The Last Library

by Freya Sampson

  ‘I have a son,’ he said.

  ‘I know, I’ve seen you emailing him.’

  He closed his eyes for a moment. ‘It’s a little more complicated than that. I’ve not seen Mark for a long time.’

  ‘Well, America is a long way away.’

  ‘No, my dear, you misunderstand me.’ Stanley paused. ‘I wasn’t a very good father. I had some serious problems with alcohol. My wife . . . ex-wife . . . decided that I wasn’t good for him.’

  June was so stunned that she didn’t know what to say. Stanley always seemed so proper; he was the last person she’d ever have imagined having an alcohol problem.

  ‘They left when Mark was thirteen,’ Stanley continued. ‘Kitty had some family in California and the two of them emigrated out there. It was thirty-two years ago.’

  ‘Have you not seen your son since then?’ June tried to hide the shock in her voice.

  ‘I went out there to visit once, the year after they left. And he came over here to see me when he turned eighteen. But I wasn’t on very good form back then and I am afraid I rather messed things up.’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’ June reached towards him, but he shook his head as if to shake away the sympathy.

  ‘It was my fault entirely. Alcohol and I were not good bedfellows and I made some poor decisions. Kitty did the right thing moving away.’

  ‘But you’re not like that anymore. You could be a wonderful father now.’

  ‘That’s kind of you to say. And, I’ll admit, that’s why I’ve been writing to him. But listening to you talk makes me realise that he’s better off without me. Mark is forty-five now, and I hear he’s done very well for himself. Why would he want me in his life now?’

  ‘Oh, Stanley, don’t say that. Our situations are completely different. My dad doesn’t even know I exist; your son knows about you, you’ve been sending him all those emails. I’m sure—’

  June was interrupted by a tremendous hammering sound on the door. They both ducked down to the floor.

  ‘Who’s that?’ she whispered. ‘Do you think it’s the police?’

  ‘I’ll go and look.’ Stanley started to crawl across the library floor.

  June cowered behind the desk, her heart knocking against her ribs. The banging continued, louder and more insistent, and she could see a beam of torchlight swinging across the front windows. Whoever it was, they were angry and desperate to get in. Just when June was about to scream, she heard an ‘Oh’ from Stanley and the sound of the door being unlocked. When June peeked over the desk, she saw an indignant Mrs B marching into the library.

  ‘I was walking past and saw the light on in here. What the fuck are you two doing?’

  ‘We’re occupying the library,’ Stanley said. ‘And June is Matilda; she’s been our whistle-blower all along.’

  ‘You’re Matilda?’ Mrs B looked at June as if she’d gone mad. ‘But you’ve never shown any interest in helping us.’

  ‘I’m sorry. The council said that if any library workers were seen to be involved then we’d be sacked, so I had to help you anonymously.’

  ‘Bloody hell. All along I thought you were a scab, and actually you’re one of us.’ Mrs B gave June an enthusiastic thump. ‘Welcome to the fight, sister.’

  ‘Thank you,’ June said, smiling as she rubbed her sore arm.

  ‘We decided it’s time to show the council we mean business,’ Stanley said, as they all sat down again. ‘That’s why we’re occupying the library.’

  ‘Too bloody right, it’s time we stepped this campaign up a gear. And I’ve not been at an occupation for ages.’ Mrs B had a glint in her eye.

  ‘Stanley thinks the council might send in the police,’ June said.

  ‘Let them bloody try. I’ve faced water cannons, tear gas, kettling. A few rural bobbies aren’t going to scare me.’

  ‘Were you ever scared at any of your protests?’

  Mrs B gave her an indignant look. ‘Do you think the Suffragettes were scared when they chained themselves to railings? Or Rosa Parks when they arrested her on the bus?’

  ‘But we’re not like them.’

  ‘Why not?’

  June felt embarrassed that she had to spell it out. ‘Well, obviously the library is vital to us and our community. But they were protesting for huge, universal things, like the vote for women and the end of segregation.’

