The Last Library

by Freya Sampson

  Mrs Bransworth was straining in her seat, looking like she was about to explode. Brian sighed and nodded towards her.

  ‘Well, I think this is a load of fucking bollocks.’

  ‘Language, please!’ Brian said.

  ‘I’ve been fighting injustice my whole life. I was at Greenham Common in the eighties, I went to support the miners in Wales, and I know a set-up when I see one. This whole consultation is a sham. You’ve made it clear that the council don’t want to fund the library, so why are you pretending that we have any say in the matter?’

  ‘I can promise you that we’ve not made any decisions yet on the future of these libraries,’ Richard said. ‘That’s why we’re employing management consultants, and it’s why we’re keen to hear what you all think. We’ll only make a decision once the consultation period is over, at the full council meeting on the twenty-fourth of September.’

  ‘Right, I think it’s time to wrap this up,’ Brian said. ‘Anyone have a final question?’

  June glanced around the room; there was a look of sad resignation on most people’s faces. She remembered Chantal’s tears and thought of her mum, who would have been standing up right now and berating the council, listing all the reasons why the library mattered. What had Linda said the other day? Your mum isn’t here, so you’ll just have to fight this for her.

  Inhaling slowly, June raised her hand halfway into the air.

  Brian sighed. ‘Yes?’

  Every eye in the room swung to look at June. Her heart was hammering in her chest, and when she opened her mouth to speak, no words came out.

  ‘Come on, we don’t have all night,’ Brian said.

  ‘I . . . we . . .’ June started to say.

  There wasn’t a sound in the room, everyone straining to hear her. A few rows in front, Ryan from the newspaper had his phone pointed at her. Behind him she saw Marjorie, a grim expression on her face. June felt a tightness in her ribs, as if someone was pushing against her, and she slumped back in the chair and closed her eyes.

  ‘Right, if that’s everything, I call this meeting to a close,’ she heard Brian say, followed by the scraping sound of chairs being pulled back, the sudden clamour of voices. June stayed sitting, her eyes closed, wishing the ground would open up and swallow her.

  Chapter Eight

  THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON, June arrived for her shift at the library with her head held low. She knew she’d made a fool of herself last night. What happened was exactly why she should never try to speak in public; now everyone at the library would think she was a complete idiot. But as June walked through the front door, the room was buzzing with activity, and no one gave her a second glance.

  ‘What’s going on?’ she asked Stanley, who was sitting in his usual seat and watching the commotion with delight.

  ‘Haven’t you heard? We’re forming a protest group. It’s called Fuck All.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘We’re having our first meeting this evening at The Plough, I’m taking sausage rolls. What will you bring?’

  ‘Fuck All, Stanley?’

  ‘That’s not the spirit, my dear – protests are about sharing. I was thinking I could be the group treasurer. And I’ll nominate you for secretary, naturally.’

  ‘Oh, I’m not sure I could do that.’

  ‘Nonsense, you’re perfect for the job,’ he said. ‘Isn’t this exciting? We’re going to fight the council together. We’ll show them this library is alive and kicking.’

  June sat down at the desk and began to sort through a pile of expired reservations. She was delighted people were forming a group to fight for the library, however strange its name; but there was no way she could be the secretary, as that would mean having to speak in front of everyone, which she’d never been able to handle. No, she’d go to the meeting but hide at the back and keep quiet.

  Mrs Bransworth was striding towards the desk, brandishing a piece of paper. ‘I’ve made signs to put up around the library about tonight’s meeting,’ she said, thrusting one at June. ‘That way everyone who comes in can find out about the Fock-el.’

  ‘About that name . . .’

  ‘What’s wrong with F-O-C-L? It stands for the Friends of Chalcot Library.’

  June blinked. ‘Oh, I see.’

  ‘Stanley says you’ll be secretary, and he’s going to nominate me as chairperson. I ran the Chalcot Supports the Miners group, so none of this is new to me.’

