The Last Library

by Freya Sampson

  ‘We have found a site in Mawley which we believe is better positioned and so have decided to open a Cuppa Coffee branch there instead,’ the spokesperson told the Gazette.

  Dunningshire Council’s head of library services, Sarah Thwaite, confirmed that the library is still set for closure and the council are now looking for a new buyer for the Chalcot building.

  ‘Our decision to close Chalcot Library was based entirely on the results of analysis by an independent management consultancy firm, and had nothing whatsoever to do with considerations about the sale of the building to Cuppa Coffee. The library will still be closing on 19th November as planned.’

  June threw the paper down. In all the activity of this evening she’d not thought once about the library, but now the reality came crashing back. And while stories like this appeared in the paper every week and gave the village plenty to gossip about, it wouldn’t change a thing. Despite everything they’d done, the library was still closing tomorrow.

  Yawning, June picked up the last piece of mail, a plain white envelope with her name and address typed on the front. She opened it and pulled out a short, typed letter.

  Dear Ms Jones,

  I am writing to inform you that you have been named as the sole beneficiary of the residue of the estate under the Will of the late Mr Stanley William Phelps. I enclose a copy of the relevant clause of the Will for your information.

  I will be in touch again when the estate process has been completed and I am able to make a distribution to you.

  Yours sincerely,

  E. Davis

  June reread the letter several times, worried her exhausted eyes were deceiving her. What could the ‘residue of the estate’ be? She’d seen where Stanley lived – he clearly didn’t have any possessions except the caravan. And if that was his estate then that was very kind of him, but what on earth was June supposed to do with it?

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  AT HALF-PAST SIX the next morning, June pulled on her coat, scarf and wellies and left home before the sun was up. She took the long route, avoiding the Chinese takeaway, and turned right onto The Parade. None of the shops were open yet and there was little sign of life, just a few cars carrying dull-eyed commuters.

  June slowed her pace as she passed the library. Marjorie would be there in a few hours to unlock the front door for the final time. Soon after, the regulars would start arriving: Vera and Leila to look at recipe books together, families to use the Children’s Room and Mrs Bransworth to complain about her latest read. June turned her back on the library and walked down to the bridge, joining the footpath by the river.

  After a mile or so, she consulted her phone to check the route, then found the stile, climbed over it and set off across the fields. There was a narrow track, worn by repetitive footprints over the years, and June wondered if it was Stanley’s feet that had etched it into the soil. At the far side of the field she crossed a narrow lane and was confronted by a huge metal fence blocking off the fields beyond, the words ‘ALEXANDER PROPERTIES’ emblazoned on the side. June peered through a gap. It was too early for any work to have started and there was no one about, but through the gloom she could make out diggers and an excavator parked up alongside a Portakabin. What looked like the foundations for some of the new houses were already in place. June walked along the lane, following the large fence for five hundred metres or so, until it ended, and she came to some hedges. She squeezed through a gap and walked along the edge of the building site and into the small copse at the far side.

  As she emerged through the trees, June was relieved to see the caravan still there, although it looked even more decrepit than before. As she approached it, she saw brambles climbing up the side and large clumps of stinging nettles had popped up round the wheels. A perfectly formed cobweb hung over the door, glistening in the first light.

  Was she really going to go inside? It had seemed like a good idea last night; given the caravan was now her property, she might as well get on with the unpleasant task of clearing it out. But still June hovered at the door. This was where Stanley had died, where his body had lain for almost forty-eight hours before it was discovered. Goodness knows what state the place would be in, having been left unoccupied for two months. For a moment June was tempted to walk away, but she forced herself to turn the door handle. This caravan was the place that her friend had called home, and for some reason he’d wanted her to have it. She braced herself and stepped inside.

