The Last Library

by Freya Sampson

  The driver slammed on the brake. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘I’m sorry but I need to check if my friend is OK. Please can I get off here?’

  ‘I can only let you down at a designated stop.’

  ‘Please, it’s an emergency.’

  The driver shook her head, but the bus doors swung open and June jumped down. She hurried back up the road towards the bus stop. When she got there, she could see Stanley striding across the field towards some woods on the far side. June set off after him, but he was walking fast, and by the time she got to the woods, she was panting. The footpath carried on along the edge of the field, but June had seen Stanley head into the trees. What was he doing all the way out here? June had assumed there was nothing but farmland around here; she’d had no idea there were any houses.

  The trees closed in around her as she entered the woods, cutting out the late afternoon light. There wasn’t any kind of path and June found herself tripping over roots and low branches. Birds shrieked in the canopy above her, and more than once she had to grab hold of a branch to stop herself from falling over.

  ‘Stanley!’

  There was a squawk as some birds flew up in alarm, and her voice echoed through the trees. In the distance, June could make out shafts of sunlight through the gloom so she made her way towards them. At one point her foot slipped on some damp soil and she fell on her side, landing in some stinging nettles and swearing. She limped to the end of the woods and emerged into a clearing, brushing herself down.

  The first thing that struck June was how beautiful it was. She was standing on the edge of a small meadow, with long grass and wildflowers soaked in the August sunlight. She could hear water to her left and turned to see a small stream running along the edge of the woods, carrying tiny silver fish in its current. June’s eyes followed the stream’s path, and that’s when she saw it. Parked about thirty metres away, under the shade of a large oak tree, was a small, decrepit caravan. There were tangled vines growing up one side and a washing line strung between the caravan and the tree, on which hung a shirt and one pair of socks, swaying in the breeze.

  ‘Oh my god,’ June said, under her breath.

  The caravan door opened, and Stanley stepped out, pausing on the front step to take a long stretch. June’s instinct was to drop to the ground, but at that moment Stanley turned to look at her. His expression remained blank, and then he walked back inside.

  June’s stomach fell. What had she been thinking, following Stanley like some second-rate Nancy Drew? He’d made it very clear he didn’t want her to come to his home, and now she could see why. Poor, poor Stanley. She’d started back towards the trees, mortified, when she heard his voice call out after her.

  ‘I suppose you had better come in.’

  June headed back towards the caravan. When she got to the door, she hovered outside, unsure, then pushed it open and stepped in. The caravan was dimly lit, and it took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the gloom. To her left was a narrow single bed, neatly made with a sheet and blanket. Against the far wall was what looked like a cooker and a small sink, on the side of which sat a single plate and mug. On the right was a small table covered in papers, at which Stanley was now sitting, watching her survey the caravan.

  ‘Stanley, I—’

  ‘You don’t have to say it,’ he interrupted. ‘The look on your face is the very reason I never invite people to come here.’

  June tried to compose her features. ‘It’s lovely. Very . . . cosy.’

  ‘It does perfectly well for my needs.’

  ‘How long have you lived out here?’

  ‘Twelve years. Before that I was at a spot on the other side of the village, but I got moved on from there.’

  ‘I had no idea, Stanley. Does anyone else know you live here?’

  ‘One or two, but I prefer to keep it private.’

  June remembered their conversation about his being homeless in the past; it had never occurred to her that he might still be. She looked around again. Despite its small size, there was hardly anything in the caravan: no pictures or souvenirs, no mementos of a life lived.

  ‘I wish you’d told me.’

  ‘Told you what?’

  ‘Well, you know . . . that you’re homeless.’

  ‘I’m not homeless,’ he said, and there was a sharp edge in his voice. ‘Just because I choose to live here doesn’t mean I need your pity.’

  ‘I wasn’t pitying you,’ June said, although she knew she wasn’t convincing either of them. ‘It must just be hard living all the way out here.’