  ‘The thing is, I’m not sure I’m really suited to being secretary, Mrs B. Maybe I could make us a reading list of books about protests instead?’

  ‘You can do that and be the secretary. I’ll be running the whole thing, so all you’ll have to do is take notes and do the dull admin stuff.’

  ‘But I—’

  ‘June!’ Marjorie bellowed from the back. ‘I need a word with you, now.’

  June headed to her office, feeling like a naughty schoolchild being summoned to see the headmistress.

  ‘What were you talking to Mrs Bransworth about?’ Marjorie asked, when they were behind closed doors.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Was it about this group they’re setting up? Because if it was, I’m telling you now, you can’t have anything to do with it.’

  ‘What? Why not?’

  ‘I just had that awful Sarah Thwaite from the council on the phone – she recognised you at the meeting last night. She told me, in no uncertain terms, that library staff are not allowed to speak out against the council or the planned closures in any way.’

  ‘Why not? She can’t do that!’

  ‘You should have heard the way she talked to me, ghastly woman. She said she was reminding all library staff that the council pay our wages, and if we’re involved in any kind of action against library closures then, and I quote, “our contracts would be under review”.’

  ‘But surely that’s illegal?’

  ‘Call it what you like, but the last thing this library needs is you getting sacked for embarrassing the council. I’m sorry but we need to keep our heads down and our issue numbers up.’

  June hesitated. ‘Are you really saying we can’t fight for our jobs?’

  ‘That’s exactly what I’m saying. And don’t you dare tell anyone about this conversation, either. If people ask you to be involved, you have to tell them you don’t want to. Do you understand?’

  ‘I still think this is—’

  ‘I said, do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, Marjorie.’

  ‘Good. And I want you to take down those posters about the meeting. We can’t be seen to encourage them in any way.’

  *

  June spent the rest of the afternoon trying to avoid the conversations around her about tonight’s meeting. Part of her was furious. How dare the council tell her she couldn’t join FOCL or fight for her own job? But another part of her, the part that she hated, was secretly a bit relieved. This meant that she wouldn’t have to socialise with people outside of work, wouldn’t have to speak up or risk embarrassing herself again in public. All she wanted was to go home, put on her pyjamas and hide in the pages of a book.

  At four forty-five, June was starting to tidy up when Chantal came rushing in through the door.

  ‘I heard about last night.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Chantal. I wanted to speak up for you but—’

  ‘Stanley told me you’re setting up a group to save the library. I don’t mind helping with social media.’

  ‘The thing is, I—’

  ‘The meeting starts at eight, yeah? I’ll see you there.’

  June opened her mouth to tell Chantal she wasn’t going, but the teenager had already run off.

  *

  At seven fifty-five, June was sitting at her kitchen table, biting her nails and staring at the clock. There was no way she could go to the meeting. If she went, she risked getting fired, and the consequences of that were too terrifying to even consider. June ate a mouthful of lukewarm jacket potato. This was out of her h
ands; she couldn’t go even if she wanted to.

  At eight fourteen, having bitten one nail so much that it was bleeding, June went through to the living room. Matilda was waiting for her on the sofa where she’d left it last night. In times of stress, June found she always returned to the same books from her childhood: Roald Dahl, Malorie Blackman, Philip Pullman. There was something comforting about getting lost in stories she knew so well, novels that she and her mother had shared together on this very sofa. But now, as she tried to concentrate on the page in front of her, June found her mind wandering back to Chalcot Library. The FOCL meeting would have started by now. Who would be there? Mrs Bransworth and Chantal, and some of the parents from the Children’s Room. Stanley would be there too, of course. What would he think when he realised June wasn’t coming?

  She threw the book down and went upstairs to run a bath. June had never understood it when people said they found baths relaxing; she always got hot too quickly, and the more she told herself it was meant to be relaxing, the sweatier and more uncomfortable she became. But tonight she needed to do something, so she ran water into the tub, added some ancient bubble bath and started to get undressed.

