The Last Library

by Freya Sampson

  Praise for

  The Last Library

  ‘I’m totally in love. A wonderfully warm and uplifting story of kindness, community, love and libraries. The Last Library made me laugh, cry, cheer and want to champion all of our fabulous libraries’

  Clare Pooley

  ‘A powerful reminder about the importance of community, kindness and friendship. Beautifully nostalgic, with a gorgeous cast of characters you are set to fall in love with, this is a truly stunning debut’

  Hannah Tovey

  ‘Such an uplifting story with a cast of characters I fell head over heels in love with. A heartwarming portrayal of the vital role libraries have in our communities. I adored every page’

  Jessica Ryn

  ‘The Last Library is sheer joy from the first page – a story of love, loss, self-discovery and courage. Funny, poignant and a celebration of books, libraries, stories and everything that makes us human. Unmissable’

  Katie Marsh

  For Andy, Olive and Sid

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Letter from Author

  A Final Note

  Reading Group Questions

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  YOU CAN TELL A lot about a person from the library books they borrow.

  June liked to play a game when things were quiet at work. She’d pick a patron and make up their life story based on the books they read. Today, she’d chosen a middle-aged lady who took out two Danielle Steel novels and The Rough Guide to Iceland. After some consideration, June decided that the woman was trapped in a loveless marriage, perhaps with a boorish, aggressive husband. She was planning to run away to Reykjavik, where she’d fall in love with a rugged, bearded local. But just as she thought she’d found true happiness, her husband would track her down and announce—

  ‘Well, that was a pile of shit.’

  June was snapped out of her daydream by Mrs Bransworth, who was standing in front of the desk waving a book in her face. It was Kazuo Ishiguro’s The Remains of the Day.

  ‘What a pointless load of rubbish. Masters and servants? Capitalist propaganda, more like. I could write better than this.’

  Mrs B came into the library several times a week, wearing an ancient Afghan coat and fingerless gloves, even in the height of summer. She chose her books seemingly at random; one day, it would be a manual on plumbing, the next, a Nobel prize-winning author. But whatever she borrowed, it always had the same outcome.

  ‘I’m thinking of handing my library card back in protest.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Bransworth. You can have first pick of the new stock if you like?’

  ‘Probably all crap,’ Mrs B said, and she stormed off towards the Sports shelf, leaving a faint smell of wet goat lingering at the desk.

  June finished loading up the ancient returns trolley and began to navigate it around the room. Chalcot Library occupied what had once been the village school, a draughty, red-brick building erected in the 1870s. It had been converted into a library eighty years later, but had retained many of its original features, including a slate roof that leaked in heavy rain, floorboards that creaked underfoot and a family of persistent mice who were eating their way through the boxes of archives stored in the loft. The council had last redecorated the library sometime in the nineties, with strip lighting and institutional green carpets. But June still liked to imagine what it must have been like in its earliest incarnation, when grubby-faced children sat in rows of desks where the shelves now stood, learning to write their letters on dusty slates like a scene from Jane Eyre.

  As she pushed the trolley towards the front of the room, June saw her boss marching towards her, a copy of Mrs Dalloway poking out of her handbag.

  ‘I need to see you in my office. Now.’

  Marjorie Spencer was the library manager, a title she wore pinned to her blouse like a war medal. She claimed to only read highbrow literary novels, but June knew she’d renewed Fifty Shades of Grey at least three times.

  June followed her boss into the office. It was actually a stock cupboard-cum-staffroom, but Marjorie had put in a desk years ago and had even hung a name plaque on the door. There was no space for any other chairs, so June perched on a stack of printer paper.

  ‘This is strictly entre nous, but I’ve just had a call from the council,’ Marjorie said, fiddling with the string of pearls around her neck. ‘They want me to go in on Monday for an urgent meeting. In the boardroom.’ She paused to check that June was suitably impressed with this information. ‘You’ll have to manage on your own while I’m gone.’

  ‘OK, that’s fine.’

  ‘It’s too short notice to cancel Rhyme Time, so I’ll need you to take it for me too.’

  June felt her chest tightening. ‘Actually, I’m sorry, I forgot but Alan has a—’

  ‘No buts. Besides, it will be good practice for you – once I retire at Christmas, my replacement may want you to take over the sessions anyway.’

  June’s stomach dropped at the thought. ‘Marjorie, you know I can’t—’

  ‘For goodness’ sake, June, it’s children’s nursery rhymes, not Songs of Praise.’

  June opened her mouth to argue, but Marjorie had turned to her computer in a manner that said ‘Do Not Disturb’.

  June left the office, trying to ignore the tightening in her chest. It was almost five o’clock, so she began the closing-down routine. As she tidied up the abandoned books and newspapers, she pictured all the expectant faces at Rhyme Time, the children and parents watching her impatiently, waiting for her to speak. June let out an involuntary shudder and dropped a pile of newspapers on the floor.

  ‘Do you need a hand, my dear?’ Stanley Phelps was sitting in his chair, watching her.

