The Last Library

by Freya Sampson

  ‘You did?’

  June watched him squirm in his seat. ‘I’ve known for a while, but Stanley made me promise not to tell anyone.’

  ‘I don’t understand. How did you know?’ June asked, but Alex was lost in thought and didn’t reply.

  They sat in silence for a few minutes.

  ‘We let him down,’ June said. ‘He should never have been living like that.’

  ‘I think he was happy there. And the library was like his second home.’

  Tears started to spill down June’s cheeks. ‘I have to save the library. Stanley devoted everything to fighting for it. I can’t let him down again.’

  Alex reached across the table, resting his hand on top of hers. June felt a flush of warmth and let it stay there for a moment, safe and comforting. Then she remembered his panicked getaway last night and pulled away.

  ‘It’s late, you should get some rest.’ As Alex stood up, his chair let out a loud scraping noise on the floor, and June winced.

  ‘Thanks for coming round to tell me in person, I appreciate it.’ She knew she should show him out, but she didn’t have the energy.

  Alex stopped when he got to the kitchen door. ‘I almost forgot.’ He reached into his bag and pulled out a book, which he came back and placed on the table. June saw it was The House at Pooh Corner. ‘Parks gave me this. He said they found it by Stanley’s bed. It belongs to the library.’

  *

  The following morning, June left the house at ten. There was only one place she wanted to be today, even if it was the one place she wasn’t allowed to be.

  As she walked towards the library, its old clock tower rising above The Parade, June felt a wave of emotion crashing over her. She remembered approaching the building as a child, holding her mum’s hand and feeling such anticipation about what wonderful stories and adventures she’d find inside. She remembered all those days she’d walked this route to work, when the library had been a comfort, a form of security. But today, all she felt was an overwhelming sadness. Never again would she unlock that front door and find Stanley waiting for her, smiling and talking about the weather. Never again would she be able to chat to him as she shelved returns or help him with the crossword.

  Chantal was the first person to spot June as she walked into the library. ‘Have you heard?’ she asked, her eyes red. ‘Stanley was in here on Thursday, talking about FOCL and the campaign. He was sitting just there . . .’

  June followed Chantal’s gaze over to the chair where Stanley always sat. This morning it was empty, although someone had placed a neatly folded copy of the Telegraph on the seat.

  ‘I heard they found him in some caravan on the edge of the village, no heating or electricity. Can you believe it?’

  ‘He was very private,’ June said, carefully.

  ‘He was like a grandpa to me,’ Chantal said, her eyes glistening.

  June heard a familiar voice to her left, and she turned to see Marjorie emerging from her office. June braced herself for the onslaught, but when Marjorie looked up, she gave a strained smile.

  ‘I heard about Stanley—’ June started.

  ‘Of course, it’s only right you should be here,’ Marjorie said.

  ‘How did your daughter’s wedding go?’ Chantal said.

  Marjorie’s jaw tightened. ‘It was lovely, thank you.’

  ‘I’ve finished this and it’s a disgrace. Why anyone reads this shit I do not know.’

  They turned around to see Mrs B striding through the door, brandishing a copy of Hamlet. She stopped when she saw them all huddled together. ‘What’s going on? Is there news from the council?’

  No one said anything, so June stepped forwards. ‘I’m afraid I have some bad news, Mrs Bransworth. Stanley’s dead.’

  June saw her draw a quick intake of breath.

  ‘Was he here?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Alone?’

  June nodded and Mrs B closed her eyes. When she opened them again, it was with a look of determination. ‘You all know what we need to do now.’

  ‘There’s still a few weeks of the consultation left,’ June said. ‘I think we should stage a protest at County Hall, see if we can get loads of young people involved this time. Maybe they could even do a school strike?’

  ‘I’ll message all my friends from college,’ Chantal said.

  ‘I’m not sure there’s much point.’ They all looked at Marjorie, who in turn was staring at June. ‘You were right, June. Brian finally confessed everything yesterday, although only after I threatened to leave him.’