  Alan Bennett came up to the bathroom, curious about this unprecedented change in her evening routine, and tangled himself in her feet.

  ‘Bog off, Alan,’ she said, nudging him towards the door. He snarled and jumped onto the pink fluffy toilet seat, where he sat glaring at her.

  June climbed into the bath and tried to immerse herself in the synthetic strawberry bubbles. As a child this bath had seemed gigantic, but now part of June’s anatomy was always exposed. She tried lying on her side but that gave her an unappealing view of the brown carpet. What had her mum been thinking when she chose a faecal-coloured carpet for a bathroom floor, let alone one that had pink walls and an avocado-green bath?

  June knew exactly what her mum had been thinking. Beverley Jones had never given the slightest damn about things like interior design or fashion. She had adorned both her house and her daughter in whatever she could pick up from charity shops and jumble sales, an eccentric mishmash of colours, patterns and eras. Every surface in the house was still covered with the random items Beverley had brought home from the white elephant stall, and while all the girls at June’s school had worn low-slung jeans and cropped T-shirts, she’d worn a strange assortment of clothes that belonged to recently deceased pensioners.

  ‘Who cares what clothes you have on?’ her mum would say, if June ever asked for more fashionable items. ‘It’s not what you wear that matters, Junebug. It’s what you do.’

  And Beverley had been true to her word. June remembered one particular instance, when her school had tried to make all the girls wear gym knickers instead of PE shorts, and her mum had declared the policy sexist and formed a one-woman picket line at the school gate.

  ‘I’m a librarian,’ Beverley had shouted. ‘I know every parent here. I’ve helped most of them at some point over the years. So, believe me when I say, if I ask them all to boycott this school, they will.’

  Her mum had kept it up for three days until the head-teacher changed the policy. June had been mortified by all the unwanted attention it brought her at school, but also ridiculously proud of her mum.

  June looked at Alan Bennett, who was still curled up on the toilet seat. ‘Mum would have expected me to go to the meeting, wouldn’t she?’

  The cat stared back at her, unblinking.

  ‘I do want to go and support them, but Marjorie’s banned me. It’s not my fault.’

  Alan narrowed his eyes and yawned.

  ‘Even if I did go, I’d probably just freeze and embarrass myself again. There’s no point, right?’

  In response, Alan jumped off the toilet seat, with surprising agility for an elderly cat, and sauntered out of the bathroom with his tail in the air. June watched him go with a sigh, then got out of the bath and returned to Matilda and Miss Honey.

  Chapter Nine

  WHEN JUNE OPENED THE library front door at ten o’clock on Monday morning, Stanley was already waiting on the doorstep.

  ‘My goodness, that was quite the meeting you missed on Friday,’ he said as he breezed in. ‘Where were you, my dear?’

  June had spent the weekend trying to think of a convincing cover story. ‘Sorry, my cat got a chicken bone stuck in his throat.’

  ‘Oh dear, I hope he’s OK?’

  June started tidying some books so Stanley couldn’t see her face. ‘He’s fine now, thanks.’

  ‘Well, allow me to fill you in on the meeting. Mrs Bransworth went head-to-head with another woman for the position of chair; Mrs B won by one vote, but they very nearly came to blows. I wish you’d been there – it was quite the drama. I was unanimously voted treasurer.’ Stanley pulled on his jacket lapels with pride. ‘You were nominated group secretary in your absence; Mrs B has the paperwork for you.’

  ‘I’m not sure I can do it, Stanley.’

  ‘Nonsense, it’s very straightforward. Just a bit of minute-taking and the like, I can help with that.’

  ‘It’s not that. I don’t think I can be involved with the campaign at all.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  June shrunk back under his gaze. ‘I’m sorry, I’m too busy to be part of FOCL.’

  Stanley’s face fell and for a moment he didn’t speak. ‘I have to say, this surprises me, June. I thought . . . Well, never mind. You must do whatever you feel is best.’