  ‘Thanks, but I’m fine,’ she said, picking up the scattered pages. ‘It’s five o’clock now, I’m afraid it’s time to go home.’

  ‘May I request your assistance first? Organise liaison to prevent this. Nine letters, first letter I.’

  June thought for a moment, breaking the clue down in her mind like he’d taught her. ‘Could it be isolation?’

  ‘Brava!’

  Stanley Phelps, who enjoyed historical fiction set in the Second World War, had come to the library almost every day since June started working there ten years ago. He wore a tweed jacket and spoke like a character from a P.G. Wodehouse novel, and she pictured him living in faded grandeur, sleeping in silk pyjamas and eating kippers for breakfast. The Telegraph crosswo
rd was one of his daily rituals.

  ‘Now, before I leave, I have a little something for you.’ Stanley reached into a crumpled old Bag for Life and pulled out a small bunch of wilting flowers, held together by a piece of string. ‘Happy birthday, June.’

  ‘Oh, Stanley, you didn’t have to,’ June said, feeling herself blush. She never discussed her private life with anyone at the library, but years ago, Stanley had somehow discovered her birthday, and he’d never once forgotten it since.

  ‘Are you doing anything special tonight?’ he said.

  ‘I’m just seeing some old friends.’

  ‘Well, I hope you have fun. You deserve a grand celebration.’

  ‘Thank you,’ June said, staring down at the flowers so she didn’t have to look him in the eye.

  *

  At five thirty, June stepped outside into the warm, early-summer evening. She locked up the heavy library door and made her way down The Parade, past the village shop, the pub with Union Jack bunting fluttering over the door, the old bakery where she and her mum had bought jam doughnuts every Saturday. A couple of library patrons were standing outside the post office, and June nodded a silent hello as she turned down the hill, past the village green and the Golden Dragon takeaway, and left into the Willowmead estate. Built in the 1960s, it was a rabbit warren of identical semi-detached houses, with boxy gardens and wheelie bins sitting in front driveways. It was here that June had lived since she was four years old, in a house with a green front door and faded red curtains.

  ‘I’m home!’

  June took off her cardigan, left her shoes on the rack ready for Monday morning and went through into the lounge. One of the picture frames was crooked and June straightened it, frowning at the frizzy-haired, brace-wearing teenager staring back at her. Thankfully the braces were long gone, although she was still stuck with that crazy mass of brown curls, now tamed every day in a tight bun. With the picture back as it should be, June crossed the living room to the large bookcase which filled the left-hand wall, crammed with neat rows of spines. Adichie, C.; Alcott, L.M.; Angelou, M. She found the one she wanted and carried it through to the kitchen, where she put a lasagne ready-meal in the microwave and poured herself a glass of wine.

  There was no sign of life, the house still apart from the faint noise of a TV from next door. June picked up this morning’s post: a flyer about bin collections and a copy of the Dunningshire Gazette. She checked inside the paper in case any birthday cards had got caught up in there, but there was nothing. A small sigh escaped June’s mouth and she took a gulp of wine.

  The microwave pinged, making her jump. She fetched the lasagne and spooned it onto a plate, adding a few slices of cucumber as a garnish. Sitting down, she picked up her book. It was battered and worn from years of reading, the words Pride and Prejudice on the front cover barely legible now. Carefully, she opened it to read the inscription. 18th June 2005. To my darling Junebug. Happiest of twelfth birthdays. You are never alone when you have a good book. All my love, Mum xx

  June ate a mouthful of food, turned to the first page and began to read.

  Chapter Two

  ‘ALAN BENNETT, WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU?’

  It was Saturday morning and June couldn’t find him anywhere. She’d searched the house and the shed and had even checked in the loft in case he’d gone up there looking for something, but to no avail.

  ‘Come on, Alan, the joke’s over,’ she called, but the house answered with wilful silence.

  June put a piece of bread in the toaster and switched on the kettle. She listened to the slow hiss of water boiling and tried to ignore the simmering sensation in her stomach. The weekend stretched ahead of her, long and gloriously empty. But while the prospect of all those hours of solitary reading time usually filled her with joy, this morning June felt jumpy. In her decade working at the library, she’d always managed to avoid taking Rhyme Time, or indeed any activity where she had to speak in front of a group of people. And now, on Monday, she’d have to stand up in front of dozens of children and their carers, talking and singing songs and entertaining them like . . .

  June took a mouthful of toast but it felt like cardboard in her mouth, and she pushed her plate aside.

  Five minutes later, she sat down on the sofa with a thick, dog-eared copy of War and Peace. It was a novel that June had tried and failed to read several times before, but at more than one thousand pages it was the perfect project to distract her this weekend. Besides, it was a book that her mum loved, and for that reason June had always felt guilty that she’d never managed to finish it. She lifted up the paperback and held it to her nose, inhaling the reassuring aroma of aged paper and dust. But there was another scent there too, a base note of soap and the faintest hint of smoke. June closed her eyes and allowed herself to imagine her mum sitting next to her, legs tucked under her body in the way she’d always liked to curl up, the book on her lap and an ashtray balanced on the arm of the sofa. The two of them had spent hundreds of weekends like this, side by side in contented silence, interrupted occasionally by her mother’s throaty laugh at something within the pages. The memory of it made June’s chest ache in longing, and she opened the book and started to read.

