The Telephone Box Library

by Rachael Lucas

  ‘No Gordon today?’ She lifted her chin slightly and regarded Lucy through beady eyes. Lucy shifted from one foot to the other, feeling uncomfortable.

  ‘No,’ said Margaret. ‘He’s playing golf. Sends his love.’

  ‘Knows when to stay out of the way, if you ask me. This is a conspiracy,’ Bunty chuntered. She shook her head and pursed her lips. ‘I don’t need a babysitter.’ She glared again at Lucy, as if to make the point. ‘I’m perfectly fine as I am.’

  ‘I’m sure you are,’ Margaret said, in what she clearly thought were soothing tones. ‘But you’re not getting any younger, and . . .’

  ‘And I’m not going anywhere. So there.’ Bunty sounded as petulant as a child, but twice as stubborn.

  ‘Nobody is asking you to move anywhere.’

  ‘You want me shipped off to an old folks’ home, so you can sell this place and make a fortune.’

  ‘I do not. Honestly. I don’t know where you get these ideas from.’

  ‘I saw it in the newspaper the other day. It’s happening all the time. And you know what happens as soon as people get shifted off to places like that – God’s waiting rooms, I call them. I’m having none of it.’

  In spite of her discomfort, Lucy’s mouth twitched with amusement.

  ‘Nobody is moving you anywhere.’ Margaret slid a sideways glance at Lucy.

  It was becoming increasingly clear that there was no such thing as a free lunch – or a cheap cottage, for that matter – and Lucy’s idyllic Cotswolds escape wasn’t going to be quite as anticipated. She’d imagined sharing cups of tea and cosy chats with an apple-cheeked, benevolent old lady, with a cat on her lap and a tray of scones in the oven. Bunty Nicolson was as far from that description as it was possible to be.

  ‘I’m really very busy,’ Bunty said, somehow managing to shoo both Lucy and Margaret back into the hallway.

  ‘We need to make arrangements,’ protested Margaret.

  ‘You can make them without me,’ said Bunty with asperity. ‘You seem to have done quite a good job of that already.’

  ‘I’m very sorry that—’ began Lucy, hoping to smooth things over a little.

  ‘Not your fault,’ said Bunty.

  There was an awkward silence. Lucy’s gaze shifted round the room, taking in the smooth, age-worn flagstones on the floor and the paintings of horses and dogs that lined the walls. The coat rack was overflowing with battered waxed jackets of varying ages; below them, rows of wellingtons and walking boots toppled sideways. A faded tartan dog bed that had seen better days was askew in the doorway.

  ‘If you don’t get this place sorted,’ Margaret began again in conciliatory tones, ‘you’re going to fall and break a hip or something like that, and then you’ll end up in hospital.’

  ‘I’m not going to hospital.’ Bunty looked mutinous.

  ‘No. I think you would absolutely hate that. In which case,’ Margaret said, raising an eyebrow slightly, ‘perhaps you’d better let us stay a little while, and then you can get to know Lucy. Maybe we could offer her a cup of tea. She’s driven all the way from Brighton, you know.’

  ‘She could have come all the way from Timbuktu and I wouldn’t care.’

  But Bunty moved out of the way, grumbling under her breath, and allowed Margaret to lead them back to the kitchen. Lucy tried to look unobtrusive.

  With Bunty installed on a battered pine chair, her back against the window, Lucy was able to have a better look around. There was stuff everywhere. There was a geranium in the kitchen sink, and two pairs of shoes were upturned on the worktop on a pile of newspapers. Beside them was a wooden box, a tin of old-fashioned polish and a set of wooden brushes. The grey cat Lucy had seen in the window sat on top of a pile of folded tea towels on the Aga. Lucy could see why Margaret thought it was chaos, but it was really quite nice chaos. Comforting, even. As she tried to slip off her linen jacket, it slid out of her hands. Before she could react, Margaret had swooped down and picked it up.

  ‘Pop your things down there,’ she said, moving a newspaper, some more string and an old shoebox full of seed packets so there was a clear space on the big oak table. ‘And let’s pop your jacket –’ she scanned around, looking for somewhere safe to put it. ‘Over there on the dresser.’