  ‘It’s not that remote – it’s less than a two-mile walk into the village along the river. And soon I’ll be getting some damned new neighbours.’ He pointed over his shoulder at the trees behind the caravan. ‘A new housing development is going up on the other side of this copse. Eighty flats and houses they’re building. The developers have been making my life hell.’

  ‘But what do you do for electricity and water?’

  ‘I get fresh water from that stream which I boil up, and I have a gas canister for the cooker and heater. These do me for lights.’ He pointed at two small camping lanterns on the table. ‘Plus, there’s the lovely clean facilities at the library, which I make liberal use of.’ He winked at June as he said this, and she found herself smiling in return.

  ‘That’s why you’re always the first to arrive.’

  ‘Yet another reason why we must protect the library, my dear.’

  ‘But don’t the council have a duty to provide you with somewhere to live?’

  ‘What, and be put in some flat on the twentieth floor of a tower block?’ Stanley shuddered. ‘No, thank you very much, I’d rather live out here.’

  ‘What if something happened to you?’

  ‘I’ve been looking after myself perfectly well for years. And while this might not be The Savoy, at least I’m free from prying eyes.’

  He didn’t say it unkindly, but June felt a flush of shame. ‘I’m so sorry, Stanley. I shouldn’t have followed you. I was worried about you, that’s all.’

  ‘I know you were, and I thank you for being such a good friend. But if you don’t mind, I’m rather tired, and I’d like to get some rest now.’

  ‘Of course.’ June backed towards the door and paused. ‘Are you sure you’ll be all right?’

  ‘I’ll be fine. Although it will be rather quiet after the last few days with you rabble in the library.’

  June hesitated. ‘You can always come and stay with me for a bit, you know. I have a spare room.’

  ‘Thank you, June, but this is my home.’

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  JUNE SLEPT DEEPLY THAT NIGHT, the exhaustion of the past few days finally catching up with her. When she woke, she lay with her eyes closed, listening out for the voices of her fellow protesters, before she remembered that the occupation was over, and she was back at home. She sat up, taking in the familiar sights of her childhood bedroom: her favourite books on the bookcase, the quilt that her mum had made for her spread over the bed, her old teddy bear watching from the windowsill. June got up, pulled on her dressing gown and went downstairs. Alan Bennett was sitting by the front door and gave a listless miaow when he saw her.

  ‘Morning. Did you miss me?’

  He turned and stalked into the kitchen and June followed. The room was silent apart from the rhythmic ticking of the clock. Had it always been this quiet in the house? June flicked on the old radio in the corner of the kitchen. A pop song blared out, too loud, and she turned it off again. She glanced at the clock: ten a.m. It was a bank holiday weekend, so the library wouldn’t be open again until Tuesday morning. That meant seventy-two hours before she’d see anyone again; seventy-two hours of reading and peace and quiet, on her own.

  Yet where once a long weekend at home would have filled June with joy, now she felt strangely restless. She went back upstairs, had a shower and got dressed. She ate breakfast, washed up the dishes and dusted the living room. Sh
e read Wolf Hall for an hour but couldn’t concentrate, rereading the same page three times. What would Stanley be doing right now? Would he be alone in his caravan until the library opened again on Tuesday?

  June walked into the kitchen and opened the freezer. A microwave lasagne sat on the shelf, waiting for her. She looked at the clock again. Seventy hours until the library opened. Seventy hours until she’d talk to another soul.

  June grabbed her keys and headed out of the front door. As she rang the bell next door, she realised she was still wearing her slippers.

  ‘June, what a lovely surprise!’ Linda opened the door wearing chandelier earrings, fuchsia lipstick and an apron with the figure of a bikini-clad woman on it.

  ‘Hi. I was wondering if you fancied a . . .’ From inside the house, June heard voices. ‘Oh, I’m sorry to bother you, Linda. I didn’t realise you had guests.’

  ‘It’s just the family here for lunch. Come and join us.’