  Mrs B frowned. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘I’m afraid not everything has been above board,’ Marjorie said. ‘A coffee chain has set its sights on this building and they’ve been paying my husband to help them. They’ve made a ridiculous financial offer for this place. There’s no way the council will turn it down.’

  ‘You bastards!’ Mrs B shouted. ‘You and your damned husband—’

  ‘This has nothing to do with Marjorie,’ June interrupted. ‘She was as surprised about this as we are.’

  ‘If it’s dodgy then can’t we go to the police?’ Chantal said.

  ‘I’m not sure it will be possible to prove anything,’ Marjorie said. ‘They’ve been very careful, there’s no email trail or evidence of any conversations. My husband appears to be smarter than he looks.’

  ‘But he confessed to you,’ June said.

  ‘He’ll deny it,’ Marjorie said. ‘Not that I care. He can be arrested and thrown into prison. I’ve had enough of that bloody man and his lies.’

  ‘Marjorie—’ June desperately wanted to apologise for what had happened at the wedding, but Marjorie had already turned away.

  ‘We have to report this to the police,’ Chantal said. ‘We can’t let them get away with this.’

  ‘You’re right, Chantal, but it won’t save the library.’ Mrs B shook her head. ‘These things take months to investigate, by which time the council will have made their decision about this place. And even if the coffee company loses the building, someone else will buy it instead.’

  ‘So, what, are we just giving up?’ Chantal said. ‘After everything we’ve done, are we really walking away?’

  ‘We have to go to the council meeting when they vote on the library,’ June said. ‘Stanley was the one who suggested it, so we have to go and make them listen. It’s our last hope.’

  *

  June spent the rest of the morning inside the library. Her access to the network had been blocked, but she busied herself with visitor queries and tidying the shelves. She assisted a woman with her Universal Credit online, and when a young boy with dyslexia came in, June helped him choose some books. It felt good to be back here amongst the shelves and the people, having a purpose again. But every now and then, June would hear someone walk in through the front doors, shuffling their feet or whistling, and she would look up, expecting to see Stanley’s smiling face. And then she’d remember and feel the loss all over again.

  The library closed at one o’clock, and June found herself alone in the building with Marjorie. While her boss dealt with some paperwork in the office, June sat down at one of the public computers where Stanley had spent so many hours. She opened up a browser and typed in a web address. When it asked for the password she paused. Was it illegal to log in to someone else’s email account? Stanley had told her his password many times, so it was hardly hacking. June’s fingers hovered over the keyboard and then she typed it in.

  The Inbox sat empty, not one single email. She clicked on Sent Items and saw the same. Then June clicked on Drafts and the screen was suddenly filled with dozens if not hundreds of messages. All to the same email address, with subjects like ‘Greetings from rainy England’ and ‘Update on our library battle’. It took June a moment to work out what was going on, and when she did, her heart ached.

  Stanley had written all these emails to his son, but never had the courage to send them.

 
The most recent message had been composed on Thursday, four days ago. It must have been Stanley’s last day in the library. June hovered the cursor over it. She wanted to read the words and hear her friend’s voice again. How had he been feeling? Was he unwell? Was he happy?

  She stared at the mailbox for a moment longer, then scribbled something down and turned off the computer. These weren’t her emails to read.

  *

  That evening, June considered making pasta pesto for her dinner but at the last minute she headed up to the Golden Dragon. George was standing behind the counter as she walked in.

  ‘Your usual?’

  ‘Hi, George. Please can I have some fish-fragrant aubergine, steamed rice and your green beans with pork and chilli?’

  He looked at her in astonishment, raised an eyebrow, then walked into the kitchen. A moment later Alex appeared.

  ‘I saw that order and wondered if it was you. How are you?’

  ‘OK. I went to the library this morning.’

  ‘How was it?’

  ‘Horrible . . . and nice. Do you think we should organise a funeral for Stanley? I’m not sure who else will.’

  ‘I believe Stanley’s solicitor is dealing with it.’