  ‘Not there,’ said Bunty, sitting up slightly. She looked towards the big wooden Welsh dresser with narrowed eyes.

  ‘There is fine,’ Margaret said, taking the jacket and plonking it on the dresser. It slid slightly, as if it was about to fall onto the floor, then appeared to rise up of its own accord. Lucy recoiled.

  ‘I said –’ Bunty pushed her chair back with a screech of wood on tiled floor – ‘not there.’ She tutted loudly. Lucy looked on as her jacket continued to rise up, as if slowly lifted by a ghostly arm. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up. She was in an apparently deserted village in the middle of nowhere, alone, with two strangers. And now her jacket was possessed. This wasn’t going to plan at all.

  ‘I’m terribly sorry, Stanley,’ Bunty said, lifting the jacket up and dumping it over the back of a chair. ‘Some people have absolutely appalling manners.’

  Stanley blinked slowly and thoughtfully, and his tongue slid in and out of his mouth. Lucy stepped backwards rapidly and sat down hard on a chair, before her legs gave way underneath her.

  ‘I don’t suppose Margaret thought to mention Stanley, did she?’ Bunty tipped her head to one side. There was the faintest hint of a smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

  Lucy shook her head. Her lips were pressed together. Snakes were fine. Snakes were absolutely fine. Unexpected, but fine. Lots of people had snakes as pets.

  Margaret looked slightly shamefaced. ‘I didn’t deliberately not mention it—’

  ‘Him,’ Bunty interrupted.

  Lucy stole a glance across the room at Stanley, who had curled up again – or was it coiled? – on her jacket.

  ‘Mention him,’ Margaret corrected herself. ‘I – well, it might have slipped my mind.’

  Bloody big thing to slip anyone’s mind, Lucy thought. He must be six feet long and he wasn’t one of those nice, skinny, easy-going sort of snakes, either. He looked like the kind that sizes you up while getting ready to swallow you whole in bed one night.

  Margaret bustled about, boiling the kettle on the Aga and gathering mismatched china cups and a teapot. Bunty sat with her hands clasped together, a slightly amused expression on her face.

  ‘Tea?’ Margaret lifted the pot and her eyebrows.

  ‘I – I’m not sure,’ Lucy said, making to stand up. Her legs really were very wobbly, so she sat down again.

  ‘I think perhaps you ought to,’ Bunty said, not unkindly. ‘You do seem to have had rather a shock. Have you never seen a snake before?’

  ‘In zoos,’ Lucy nodded. ‘I didn’t think I had a problem with snakes.’

  ‘People often don’t, when they’re behind glass. It’s when they’re out and about, minding their own business, that people tend to overreact.’ Bunty looked at her with mild disapproval.

  ‘Not many people of your age own a boa constrictor, Mother. It’s ridiculous, really,’ Margaret said, putting the teapot down on the table and glaring at Bunty. She pushed a pile of yellowing newspapers over to the far side, making space for three cups.

  ‘Where is your milk jug?’

  ‘Haven’t a clue.’ There was the ghost of a chuckle. Bunty, Lucy realized, was rather enjoying this. Margaret rummaged in the fridge.

  ‘Watch out for the chicks. They’re defrosting on the bottom shelf. Stanley’s lunch,’ she explained to Lucy.

  Lucy nodded faintly.

  Holding a bottle of milk, Margaret closed the fridge door. She looked slightly green. ‘So sorry, we’ll have to pour it from the bottle,’ she said, looking genuinely distressed by this. Lucy, still recovering from the trauma of having used an actual live snake as a coat rack, couldn’t have cared less. She took the cup gratefully and sipped a reviving, if too-hot mouthful.
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br />   ‘So let’s get down to business,’ said Margaret, steepling her fingers and looking across the table towards Lucy. ‘Mother, we’ve been through this already. Bluebell Cottage is sitting there empty, and you really need some help.’

  ‘I don’t need any help,’ Bunty said, firmly, taking a sip of tea. ‘Ugh. You do make dreadful tea, Margaret. I don’t know how Gordon puts up with it.’

  ‘He makes his own.’ Margaret widened her eyes and turned to Lucy for backup.

