book, you should read it.’
June laughed. ‘I know I have many faults, but I don’t think untidiness is one of them.’
‘But this book isn’t just about tidying, it’s about how decluttering can improve your life. Here . . .’ Linda grabbed the book and began flicking through it. June tried to ignore the rough manner with which she turned the pages. ‘Marie says that when you tidy your home, it makes you confront issues you might be ignoring. She thinks that a good tidy can help a person restart their life.’
June realised where this was going. ‘That sounds very interesting, Linda.’
‘Well, I’ve been thinking about that chat we had. I swear it would do you good to have a little clear-out, freshen the house up a bit. I could help if you like? Maybe we could get rid of some of your mum’s old ornaments at the next white elephant stall?’
‘I’m very happy with the house how it is,’ June said, avoiding Linda’s eyes.
‘Of course you are, love.’ Unspoken words hung in the air between them. ‘Now, about this not-a-date with Alex Chen. What are you going to wear?’
Chapter Twelve
AT TEN MINUTES TO SEVEN, June left the house and set off towards Alex’s family takeaway, trying to ignore the knot in her stomach. What the hell were the two of them going to talk about? They didn’t have anything in common: he’d been away to university and was now a solicitor living in the city, only back in Chalcot for a few months, and she was a library assistant who’d never left their small village. Perhaps, after one drink, she could pretend she had a headache and leave.
As she approached the takeaway, June could see Alex waiting for her outside. He’d changed out of his usual scruffy T-shirt into a collared shirt, and June suddenly regretted not making more of an effort with her own appearance.
‘Hey, you,’ he said, when he saw her, and June was surprised to feel her stomach leap. ‘There’s a bus at five past. If we hurry, we can catch it.’
As they walked to the bus stop, Alex updated June on his dad’s recovery. ‘He’s meant to be resting in bed, but I caught him trying to do yoga this morning,’ he said, as the number 36 pulled up.
They climbed on board and found seats halfway back. It was only when they’d sat down that June noticed Vera from the library was sitting opposite, her face set in a scowl. June averted her eyes and pretended not to have noticed her.
‘So, I’ve got my next book for you.’ Alex reached into his back pocket and pulled out a battered copy of Terry Pratchett’s The Colour of Magic. ‘I fell in love with the Discworld series when I was nine or ten. Have you read any of them?’
‘No, sorry.’
‘Well, you’re in for a treat. They’re set on this planet that’s balanced on four elephants on the back of a giant turtle. And there’s a librarian character in the books, who’s an orangutan and . . .’
June tried to listen, but she couldn’t stop glancing at Vera, who was watching Alex with her mouth pursed in disapproval. What was the woman’s problem?
‘The books have one of my favourite characters in literature ever, Death, who is hilarious,’ Alex said.
The bus pulled up at a stop and June saw Vera haul herself up out of her seat. As she turned to leave, she muttered something that June couldn’t make out. She and Alex watched Vera make her way down the aisle and lower herself off the bus. Only when the doors had closed and the bus pulled away did Alex speak again.
‘Poor Mrs Cox.’
June looked at him in surprise. ‘You know Vera?’
‘We lived
next door to her when I was a kid.’
June glanced around to check there was no one nearby before she whispered, ‘She’s an absolute nightmare at the library.’
‘Oh, don’t say that,’ Alex said, frowning.
‘She makes my life hell with her complaining. And I’m pretty sure she’s racist.’
‘You realise that you’re probably the only person she talks to all day?’
‘But still . . .’
‘She’s had a difficult life.’
‘What do you mean?’
Alex kept his voice low. ‘Before my parents divorced, they used to both work long hours at the takeaway, so Vera would often have me over after school. She’d cook me tea and let my friends come round to play.’
‘Vera? But she hates kids – she’s always moaning about them at the library.’
Alex shrugged. ‘I don’t know the full story, but I know that Vera and her husband Fred wanted to have children but for whatever reason they couldn’t. So, they sort of adopted me as their honorary grandson. Vera spent hours kicking a football with me in her back garden, and she used to make birthday cakes for all the kids on our street.’
‘Wow. So, what happened?’
Alex lowered his voice even further and June had to lean in to hear him. ‘When I was ten or eleven, Fred left Vera. It was all very sudden: one day he was mowing the lawn and chatting to me about whether Man U were going to win the Champions League, the next day he was gone. Vera was a mess; I remember her crying on Mum. Then Fred sent her this letter, giving her a forwarding address for his post and telling her that he’d moved in with his mistress and their children.’
‘What?’ June burst out, and several passengers turned to look at her. ‘Oh my god!’
‘I know, right? It turns out Fred had been having an affair for years and they had two kids together. He’d been leading this whole double life and Vera had no idea.’
‘I can’t believe it. Poor Vera.’
‘After that she stopped letting me go to her house and started moaning to my parents that I made too much noise. She stopped baking and never left home, and she lost all her friends. We moved about a year later when my folks separated, and I’ve hardly seen her since. I’m not sure she even recognised me.’
The Last Library Page 7
