She returned to her cleaning with renewed vigour. It felt good to have finally done something to fight for the library. Alex had been right; June might not be able to publicly join FOCL, but perhaps she could help them behind the scenes after all.
Chapter Thirteen
JUNE HANDED THE COPY of Gone Girl to the young woman and watched her walk out the library. She’d never seen her before, and June imagined that the woman had moved to Chalcot because she was on the run. Her parents were a respectable, middle-class couple, with a BMW and annual ski holidays to France, but behind closed doors they were mean and bullying, controlling every aspect of their daughter’s life. So, she had faked her own kidnapping, creating a ransom note and leaving false clues so that her parents didn’t suspect. But then her dad happened to come to Chalcot for work and spotted her at the library. He waited for her outside and, when she left, he followed her into an alleyway and in a low and threatening voice said—
‘I need new book.’
‘Hi Leila,’ June said, smiling at the patron in front of the desk. ‘What did you make of the Hairy Bikers?’
‘I think Mary Berry better,’ Leila said, shyly. She came into the library at least once a week now, and each time June helped her choose a new recipe book. June had found out that her son, Mahmoud, helped her translate the recipes into Arabic.
‘I’ve put a new book aside for you – would you like to look at it now?’
‘Thank you,’ Leila said, and she waited while June went to find it.
‘Here you go.’
‘I have . . . for you . . .’ Leila reached into her bag and pulled out a small package wrapped in kitchen paper. June opened it to find a diamond-shaped slice of cake, decorated with crushed pistachios. It smelt delicious.
‘Basbousa,’ Leila said.
‘Oh wow. Thank you so much,’ June said, a lump in her throat.
‘I try English scone next,’ Leila said, as she turned and headed towards a table, a look of concentration on her face. June smiled to herself as she put the cake down next to the keyboard, to enjoy later.
‘What’s that?’ Vera was leaning over the desk, her face scrunched up.
‘It’s called basbousa.’
She waved her head in the direction of Leila. ‘Did she make it?’
In the two weeks since Alex had told her about Vera’s past, June had been making extra attempts to engage with Vera and encourage her to join in activities at the library, but, so far, all her efforts had been in vain. Now, she took a deep breath.
‘You know, Leila is really keen to learn about English cooking. I heard that you’re a good baker, so perhaps you could suggest some recipe books for her?’
‘Who told you that?’ Vera said, suspicion etched onto her face. ‘Well, they’re wrong. I haven’t baked in years,’ she spat, and she turned and headed back towards her chair. She knocked into Jackson on her way past, and the armful of books he was carrying tumbled onto the floor. June hurried over to him.
‘Are you OK, Jackson?’ she said, bending down to pick them up.
‘I’m fine.’
June handed him a tome called Japan Encyclopaedia. ‘Your gran didn’t tell me you’re going on holiday.’
‘I’m not, I’m just doing a project about Japan. Did you know that it’s made up of six thousand eight hundred and fifty-two islands? And the Japanese eat more fish than any other country in the world?’
‘I did not know that.’
‘Also, Stanley told me that in Japan they have haiku, which are a special kind of poem with only three lines and seventeen syllables.’
‘That’s fascinating, Jackson.’
‘I’ve written a haiku. Would you like to hear it?’
‘I’d love to.’
He stood up straight and started to recite in a monotone voice:
‘Libraries are boats
And the books are life jackets.
Without them we’ll drown.’
June was so taken aback that she didn’t know how to respond. ‘Wow, Jackson. That’s very . . . powerful.’
‘Do you like it? I’m going to perform it at the library protest on Saturday.’
‘I’m sure everyone will love it. I’m sorry I won’t be there to hear it.’
June really was sad she wouldn’t be able to go. Saturday’s event at the church hall was all anyone in the library had talked about all week, and June had picked up snippets of information from her eavesdropping. It seemed that Mrs Bransworth had gone all Cersei Lannister and was driving the rest of FOCL mad with her demands for banners, PA systems and ‘a tombola that would rival the one at Favering Summer Fayre’. The one good piece of news was that someone had managed to secure a local news crew to cover the event. The village had talked of nothing else since, and June was delighted that they might finally get some publicity for the library campaign.