  ‘It’s not urgent, I’ll come round tomorrow,’ she said, backing away. Linda often invited her to join their meals, but June had always declined, not wanting to intrude on family time.

  She turned to walk back to her empty home and the microwave meal-for-one. Behind her, she heard a peal of laughter from inside Linda’s, and June was reminded of the meals she’d eaten in the library over the past few days, sharing a table and food with others, chatting and laughing. Now that the occupation was over, she would be back to eating every meal alone.

  June turned around. ‘Actually, Linda, I’d love to join you, if that’s OK?’

  ‘Of course it is, love.’ Linda looked delighted. ‘I’m just carving the beef. Go on through to the living room and say hi to everyone.’

  Although Linda’s house was the same layout as June’s, her living room couldn’t have been more different. A huge flat-screen TV filled the wall where June had her bookshelves, and there were no ornaments cluttering up the surfaces, just a few family photos and the odd scented candle. Linda’s daughter, Clare, was sitting on the pristine cream sofa with her husband, their three kids sprawled on the floor playing a board game with Linda’s son, Martin. Her middle child, Elaine, was there with Jackson, who jumped up as June walked into the room.

  ‘June, you’re here!’

  ‘I’m sorry to disturb you all.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, it’s lovely to see you,’ Clare said, standing up and pulling June into a hug. She had a large bump under her T-shirt, which June assumed must be child number four on the way. ‘I hope you’re staying for lunch. Mum has done far too much, as usual. You’d think there were fifty of us from the amount she cooks.’

  No sooner had she said it than Linda marched in through the door, declaring that lunch was served, and June was caught up in the bustle of the family charging towards the dining table. She found herself being steered into a seat between Linda and Jackson.

  ‘Wine?’ Linda said, pouring her a glass before she could respond.

  In the middle of the table sat the biggest joint of roast beef June had ever seen, surrounded by dishes containing all the accompaniments. People started piling food onto their plates, all the while talking over each other. June’s plate was soon overflowing, and she allowed the clamour of conversation to wash over her as she ate. Across the table, Martin and the eldest grandson were swapping rude jokes, and June laughed as she heard snippets of the punchlines. To her right, Linda was having an intense conversation with Clare about the boys’ primary school.

  ‘It’s shocking,’ Clare was saying. ‘The school is so underfunded they can’t even afford stationery for all the kids. We got a letter at the end of last term asking parents to donate pens and notepads, can you believe it?’

  ‘Outrageous,’ Linda said.

  ‘All those MPs with their big salaries and private school educations, and yet state schools don’t have enough money to teach kids properly. Honestly, I’m so angry I’m thinking of writing a letter to my MP.’

  ‘You should do a protest like June,’ Jackson said. ‘She’s an expert now.’

  ‘Really?’ Clare turned to June, a look of surprise on her face.

  ‘Well, I’m not exactly an expert,’ June said.

  ‘Oh yes, she organised an occupation of our library because the council wants to close it,’ Linda said. ‘They got in the papers and on the TV. Chalcot Library is famous.’

  ‘Wow, that’s amazing,’ said Martin, who had stopped telling jokes to listen. ‘What was the occupation like? Did you sleep there?’

  ‘Yes, for three nights. The council evicted us yesterday.’

  ‘Good on you, girl,’ Clare said. ‘That takes proper guts.’

  June smiled at the compliment.

  ‘What will happen now?’ asked Martin. ‘Will you carry on protesting?’

  ‘Of course – we have to. The council are doing a consultation, which ends in four weeks’ time. We need to make sure the library is as busy as possible so our visitor numbers are high. And we need to keep campaigning, so we don’t let the pressure off the council.’

  June realised that everyone had stopped talking to listen to her. She was amazed by the vehemence of her own words, and by the admiring looks the family were giving her.

  ‘Listen to you talk, I hardly recognise you,’ Linda said, beaming at her.

  ‘To June!’ Clare said, and there was a roar of boisterous toasting around the table.