  ‘And we’re fighting for social equality, for literacy and the futures of our children.’ Mrs B jabbed a finger at June. ‘Did you know that in the past ten years they’ve closed almost eight hundred libraries in this country? And there’ll be more if our bloody government has their way. So, we might be a small village library, but this is much bigger than us. We have to fight for Chalcot as if it’s the last library on earth.’

  ‘Hear, hear,’ Stanley said, raising his mug.

  ‘So, in answer to your question, June: no. I’m never scared when I’m fighting for something I know is right.’

  ‘I’ve been terrified,’ June said, hugging her knees to her chest.

  ‘What, of being arrested?’ Mrs B looked incredulous.

  ‘No, of everything.’

  June took a sip of her lukewarm tea. No one spoke, and she inhaled the comforting scent of the building and its stories. For a brief moment she allowed herself to imagine the library closing – the books being taken away, the space becoming a coffee shop like the one she’d been in earlier today – and she was hit by an overwhelming wave of sadness.

  ‘I think some of my happiest memories are of me and Mum here together.’

  ‘You must miss her terribly.’ Stanley reached out and patted June’s knee.

  ‘After she died, the grief was . . . all-consuming. I’d devoted three years of my life to caring for Mum, and with her gone, I felt like I had nothing left. I think the only thing that kept me going was working in this library.’

  ‘Grief can do funny things to you,’ Mrs B said. ‘I lost someone a long time ago, and for ages after that I lost any desire to fight or protest. I just wanted to curl up and sleep.’

  ‘Were you married, Mrs Bransworth?’ Stanley said.

  ‘No, I bloody well wasn’t. I’ve never really seen the point in men. But my partner, she—’ Mrs B stopped. June had never seen her lost for words before.

  ‘How did you deal with the grief?’

  ‘I realised that by moping around and feeling sorry for myself, I was doing her a disservice. She loved me because I was angry and noisy and a pain in the arse. And by not living my life, by being scared and hiding away, I was letting her down.’

  ‘So, what did you do?’

  ‘I went to the protests against the poll tax and ended up getting arrested in a riot. I spent three days in prison after that.’

  ‘Goodness,’ Stanley said.

  ‘But I felt alive again. For the first time since she died, I felt alive.’

  June sank back in her chair. When had she last felt really, truly alive? She cast her mind back over the eight years since her mum died, but all she could picture was being at home, alone with her books. That was hardly living, was it? And then June remembered how she’d felt when she’d watched the news piece about Rocky, that secret thrill at knowing she’d done it herself. Or that night she’d spent creeping round Chalcot, putting up posters.

  ‘We should all get some rest,’ Mrs B said, standing up.

  June cleared up their mugs and went to rummage through the lost property box. She found an abandoned coat and brought it back out.

  ‘In case you get cold,’ she said, handing it to Stanley.

  ‘Thank you, my dear. It’s going to be a long day tomorrow, try to get some sleep.’

  June watched him push some chairs together to create a makeshift bed, while Mrs B fashioned a mattress out of her Afghan coat over by the Audiobook shelf. She was amazed by the ease with which they made themselves at home.

  June lay down in the corner by Fiction A–E and closed her eyes, but she wasn’t tired. She wa
s acutely aware of the sounds coming from Mrs B and Stanley, the snuffles and breathing of other human beings. This was, she realised, the first night she’d spent in the same room as another person since her mum died. June adjusted her position, but her mind was racing, and after a few minutes she got up and collected a pile of picture books from the returns trolley. She carried them through to the Children’s Room, where she began sorting through the shelves.

  Ahlberg, A., Alborough, J., Antony, S. The Children’s Room had been redecorated years ago, but June could still remember what it had been like when she was a child. Where the mural now was there used to be a picture of Winnie the Pooh, and the miniature sofa by the window had replaced a table and chairs.

  Campbell, R., Carle, E., Child, L. June could picture her mum sitting in here, reading stories to the assembled children. And it was here that June had read a book herself for the first time, sounding the words out loud while her mum listened, grinning.