Out of the corner of her eye, June saw Marjorie bowling towards her, a determined look in her eye.
‘Sorry, Jackson, I’d better get on with my work. Good luck with your haiku.’
‘June, a word,’ Marjorie said when she reached her. June followed her boss behind the Local History shelf. ‘Gayle tells me you still haven’t replied to her about the hen do. Why not?’
Oh god. Despite her lie to Alex about being friends with Gayle, the idea of attending was giving June anxiety dreams, and she’d put off sending a reply. ‘I’m sorry, Marjorie, I’ve just been busy.’
‘Well, I need you to email now, before Gayle starts to suspect that I’ve put you up to this.’
‘Now?’
‘Come on, get your phone out.’
June was aware of Marjorie staring at her screen as she began to type, and prayed she wouldn’t get a sudden Twitter notification from FOCL. She hurriedly wrote Thanks, Gayle, I’d love to come to the hen do. See you on Saturday and pressed send.
‘That wasn’t so difficult, was it?’ Marjorie said. ‘Now, just remember, you’re not going there to have fun. You have a job to do.’
*
At four o’clock, Chantal’s mum, Michelle, came into the library. June wanted to ask her about Chantal, who had been ignoring her ever since she’d refused to join FOCL, but Michelle was engrossed in swearing at the computer.
‘Those council bastards,’ she said, hitting the keyboard as June approached. ‘They send me a text telling me a new property has come up, so I drop everything and race here. But by the time I’ve got onto their website, the sodding house has gone.’
‘Not again, Michelle? I’m so sorry.’
‘And what am I supposed to do if this place closes down? Do the council expect us all to have computers at home?’
‘I was wondering, how’s Chantal?’
‘God knows. She’s in a right grump, has been for ages. I’ve no idea what’s got into her.’
June felt a pang of guilt; she was pretty sure she knew what was wrong with Chantal, and part of it was June’s fault.
‘Has she told you she wants to drop out of school?’ Michelle asked.
‘What? That’s awful. What about going to university?’
‘Says she doesn’t want to. She’s always been a right little geek, but now she says she wants to get a job instead.’
‘Oh no. Would you ask her to come in here and I can have a chat with her?’
‘I’ll try but I’m not sure it’ll do any good. She’s going to that protest thing on Saturday – you could talk to her there.’
‘I’m afraid I’m at a hen do on Saturday.’ It was the truth, but June still felt terrible.
Michelle logged off the computer and got up to leave. ‘Was that one of those management consultants I saw here first thing this morning?’
‘What do you mean?’ June said.
‘With Marjorie. I was dropping the twins at nursery, so it was before eight.’
‘What did they look like?’
‘She was a skinny woman in fancy clothes. Not from round here, I’d say.’
June remembered the Mrs Coulter lookalike she’d seen here weeks ago with Marjorie. ‘Did she have long, dark hair?’
‘Yeah. She looked a bit snooty.’
‘Shit!’ June said, and then realised she was talking to a patron. ‘Sorry.’
‘What is it?’
‘I don’t know. Nothing, I hope.’
Marjorie was at the other side of the room, helping Mahmoud look something up in the Reference section. June watched her patiently explaining something to the boy. What was she up to? If Mrs Coulter was a management consultant, then why was Marjorie trying to keep her visits secret from June and everyone else? There was something suspicious going on here, June was sure of it.
She went into the toilet, locking the door behind her, and pulled out her mobile. Opening Twitter, she typed a private message to FOCL from Matilda.
Marjorie Spencer has been secretly showing people around the library. I saw her with a woman here weeks ago and I think the same woman was back here this morning before the library opened. Possibly a management consultant?
There was a rattle as someone tried to open the door, so June pressed send. Seconds later she heard a beep outside. June pulled the door open to see Mrs B staring at her phone screen.