  ‘Stanley had a solicitor?’ June couldn’t hide her surprise.

  ‘I spoke to her and apparently his named next of kin is his sister, so they’re trying to trace her before anything’s arranged.’

  June hated the idea of Stanley’s body sitting in a morgue somewhere, all alone. ‘He needs a proper send-off.’

  They stood in silence.

  ‘June, I need to tell you something,’ Alex said.

  She studied the Formica counter. Was this going to be about her humiliating attempt at a kiss after the wedding? Or was he about to finally admit that he had a girlfriend? Either way, this was the last thing she wanted to discuss right now.

  ‘I’ve been wanting to say it for a while, but with everything that’s happened, I haven’t had a chance,’ Alex said.

  ‘Please, you don’t have to say anything.’

  ‘But I don’t want you to find out from someone else. I—’

  ‘You look well, George,’ June said, as she saw Alex’s dad walk out of the kitchen carrying her bag. ‘How’s your hip?’

  ‘Fine, so I don’t know why Al is still here,’ George said. ‘I keep telling him he can go back to London.’

  ‘Dad . . .’

  ‘The doctor says my hip is healed. Why are you still hanging round here, getting in my way?’ He swiped at his son, although not without affection.

  ‘How much do I owe you?’ June said, rummaging in her bag for her purse.

  ‘Nine pounds fifty.’

  She handed over a ten-pound note, grabbed her food and ran out of the takeaway before Alex could say another word.

  *

  June avoided the takeaway and Alex for the rest of the week. She stayed away from the library, too. On Friday, she received an email from the council, but when she opened it there was just a curt message from some HR person, reminding her of the terms of her suspension. The email said the investigation into the occupation was progressing and they would be in touch with the outcome in due course.

  That evening, as she was walking to the village shop to buy her dinner, June heard her name being called from across the street. It was Mrs Bransworth, waving her arms above her head.

  ‘I’ve been looking for you all week,’ she said as she crossed the road towards June, oblivious of the cars screeching to a halt behind her. ‘Where the hell have you been?’

  ‘Oh, you know, around.’ In truth, June hadn’t left the house. She was currently reading A Little Life, which was doing nothing for her mood.

  ‘They’ve set a date for Stanley’s funeral. Alex from the Chinese takeaway told me it’s taking place on Friday the twenty-fourth at two o’clock, at Winton crematorium.’

  ‘But that’s when the council meeting is happening.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘What are we going to do?’

  ‘I asked Alex if the funeral could be moved but he didn’t think it could. Stanley’s sister is only coming up for one day, apparently.’

  ‘I can’t miss his funeral.’

  ‘Stanley’s dead in a box, he doesn’t care.’

  June winced.

  ‘But you’ve got to do whatever is right for you,’ Mrs B said, and she turned and marched back across the road, drivers gesticulating at her madly.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  JUNE STOOD IN FRONT OF THE TALL, imposing stone building and looked at the sky. Grey clouds were rolling in, threatening rain, and she’d forgotten her umbrella. She looked around to see if anyone else was coming, but there was no one in sight. So, this was it – she’d have to do this alone. June checked the time; it was one fifty. She tried to ignore the churning in her stomach and walked inside.

  June had been in this room once before, eight years ago, and it was exactly as she remembered it. The wooden panelling along the walls, the smell of beeswax polish, the heavy, flat silence. But whereas last time it had been full to bursting, every seat taken and people standing along the walls, today it was deserted. Stanley’s coffin stood on the same dais at the front, but whereas June’s mum’s had been covered in colourful flowers, Stanley’s was completely plain. No flowers or photos, no sign of the person inside.

  June walked up the central aisle, trying to control her breathing. As she did, she saw a small figure in the front row, so still that she hadn’t noticed her at first. The woman had grey hair and was sitting bolt upright, her back to June. This must be Stanley’s sister.

  ‘Excuse me?’ June’s voice echoed round the draughty room.