  Dahl, R. Donaldson, J. Years later, when June’s mum was in the final stages of her cancer and living in the hospice, she’d insisted they go to the library one last time. It had been a terrible palaver involving an ambulance and all sorts of equipment, but when they got here June wheeled her mum into the Children’s Room and they sat watching Marjorie conduct Rhyme Time, her mum singing along with the kids.

  Hargreaves, R., Hill, E., Hughes, S. This last memory brought tears to June’s eyes, and she curled up on the floor and allowed them to fall in the darkness. Every inch of this room was steeped with memories, her mum’s DNA woven into the story rug and well-thumbed books. If the library was lost, June’s mum would be lost again too; and that was something June could never let happen.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  AT SOME POINT JUNE must have fallen asleep, because when she opened her eyes she was lying on the floor, the coat she’d given to Stanley laid over her. The sun was already up, throwing long shafts of light across the books in the Children’s Room. June stood up, stretching, and walked back into the main room.

  ‘What the hell?’

  Every spare bit of wall space had been covered in posters saying ‘KEEP YOUR HANDS OFF OUR LIBRARY’ and ‘SAVE CHALCOT LIBRARY’.

  ‘We’ve done a bit of interior decorating,’ Mrs Bransworth said, as she stuck another poster up over a framed picture of the Queen.

  ‘How many are there?’ June asked.

  ‘Forty-five, to be exact. I did them all by myself on the computer,’ Stanley said, proudly.

  Mrs Bransworth jumped down from the chair she was standing on. ‘What time does the dragon get here?’

  ‘Around nine fifteen,’ June replied.

  ‘Right, we have two hours to get everything ready.’

  ‘Ready for what?’

  ‘We’re not going to sit around drinking tea all day. This is a war and we have to plan our attack.’

  *

  The next few hours were a whirlwind of activity. Stanley typed up and printed out a hundred flyers about the protest, stating why they were occupying the library and what their aims were. June rearranged the tables to maximise space, and hand-drew several A3 signs, which they hung up in the front windows for passers-by to see. After so long sitting on the sidelines, watching, it felt wonderful to be finally working alongside Mrs B and Stanley as part of the team.

  Mrs B was pacing around the front door. ‘Oi, June. I need something large and heavy that can’t be moved easily.’

  June looked around and spotted the ancient returns trolley, and together the two of them manoeuvred it to the front. Mrs B explained it was so they could barricade themselves in if things got nasty.

  ‘What do you mean, if things get nasty? Mrs Bransworth?’

  Mrs B shrugged and told her to track down ‘that skinny woman from the news’ to see if she’d cover the occupation.

  By ten past nine they had everything in place and were standing behind the locked door, waiting for Marjorie to arrive.

  ‘Are you sure you want her to see you here?’ Stanley said to June. ‘You could still hide, and we’ll tell her you left last night.’

  June took a deep breath before she answered. ‘No, I don’t want to hide anymore.’

  ‘Very well,’ he said, and gave her arm a squeeze.

  ‘What will we say when she gets here?’ June said.

  ‘We tell her that she can’t enter the premises until the council agree to keep the library open.’

  ‘Have you ever seen Marjorie in a bad mood? There’s no way she’ll put up with that.’

  ‘You’ve not seen me in a bad mood either,’ Mrs B said, giving June a wink.

  A moment later they saw Marjorie crossing the road towards the library, a murderous look in her eyes.

  ‘What the hell is going on here?’ she bellowed as she approached. ‘June?’

  ‘This is a political protest,’ Mrs B shouted through the door. ‘This library is now occupied and will remain so until the council agrees to our demands.’

  ‘What nonsense! Let me in.’

  They didn’t move.

  ‘June, open the door!’

  June pulled the door open a fraction. ‘I’m sorry, Marjorie. I can’t sit back and watch in silence any longer.’

  ‘You know what this means, don’t you?’ Marjorie said. ‘I won’t be able to protect you from the council.’

  June nodded. She felt sick.

  ‘We want to speak to a representative of the council and hand over our demands,’ Stanley said. ‘Until that happens, you may not come in. Thank you.’

  ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, I don’t have time for this. Do you have any idea how busy I am?’