  ‘Just as well,’ said Bunty. She looked at Lucy as well. Lucy wasn’t quite sure how to react to either of the looks, so she gazed into the depths of her teacup and then, as the pause stretched into another awkward silence, looked up and around the room. It was cluttered, yes, but full of memories of a life well lived. Faded photographs in dusty frames showed a small boy on a pony festooned with rosettes. Dusty, faded rosettes – the same ones, perhaps? – hung over the lintel above the Aga. The bookshelf groaned with a double layer of cookbooks and folders, and the rack that hung from the ceiling was swathed with bunches of herbs and battered, heavy cast-iron pots and pans. It felt like a house full of history. She could see why Margaret would see it as a project to be tidied up and organized, but in Lucy’s eyes it was really quite magical.

  ‘I don’t want you fussing,’ said Bunty suddenly.

  Margaret leaned forward slightly, and she and Lucy waited for what was coming next.

  ‘I’m perfectly capable of living here alone. I don’t need someone looking after me, and I don’t want to be nursemaided, or fussed over, or tidied up, or any of that nonsense.’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Margaret.

  ‘I can see you have lots of special memories here,’ Lucy began carefully. ‘I wouldn’t be coming in here to do anything other than check if you needed something from the supermarket, see if there was anything you needed me to do . . . that sort of thing.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Bunty looked at her thoughtfully.

  ‘Well, that sounds all right, doesn’t it?’ Margaret brightened.

  ‘Fine.’ Bunty put her teacup down on her saucer and rubbed her hands briefly. ‘Now, if you can recover from your shell shock, we’ll get you on your way and I can get on with cleaning out the guinea pigs. I’ve got Freya from across the road popping round this afternoon, and I have things to do.’

  And with that, they were dismissed. Somehow Margaret managed to manoeuvre Lucy’s jacket from underneath Stanley’s coils. They left Bunty sitting in the kitchen, clearly feeling pleased that she’d been the one to make the final decision.

  ‘You see,’ Margaret smiled, as they pulled the door closed behind them, ‘her bark really is worse than her bite.’

  ‘Not sure the same could be said for Stanley.’

  ‘He doesn’t bark,’ said Margaret, with a wry smile. ‘Sorry I forgot to mention him. I admit it’s an unusual sort of pet for a woman of Bunty’s age to keep, but she’s always been mad about animals. She had three dogs until recently – sisters – but sadly, they all passed away within the space of a year.’

  ‘That must have been awful.’

  Margaret nodded briefly. ‘Yes, she was really quite distraught.’

  ‘Perhaps she’ll enjoy spending time with Hamish when I pop in.’

  ‘How is he with snakes?’ Margaret raised an eyebrow.

  ‘I have no idea, funnily enough.’ They both laughed.

  ‘This way,’ Margaret said.

  Beside Bunty’s house there was a little row of terraced cottages, topped with steeply sloping slate-tiled roofs. The end cottage was as pretty as it had looked in the photograph Margaret had sent. She turned the key in the door, and stepped back to allow Lucy to look inside.

  It was gorgeous, and absolutely dinky. Standing in the doorway, which opened into the sitting room, Lucy took it all in. To her left were twisting, narrow stairs that could be hidden by a heavy curtain, which was tied back with a thick cord. Beside that was an arch that framed a narrow galley kitchen and the back door, with sunshine spilling in through its glass panes. The walls were cool stone. There was a proper old-fashioned butler’s sink, and a Welsh dresser stacked with cups and plates. The walls were hung with shelves and plate racks crammed with blue-and-white china. In contrast to the clutter of Bunty’s house, it was dust-free and felt oddly empty. Lucy ran a hand along the wooden worktop, feeling the smoothness of the oak.

  ‘We rented it out for a while to a couple who worked in London – they used to commute back and forth, so they were hardly ever here. They redecorated so it’s all very neutral, as you can see, and there’s a new cooker and we’ve replaced the fridge.’

  It was perfect. Unbidden, a thought popped into Lucy’s head. Back home, the exams were getting under way and her pupils would be working hard, the department humming with stress and the head pressurizing them to offer extra revision classes to try and get the grade averages up. The momentary fear that Bunty was going to put a stop to this chance of freedom had been like the first domino in a chain, and Lucy had started worrying again – which was precisely what coming here was supposed to prevent.