  The first thing that hit June was the smell. It was worse than she could ever have imagined – a sickly, rotten stench that made her retch. The curtains were drawn, and the caravan was pitch-black, so she pulled her phone out of her pocket and switched on the torch. Holding her breath, she took a step forward and saw the remains of what must have been Stanley’s last meal sitting in the sink, now a putrid, semi-liquid mass. June reached into her rucksack and pulled out a pair of rubber gloves and a bin bag that she’d brought with her. She put on the gloves, closed her eyes and put her hand in the sink, scooping up the gloopy mass and the plate it was on, and throwing them into the sack. She also picked up a pan that was sitting next to the sink, covered in a thick layer of mould, and put that in too, before tossing the bag outside.

  Next, June pulled back the curtains and opened the two small windows to let some early morning light and fresh air into the caravan. Now she was able to see the space better, it was much as she remembered it. On the left was the narrow single bed, still neatly made, and hanging up next to it was Stanley’s suit, the jacket done up and the trousers folded underneath. There was something about seeing these meagre items hung up with so much care that brought a lump to June’s throat, and she turned away from the bed. The small table was covered in piles of paper, as it had been the last time June had visited. She recognised the leaflets they’d made up during the occupation, and what looked like some minutes from a Friends of Chalcot Library meeting. June began sifting through them, wondering what she was going to do with it all, when she caught sight of an envelope on the corner of the table. She picked it up and almost dropped it in surprise. Written on the front were five words:

  June Jones, c/o Chalcot Library.

  With shaking hands, June carried the envelope outside and sat down on the front step of the caravan. She opened it and pulled out a thin sheet of paper, covered in close lines of handwriting. The date at the top was the ninth of September, the day before Stanley died.

  My Dearest June,

  I hope this letter finds you well. I imagine it may come as a bit of a shock, and for that I sincerely apologise. But please humour an old man, as there are some important things that I must share with you while I still can.

  At the start of the summer, I was not in what you young people would call ‘a good place’. I pride myself on never letting this show: a childhood spent in English boarding schools gives one an excellent education in hiding one’s emotions. But, in truth, the burden of guilt I carry about my past had almost entirely consumed me. Add to that the not inconsiderable stress I have been under from those darned property developers, and all in all, I was having some rather desperate thoughts.

  Then our friends at the council announced they wanted to close the library, and everything changed. I have told you at length why I feel so passionately about libraries, not just Chalcot but every one out there. Libraries have quite literally saved my life on more occasions than I care to admit, and finally I felt this was my chance to save one in return. As I write this letter, I do not know what the outcome of our battle will be, and I fear that I will never find out. But whatever happens, I do know that we have fought the very best fight we could.

  But it wasn’t just the library campaign that changed my life, dear June. It was you. I know you will blush and disagree here, as is your wont. But the friendship you have shown me, the lack of judgement when I told you about my past and the optimism you held for my future, have helped to free me from some of the guilt I have been carrying. I will never forgive myself
for the way I treated my wife and son, but you have allowed me to feel some joy – and, dare I say it, hope – and for that I will be eternally grateful.

  Now to more recent events. Yesterday, I visited my solicitor in order to sign my Last Will and Testament. I can assure you that this was as much of a surprise to me as it must come to you. I have never had anything of any value to leave; and, if truth be told, I’ve never had anyone to leave it to. So, you ask, what has changed? Some time ago, I mentioned in passing to dear George Chen that I was coming under pressure from these wretched property developers, who want the land on which my caravan is parked. He suggested I contact his son, Alex, who as you are aware is a qualified solicitor. Alex, in turn, put me in touch with an acquaintance of his, Eleanor Davis, who is versed in adverse possession. I won’t bore you with the legal details, but it appears that because I have been living on this land for so long, I had a claim to ownership. It has taken Ms Davis and me over a year to navigate the paperwork and endless red tape, but a few days ago word came through that I am now the registered owner of the plot of land which I call home.