  ‘We’re here for as long as it takes,’ Mrs B said. ‘Down with library cuts! Down with the council!’

  Marjorie glared at them. ‘Very well, I’ll call them. But don’t you dare mess anything up in my library.’

  She turned and stomped back across the road. June shut the door, her hands shaking.

  ‘Stage One complete,’ said Stanley with satisfaction. ‘Let’s have a cup of tea, shall we?’

  *

  Over the next few hours, as people turned up to use the library, June, Stanley and Mrs B gave them flyers and explained what they were doing. Some looked confused and walked away, but most offered their support. By midday, there were around thirty people inside, all chatting excitedly. Someone brought some sandwiches from the bakery, and June was sitting down to eat one when she heard a shout from Mrs B.

  ‘The council are here!’

  Everyone crowded round the window.

  ‘Look, it’s Richard Donnelly and that Sarah woman,’ Stanley said. ‘And Brian Spencer’s here too. I wonder where Marjorie is?’

  Over everyone’s heads, June could see the group reach the other side of the locked door. Richard had his arms crossed.

  ‘All right, you’ve pulled your little stunt and we’re here. Now open up and we can talk,’ he shouted through the window.

  ‘Not until you’ve agreed to our demands,’ Stanley said, opening the door a crack and passing a handful of leaflets through.

  Mrs B read the words out loud. ‘We, the Friends of Chalcot Library, make the following demands. One, that the council promises to keep the library open and fully funded. Two, that the future safety of the library is guaranteed. Three, that the building will not be sold off, and especially not to a multinational company or chain. We don’t want big corporations in this village, we want to protect local, independent businesses. Four—’

  ‘Hang on, hang on,’ Richard said. ‘There seems to be some kind of misunderstanding here.’

  ‘Do you deny that the council are considering selling off the building?’ Mrs B said.

  ‘I think you’ve all got a bit carried away. The consultation is still ongoing; no decisions have been made about the future of the library.’

  ‘Answer my question. Are you in talks with any companies to sell them the library building?’

  ‘I have no idea what you’re ta
lking about,’ Richard said. June had to give it to him – either he knew nothing about Cuppa Coffee, or he was an excellent poker player. Brian, on the other hand, was the colour of a beetroot.

  ‘Look, we’re all on the same side here,’ Sarah said, stepping forwards. ‘This is painful for all of us, but we have to face up to reality. Our budget has been slashed and we need to ensure that all of our public services are providing value for money.’

  ‘Of course the library is good value for money,’ Stanley said. ‘Look at all the people who use it and the facilities it provides.’

  ‘But what would you rather we made cuts to?’ Sarah said. ‘The library service or, say, the local hospital? Or our schools? We need to make the savings somewhere.’

  There were a few mutters from the crowd in the library.

  ‘That’s a ridiculous question,’ Mrs B shouted, banging her fist against the glass. ‘This is the bloody Tories. You shouldn’t be having to make cuts in the first place.’

  ‘Let’s all calm down, shall we?’ Sarah raised her hands in a placatory manner. ‘There’s no need to get so heated. Why don’t you let us in, and we can have a little chat?’

  ‘We’re not letting you in until you agree to these demands,’ Stanley said.

  ‘This is getting us nowhere,’ Richard said to Sarah through gritted teeth. ‘We’ll have to go with Plan B.’

  ‘Yes, bugger off,’ Mrs B shouted. ‘And don’t come back until you can prove to us the library will be safe.’

  The group all turned to leave, but Sarah stopped.

  ‘Wait, you, there at the back. What’s your name?’ she said, pointing through the window.

  ‘Me, madam? My name is Stanley Phelps.’

  ‘No, not you. The woman behind you.’

  Everyone turned around and June realised that Sarah was looking at her.

  ‘She’s no one,’ Mrs B said.

  ‘You’re a library worker, aren’t you?’ Sarah asked.

  June didn’t say anything, but she saw Sarah and Richard exchange a glance.

  ‘Let’s get out of here,’ Richard said.

  Inside the library, the crowd dispersed from the window and resumed their conversations. June’s legs were trembling and she sank down onto a chair.