‘Fuck,’ Mrs B said, and she turned and walked back across the library.
June watched as she went to Stanley’s chair by the window and showed him her phone. June was dying to hear what they were saying but she didn’t want to raise their suspicions by walking too close. She spotted the returns trolley sitting in the middle of the room where she’d abandoned it earlier, so she grabbed it and began to steer it over towards them. But the trolley was in a particularly uncooperative mood today, and as June pushed it right, the thing started veering off towards the left. As she coaxed it nearer to the window, she could hear snatches of the conversation.
‘I think we need to pass this information on . . .’ Stanley was saying.
‘But how do we know we can trust this Matilda?’ Mrs B said.
June edged the trolley closer.
‘Does it matter who she is? What we need to do is—’
‘Ouch!’
June swung round to see Vera bent over in pain.
‘What the hell are you doing, you stupid girl? You ran over my foot.’
‘I’m so sorry, Vera. Are you OK?’
‘No, I’m not. I think you fractured my toe.’
‘What’s going on here?’ Marjorie was pacing towards them.
‘June deliberately ran me over with that trolley,’ Vera said.
‘What were you thinking, June?’ Marjorie glared at her as she helped to lower Vera into a chair and elevate her leg.
June bit her lip. ‘It was an accident.’
‘She’s always had it in for me,’ Vera said.
‘We should call an ambulance,’ Marjorie said.
‘Quite right. I’ve a good mind to sue the library – this is gross negligence.’
‘For god’s sake, stop making such a bloody fuss,’ Mrs B said, walking over. ‘There’s a bus due soon, I’ll help you get to Winton Hospital.’
Vera looked up at her with a frown. ‘I think we’d better call an ambulance.’
‘Don’t be soft. The NHS is stretched enough without having to send out ambulances for bruised feet. Come on, stand up and I’ll help you.’
Vera opened her mouth to complain but thought better of it. She stood up, hobbling after Mrs B.
‘As if we didn’t have enough problems already,’ Marjorie hissed at June once they’d gone. ‘Do you realise what will happen if she makes a formal complaint to the council? They’re looking for excuses to shut us down, June. And you could well have handed them one on a plate.’
Chapter Fourteen
ON THE MORNING OF GAYLE’S HEN DO, June was awake at six a.m. in a cold sweat. Why had she told Alex she was going? Now, if she didn’t go, he’d realise that she’d been lying and actually had no friends. But if she did go, June would have to see Gayle and all those terrifying girls from school again, plus Marjorie would probably fire her for not stopping the stripper.
‘What am I going to do?’ she groaned at Alan Bennett, who was lying at the end of the bed. He stared at her with contempt. ‘You’re right, Alan, of course you are.’
She pulled herself out of bed and opened her wardrobe. Gayle’s email had said they had to come dressed as film heroines, so June stared at her clothes for inspiration. Two pairs of black jeans, one black skirt and five identical white blouses, all for work. Several grey cardigans, also for work. Her one black dress that she’d worn to her mum’s funeral and some old faded T-shirts and jumpers. How was she going to fashion a fancy dress out of these?
June turned around and scanned her eyes along the bookcase in her room. This was where she kept some of her favourite childhood books, the ones that made her feel most comfortable and safe. One book caught her eye.
‘Yes, Alan, Hermione Granger!’
June hurried through into her mum’s room and pulled her wardrobe open. A rainbow of different colours greeted her, from a long patchwork coat to a gold sequined dress that her mum had loved. Nothing in this wardrobe was black or grey except for one item, which June rummaged around until she found. Her mum’s old university graduation gown – perfect for a Harry Potter themed fancy dress.
Back in her own room, June put the gown on over a white shirt, her old school tie and black skirt, and then stood in front of the mirror. Now there was just her hair. She undid the tight plait that she slept with every night and allowed her hair to fall loose. June couldn’t remember the last time she’d looked at her unruly curls like this: every morning she went straight from the plait to a neat bun and vice versa in the evening. But as much as she hated to admit it, her wild mass of hair did look quite like Hermione’s in the early films.