  The woman turned to look at her. She was elderly, well into her eighties, and was wearing an old-fashioned navy woollen suit with a blouse buttoned up to the neck. Her hands, pale and wrinkled, were clasped in her lap.

  ‘I’m June Jones, a friend of Stanley’s. I’m so sorry for your loss.’

  The woman stared at June with watery grey eyes, then turned back to the front without saying a word. June was unsure what to do, so she took a seat in a row on the other side of the aisle. The two of them sat in silence, the only sound the ticking of a clock at the back of the room, counting out the painful seconds like a metronome. June tried to keep her breathing in time with the clock, in order to fight her overwhelming desire to turn and run out of the room.

  ‘Hi.’

  She jumped. Alex was standing in the aisle next to her, dressed in his suit and a black tie.

  ‘You’re here.’

  ‘Of course,’ he said, sitting down next to her.

  Over the next few minutes, several more people drifted into the room; June recognised a woman from the Knit and Natter group, a couple of parents from the Children’s Room, and one or two others from the library occupation. Eventually, a man entered through a side door and walked over to Stanley’s sister. He was carrying a single sheet of paper.

  ‘Is this everyone?’ he said to her. The old lady nodded, and he went to stand at the lectern next to the coffin. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Guy Wilson, I’m the officiant at today’s funeral service for Stanley Phelps. Before I begin, a few pieces of housekeeping. First off, please switch all mobile phones to silent. Secondly—’

  There was a loud crash at the back of the room.

  ‘Sorry we’re late. Bloody traffic.’

  June swung round to see Mrs Bransworth marching up the aisle, followed by Chantal, Vera and Jackson.

  ‘I thought you weren’t coming?’ June whispered to Mrs B, as she took a seat.

  ‘Decided that even though the old bugger won’t know I’m here, I wanted to say goodbye.’

  ‘Granny Linda gave us a lift,’ Jackson said, sitting down on June’s other side. ‘She said you’d look after me, June.’

  ‘I wonder if there’ll be a buffet afterwards?’ Vera said.

  The officiant coughed. ‘Right, if everyone’
s here we can begin.’

  He said a few words about the service and the fact that Stanley’s sister had requested there be no music. He gave a brief speech about Stanley: factual information, his date of birth, where he was born, his parents and sister. He said that Stanley had worked as a chartered accountant for many years and died of a brain haemorrhage. There was no mention of Kitty or Mark, or anything to do with the library. June didn’t recognise the man being described.

  ‘Now, seeing as it’s a short service, would anyone else like to say a few words about Stanley?’ The officiant looked at Stanley’s sister, who had sat motionless throughout the ceremony. She gave a tight shake of her head.

  ‘Anyone else?’

  He looked out at the small congregation. June thought of all the things she wanted to say about Stanley, about the wonderful man he was and the kind friend he’d been. She wanted to thank him for all that he’d done, not just for the library but for her personally. June could feel Alex’s eyes on her, waiting. She glanced over at Stanley’s sister, who was staring forwards, stiff as a rod.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Alex whispered.

  June looked down at her hands and saw they were trembling in her lap. In fact, her entire body was shaking, causing her teeth to chatter. She closed her eyes and willed herself to calm down.

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake.’

  June opened her eyes to see Mrs Bransworth marching towards the front. She stopped when she got to the lectern and took a deep breath.

  ‘I’m not one for speeches and I hate funerals, so I’ll keep it brief. But Stanley deserves more than this pathetic affair.’ As she said this, Mrs B looked over at Stanley’s sister. June couldn’t see her face, but she saw the old woman’s shoulders tense.

  ‘I’ve known Stanley for fifteen-odd years but, to be honest, I never paid him much attention. He always seemed too bourgeois, with his tweed suit and reading that awful Torygraph crap. But it turns out you really can’t judge a book by its cover.

  ‘In the last few months, meek little Stanley Phelps proved himself to be a lion. A man who stood up for what he believed in and was willing to be arrested for his convictions. A true comrade who fought with his dying breath to protect something he knew was important, not just for himself but for everyone.’