  ‘I am sorry, Stanley. I—’

  ‘No need to explain.’ He gave her a tight smile and June felt a stab of guilt as he walked away.

  Ten minutes later, Mrs Bransworth came in and headed straight for her.

  ‘Where were you on Friday?’

  ‘I’m sorry, my cat—’

  ‘Never mind. I’ve got all the notes for you here.’

  June hesitated. ‘I’m afraid I’ve got too much on. I can’t join FOCL.’

  Mrs B glared at her. ‘For fuck’s sake, June. Women threw themselves under racehorses so that you could have the same rights as men, and you’re telling me you’re too scared to fight for your own job?’

  ‘I don’t think I’d have much to offer,’ June muttered.

  ‘You have plenty to offer, don’t use that as an excuse. You’re just a bloody coward.’ She turned and stormed away, leaving June red-faced at the desk.

  It carried on like this all morning. Every time someone who’d been at the meeting came into the library, they tried to talk to June about FOCL. And every time, she saw the same look of disappointment in their eyes when she told them she wasn’t joining. By lunchtime, most of the FOCL members had given up on trying to convince her to get involved. Instead, when June fought the returns trolley round the library, she was greeted with unusual silence from the regulars. She tried to carry on as normal, but she could feel Mrs B’s angry glare wherever she went, and every time June walked into the Children’s Room, the parents all pointedly stopped talking. Even Jackson refused to catch her eye when he came in to return some books. The only one who would talk to her was Vera, and she was the last person June wanted to hear from right now.

  ‘I don’t blame you for not getting involved,’ Vera said, showering June with shortbread crumbs. ‘This place is going to the dogs – there’s no point trying to save it.’

  June dearly wanted to ask Vera why, if she hated the library so much, she insisted on coming in so often. But she bit her tongue and pushed the trolley past.

  At half past three, the doors swung open and Chantal came charging in.

  ‘Why didn’t you come on Friday?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Chantal.’

  ‘Has everyone told you what happened? I’m in charge of social media and you’ve been voted the secretary. Maybe at the next meeting you can see if—’

  ‘I won’t be at the next meeting.’

  ‘What, why not?’

  ‘I can’t. I’m sorry, but I’m too busy.’

  June saw the te
enager’s face crumple and she had to look away.

  ‘How can you not care about the library? You’re just like those council bastards.’

  ‘It’s not like that; it’s complicated.’

  ‘It’s not complicated. If you’re not bothered, that’s fine. I don’t care, I don’t even like this place anyway.’

  *

  At five o’clock, June rushed out of the library. Never had she been so relieved that a working day was over. She kept her eyes fixed on the pavement as she made her way down The Parade, but she could still feel people staring at her as she walked past. At one point she thought she heard someone mutter, ‘Traitor,’ but when she glanced round there was just a young mum pushing a buggy. Even so, June increased her pace towards the Golden Dragon.

  As she reached the takeaway, June sighed with relief; she could always rely on George not to engage her in conversation or pass judgement. But today she found Alex standing behind the counter, singing tunelessly to himself.

  ‘Hey, I was hoping you’d come in,’ he said when he saw her. ‘I’ve finished Pride and Prejudice.’

  ‘Great.’ June gave a weak smile, hoping Alex could sense that she wasn’t in the mood to chat.

  ‘It was better than I expected. Some parts were a bit slow, but Elizabeth was cool, even without the martial arts.’

  ‘I’m glad you enjoyed it. Please can I have chicken in black bean sauce and plain rice?’

  ‘So, what are you reading at the moment? I’m looking forward to another recommendation.’

  ‘I’m really sorry, Alex, but please could you put my order through? I’m in a bit of a hurry.’

  A hurt look crossed his face. ‘Of course.’

  He typed the order into the till and began wiping down the counter. June sat down and took a deep breath, inhaling the smell of frying garlic. On the wall opposite was a portrait of a severe-looking Chinese woman, who had scowled down at June since she’d first started coming to the takeaway as a child with her mum. Today, the woman looked particularly displeased.