  She was about thirty pages in when the doorbell rang. For a brief moment June wondered if it was the postman, delivering a pile of birthday cards that had been forgotten yesterday, but she told herself off for even entertaining such a ridiculous thought.

  As June opened the front door, she was confronted by the sight of her next-door neighbour, Linda, wearing a fuchsia dress and a huge pair of gold earrings. Linda was obsessed with Jilly Cooper novels and always dressed as if Rupert Campbell-Black was about to turn up in Chalcot and whisk her off to the hunt ball, even at nine in the morning. In her arms was an indignant-looking Alan Bennett.

  ‘Look who I found hiding in my airing cupboard, the sneaky little bugger.’

  Alan let out a hiss of rage and sprang from Linda’s grip.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Linda. I’ve been looking everywhere for him.’

  ‘No bother. You’re not busy, are you?’ Before June could reply, Linda had bustled in through the door and made her way into the living room, calling back, ‘No milk for me, I’m doing Slimming World.’

  June made tea in two chipped mugs and carried them through, where she found Linda sprawled on the sofa, leafing through War and Peace.

  ‘Jesus, love, why do you put yourself through this?’ Linda said, casting the book onto the floor in disgust.

  ‘It was one of Mum’s favourites.’

  ‘She always did have terrible taste in books. You know I bought her all of Jilly’s and she never read one?’ Linda’s heavily pencilled eyebrows shot up in horror and June laughed.

  ‘I have to admit, this one’s a bit tough, even for me.’

  ‘It’s a good thing your mum also loved gin and a gossip, otherwise we’d never have been friends.’ Linda took a swig from her mug. ‘I was thinking yesterday, do you remember your seventh birthday when we made you that Charlie and the Chocolate Factory cake? We tried to make a great glass elevator, only we ended up getting a bit tipsy and the whole thing was skew-whiff like the Leaning Tower of Pisa.’ She let out a loud guffaw, splashing hot tea on the sofa.

  ‘You guys always made me the best birthday cakes,’ June said, smiling. For her sixth birthday, her mum and Linda had baked her the giant spider and luminous pink pig from Charlotte’s Web, and for her tenth birthday, they’d tried to make Hermione and Hagrid from Harry Potter out of sugar fondant, although it had ended up looking like something out of a horror movie.

  ‘Why you couldn’t have just had a princess cake like other girls your age?’ Linda said, rolling her eyes in mock irritation. ‘Anyway, how was your birthday? Did you see friends?’

  ‘It was good, thanks,’ June said.

  ‘Hmm . . .’ Something in Linda’s tone suggested she knew all too well that the only friends June had spent it with were Elizabeth Bennet and Mr D
arcy. ‘Well, I got you a little something.’

  Linda produced a rectangular parcel from her handbag, which June opened with some trepidation. Linda’s birthday presents always stuck to a certain theme: last year it had been a book called How to Make Anyone Fall in Love with You and the year before that it was How to Stop Worrying and Start Living. Now, June pulled the wrapping paper off to reveal Now What? 90 Days to a New Life Direction.

  ‘I saw it in the charity shop and thought of you,’ Linda said, with obvious pride.

  ‘Great. Thank you.’ June scanned the blurb on the back cover and tried to look enthusiastic.

  ‘Do you like it? I just thought . . .’ Linda paused, and June waited for the words she knew were coming. ‘It’s been almost eight years, love. And I know you still miss your mum – we both do – but maybe it’s time to shake things up a bit?’

  June took a sip of tea. This was a conversation Linda brought up every year around her birthday, and June had learnt from experience it was best to keep quiet until she got it out of her system.

  ‘I mean, this is hardly what you dreamt of when you were younger, is it?’ Linda continued. ‘Before your mum got sick, you had big plans to go away to university and become a writer. Don’t you think it’s time you gave that a shot?’

  ‘All kids have silly dreams, Linda. Besides, I love working in the library.’

  ‘Well, OK, but you don’t have to do it in a tiny village like Chalcot. You always wanted to go to Cambridge; I’m sure they have libraries there too.’

  ‘But why would I want to leave? This is my home.’ June’s eyes scanned the living room: the bookcase full of her and her mum’s books, the mantlepiece covered in a menagerie of china ornaments they’d collected over the years, the walls busy with pictures and photos in mismatched frames. ‘And what about Alan Bennett? I’m not sure he’d cope moving somewhere new.’

  At the sound of his name, Alan gave a half-hearted snarl.

  ‘Look, I’m not putting pressure on you, love. If you’re happy here, that’s wonderful. I was just wondering if you might want a bit more from your life. That’s all.’