  That’s why I’m here, she reminded herself firmly. I have six months to unwind, not think the world is going to end if I don’t get everything done yesterday, and to focus on life. She put a hand to her chest, steadying herself, and turned to smile at Margaret.

  ‘It looks lovely.’

  In the tiny sitting room a little two-seater sofa, covered with a soft grey woollen blanket, faced a small, squat log-burning stove. Beside the fireplace, a cosy-looking armchair sat beside a little round table dressed with an embroidered cloth, and the kind of old-fashioned library light that Lucy had always wanted. There was another big – too big, really, for the room – wooden dresser stacked with books, and a tiny window on the back wall. On the rug there was a patch of sunlight which she already knew Hamish was going to declare his own.

  It was so small and so perfect that she instantly forgot about the capricious Bunty and the fact that she’d almost been rejected before she even saw the place. She turned to look at Margaret, who was waiting on the front step.

  ‘I love it.’

  ‘You can see why pictures didn’t really do it justice.’

  Lucy had decided that she would love it based on the wonky and fuzzy phone photos Margaret had sent – but it was a million times prettier in real life. She ran her hand along the stone wall.

  ‘Can I get Hamish? He’s been waiting very patiently in the car.’

  ‘Of course!’ Margaret stepped out of the way.

  Hamish galloped in, sniffed everything, and curled up as predicted on the rug.

  ‘I’ll show you how the shower works – there’s a bit of a knack to it.’ Margaret beckoned Lucy to follow her upstairs.

  There was a sweet little bathroom with a half-sized bath, a slightly temperamental shower (‘it’s fine as long as you make sure you turn this tap on first’) and a frosted window looking out over the garden. The bedroom had an old-fashioned iron bedstead, and a patchwork quilt covered the plain white bed linen.

  ‘We replaced the mattress for you. I hope it’s comfortable.’

  ‘I’m sure it’ll be perfect.’

  ‘And there’s a little spare room too, in case you have anyone to stay.’ She opened the door to a tiny box room, big enough for a single bed and a tall chest of drawers, with a lamp balanced on top.

  Lucy looked down at her feet. How do you explain to someone that you’ve been so wrapped up in your job – and in making it your life – that you’ve somehow managed to have plenty of work acquaintances, but nobody who’d actually want to visit? It sounded pretty tragic. She’d always been an introverted sort of person, who spent most of her time at university in the library – and yes, she’d kept in touch with Anna and Dawn, the friends she’d shared a flat with, but now one of them was married and living in Inverness, and the other was teaching art at a college in Sydney. Neither would be popping round. She lifted her head and smiled as bravely as she
could. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘I think it’s rather courageous of you to take the plunge and do something like this. I wish I’d done it when I was your age.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Lucy bit the inside of her cheek. She must look a lot more convincing than she felt. Right now she was having a very quiet internal wobble about what on earth she’d done.

  ‘You said you’ll be planning to spend time at Bletchley Park?’

  ‘Yes, I’m going to enjoy having time to do some research into the women of Bletchley, and the work they did – and the Home Front.’

  ‘Well, you’re in the right place. Plenty of women here in the village who’ll have something to say about that, I should think. If you catch Bunty in the right mood, she’s got a few stories to tell.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Oh yes. Worth a try, anyway. She’s very buttoned up about it – it’s her generation, I think. Don’t mention the war, and all that. But she’s lived here since she was in her teens, I think.’

  ‘She’s not from the village originally?’

  ‘Gosh no. London.’

  Lucy made a mental note to work – carefully – on Bunty and find out what she could. If she was as sharp as she seemed, she must have a mine of memories to share.

  ‘Anyway, I think that’s everything. If you’re happy –’ Margaret glanced at her watch – ‘I really ought to get on. I’ll pop back later in the week and make sure you’re settling in, but I’m sure you’ll be fine.’

  If she scuttled off with haste, Lucy thought, it was probably because she felt relieved at being slightly less responsible – in her own mind, at least – for Bunty. She would be quite a mother-in-law to have.

  Closing the door behind Margaret, she slid the bolt and turned to look at Hamish.

  ‘We did it!’

  She pulled off her shoes and stood for a moment with her feet flat on the cold flagstones of the kitchen floor. They’d done it. This was home – for the next six months, anyway.