  *

  On Tuesday morning, June left the house with butterflies circling in her stomach. For all her bravado on Saturday, she was terrified about what she’d find when she turned up at the library today. Marjorie would be furious with her, of course, and no doubt there would be trouble from the council. But she’d get to see Stanley and the other members of FOCL again, and they could make a plan for the last leg of the campaign. She’d been thinking about it all weekend and had several ideas about how they could keep the momentum going.

  June was rounding the corner onto The Parade when she saw Vera standing outside the post office.

  ‘Morning, Vera, how are you?’

  ‘Mustn’t grumble. Although my hip is—’

  ‘I’m sorry, I’d love to chat, but I have to get to work.’

  ‘What’s going on there today?’ Vera said.

  ‘Marjorie’s due to host a Techie Tea this morning. Do you want to join?’

  ‘No, I mean now – there’s a group of people outside. That man from the council is there.’

  ‘You mean Richard Donnelly?’

  ‘The one who’s an oily wan—’

  ‘I’ve got to go. Sorry, Vera.’

  June turned and hurried towards the library. As she approached, she could see Donnelly outside, talking to a man and woman.

  ‘What’s going on?’ she said, when she reached them.

  ‘Good morning, Miss Jones,’ Richard said. ‘I was wondering if you’d turn up. Did you receive our email?’

  ‘No, I left my phone here. What’s going on?’

  ‘I think we’re all done,’ Richard said to the other two, who nodded and walked away. He turned to June. ‘The council have decided to conduct a full inquiry into the events of last week, including the involvement of a council employee in the occupation and subsequent damage to the library. Until the inquiry is finished, you are to be relieved of all duties at Chalcot Library.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’re suspended. On full pay, of course, until the council have clarified your role in the matter and decided if any further action needs to be taken.’

  ‘Hang on – what do you mean, damage?’

  Richard looked down at his clipboard. ‘For a start, there was damage to the paintwork in the main room . . .’

  ‘We only hung those posters up for a few days.’

  ‘Chips to the tables . . .’

  ‘Those tables are at least twenty years old.’

  ‘Stains on the carpet . . .’

  Damn, the coffee. ‘But I scrubbed that myself.’


  ‘Our surveyors have been around and say that we’ll need to replace the whole carpet.’

  ‘That’s rubbish, it was one tiny mark.’

  ‘I’m not going to stand here arguing with you, Miss Jones. The council have made their decision, which you would know if you’d bothered to read the email. Until the inquiry is finished, you are not to enter the library for work or personal reasons.’

  ‘This is crazy. There wasn’t any damage to the library – we made the place look better. And who will cover me while I’m suspended?’

  ‘We’re bringing someone in from Central to assist Marjorie. Unfortunately, the council doesn’t have the resources to fully cover you, so the library opening hours will have to be reduced.’

  ‘No! You can’t, please. If the library hours are cut then our visitor numbers will go down and that will affect the consultation.’

  Richard shrugged. ‘The decision is out of my hands, Miss Jones.’

  There was something about the way he said her name that made June’s skin crawl. ‘This is deliberate, isn’t it? You want to make it look like the library is failing because you want to close it. Are you in on this Cuppa Coffee deal too?’

  ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ Richard said. ‘And I suggest you stop making such wild accusations. Your irresponsible behaviour has done enough damage to this library already.’ He turned and started walking towards the library.

  ‘My phone is in there,’ June called after him. ‘Can I at least collect it?’

  Richard sighed. ‘All right. But wait in the entrance while I find it.’

  Inside the library, everything looked exactly as June had left it on Friday, yet something was different. It wasn’t the fact the blinds were no longer brown with dust, or the faint smell of fresh paint mixed in with the familiar scents of wood and paper. And it certainly wasn’t the tiny coffee stain on the carpet, no bigger than a paperback. No, it was something about the sound of the library; the silence felt different somehow. June might be wrong, but it felt like the stories had stopped whispering to each other.

  ‘Here you go.’ Richard walked out of the office and handed June her phone.