At eleven o’clock, June pulled on her shoes, grabbed her bag and stepped outside into the suffocating August heat. She made her way slowly up the hill, keeping to the shady side so she didn’t get too sweaty and make her hair even frizzier. Thankfully, Alex had told her he was going to London for the weekend, so there was no risk of him seeing her in this ridiculous outfit.
As June approached the church hall, she could hear the sound of music from inside. That was good; it must mean the FOCL event was underway and busy already. She slowed down as she walked past, keen to get a glimpse inside.
There were only a dozen people in the room, most of whom were FOCL members and their families. Stanley was manning what must have been the tombola, on which June could see a few bottles of wine, some homemade jam and a miserable-looking stuffed elephant, and Chantal was sitting behind the cake stall. To June’s surprise, Vera was there too, prowling around the room with no sign of a foot injury. A large hand-painted banner was hanging on the back wall, but the ties had come loose, and all June could make out was ‘ave Chalcot Libra’.
Mrs B was standing near to the door, shouting into a walkie-talkie, ‘This is Eagle, come in Sparrow. The school choir will be here in ten minutes, I repeat ten minutes. We need more fucking people!’
Was this it? After all the work Mrs B and Stanley had put in, this was one of the saddest scenes June had ever seen. She turned and headed up the road, too embarrassed to watch any more. As she neared the bus stop, she saw there was a grey van parked up, with a woman in a blue suit leaning against it smoking. She looked familiar, and June was trying to work out what books she borrowed when she realised it was the local news journalist, Tessa something-or-other. She was talking to another woman who was fiddling with a fancy-looking camera.
‘This is a complete waste of time,’ Tessa was saying. ‘There’s no way we’ll get a story out of this.’
‘Want me to pack up the kit?’ the camerawoman said.
‘We might as well film the kids singing but we’ll go straight after that.’
The bus pulled up and June jumped on board. As she took a seat, she watched Tessa drop the cigarette on the pavement
and grind it out with her foot, a bored expression on her face. This was a disaster. How were they going to save the library when they couldn’t even get on the local news?
It was almost twelve o’clock by the time June disembarked on a narrow country lane, and a bus journey spent reading Rebecca had done nothing to calm her nerves. She still had a mile-long walk to get to the hotel, and soon June felt sweat streaming off her body under the thick university gown.
Behind her, June heard thumping dance music, and when she turned around she saw a yellow convertible sports car roaring down the lane. There was no pavement, so she had to throw herself out of the way, landing face-first on the overgrown verge. June heard the car slow down, and when she rolled over, it had pulled up next to where she was lying, and the driver was giving her a strange look.
‘You all right, love?’ he said, turning down the music. He was wearing a white singlet vest that showed off his tanned, muscular physique.
‘I’m fine, thanks,’ June said, trying to pull herself up in a casual-looking manner.
‘I don’t suppose you know where Oakford Park hotel is? I’m lost.’
A thought occurred to June, one so ridiculous she felt herself turning even brighter red. No, it was far too dangerous. What if she’d got it wrong? Maybe this man was a serial killer? But if he was who she suspected he was, then this could be the answer to June’s prayers.
‘Erm, I was wondering . . . are you by any chance a . . . a stripper?’ June said, aware her face was scarlet.
The man gave her a look of what she assumed was disapproval, but he’d clearly had so much Botox he couldn’t raise his eyebrows. ‘I prefer the term exotic dancer,’ he said, primly. ‘And you are?’
June held her breath for a moment before she replied. ‘My name’s Matilda. I’m going to Gayle’s hen do.’
‘Oh, thank god. I’ve been driving round for the last twenty minutes trying to find this damn hotel.’
‘I can show you the way if you like?’
‘Great, hop in. I’m Rocky.’
June brushed the grass off herself and climbed into the passenger’s seat. ‘You need to turn around.’
The Last Library Page 9