  But alas, it appears I do not have long to enjoy it. My fall a couple of months back, and my subsequent trip to the Accident and Emergency department at Winton Hospital, alerted me to the fact of a rather unfortunate mass on my brain. The wonderful doctors of the NHS offered me a number of tests and treatments, but that would have meant protracted periods in hospital and did not seem to offer any long-term solution. So, I have chosen to use what remaining time I have to fight for our beloved library. But the headaches have become much worse in recent days, and now I fear that the sleep of death is approaching fast. This is why I’m writing to you now, for in these final hours it gives me immense satisfaction and a sense of relief to know that I am able to leave something to you, my dearest friend.

  I have instructed my solicitor to proceed with the sale of this land to the property developers. I cannot imagine they will pay much for a small piece of scrubland, but I hope that the sale will leave you with a little money. You may do with it as you wish. My only request is that you consider using it to leave Chalcot and see something of the world. I once saw photos of the Klementinum in Prague which has a magnificent frescoed, baroque library hall. Or I’m sure you’d love the Rose Reading Room in the New York Public Library. Whatever you choose to do with the money, I pray that you start to live your life again, my dear June.

  Now, I bid you farewell and thank you once again for the kindness you have shown me.

  Your friend, Stanley

  June looked up from the letter, blinking in the early morning light. She remembered Stanley coming into the library months ago with a small plaster on his head and assurances that it was only a scratch, and he’d complained of headaches a few times. But a brain tumour? Surely he could have had an operation to remove it, or at least chemotherapy to give him longer to live. And why hadn’t he told her about it during the many long conversations they’d had together? The thought of his knowing that he was going to die and not telling anyone made June shiver.

  She looked out over the meadow, dew sparkling on the long grass. It was so tranquil, with no traffic or disturbance from the outside world, only the sound of birds and the wind in the trees. This peace would be gone soon, when the developer’s bulldozers moved in and concreted it over for whatever monstrosity they wanted to build. All trace of Stanley’s life here would disappear.

  June felt a buzzing in her pocket and pulled out her mobile phone. An unknown number flashed up on the screen. She pressed answer and held the phone to her cheek, still staring out into the meadow.

  ‘Hello, is that June Jones?’ a male voice asked.

  ‘Speaking.’

  ‘Sorry to ring so early, I . . . damn . . . hang on, I spilt coffee on a book. Shit, one sec . . .’

  June could picture David, the short, harassed-looking man she’d met at the job interview yesterday. Throughout their conversation he’d had a child’s sticker caught up in his greying hair, and June had spent the whole time wondering whether she should tell him.

  ‘Right, sorry about that. I just wanted to get this done before things get too hectic here.’

  Here it goes. The thanks but no thanks, you’re not quite what we’re looking for.

  ‘I discussed it with my colleagues yesterday and we all agreed you’d be a fantastic addition to the team. So, I’m delighted to offer you the role of full-time library assistant. Starting as soon as possible, ideally.’

  June blinked. ‘Really? Wow, that’s amazing, thank you so much.’

  ‘Great. We’ll email a contract and the details over to you. I look forward to you joining us.’

  June ended the call. Behind her she could hear the sound of the diggers starting up, the silence shattered by their mechanical grind. Two miles away, the first visitors would soon arrive at the library for its final day. And in her house, boxes of her mum’s belongings were waiting to be taken away. There really was nothing to keep June in Chalcot anymore; but for the first time in her life, that thought didn’t completely terrify her.

  June stood up, closed the caravan door and made her way back towards the trees. As she walked, she looked at Stanley’s letter again. Her eyes scanned down the page and then paused on a line that she’d only glanced over before.

  Alex, in turn, put me in touch with an acquaintance of his, Eleanor Davis.

  Something clicked in June’s mind and she stopped in her tracks. She pulled her phone back out and scrolled through until she found the number she wanted. It was answered on the third ring.

  ‘Hi, it’s June. Are you busy? We need to talk.’

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  IT WAS GONE THREE by the time June arrived at the library.

  ‘Where the hell have you been?’ asked Marjorie, who was standing at the issue desk. Or rather, where the issue desk had once been and where now there was just a chair.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ June said. ‘Something came up.’

  ‘Can you believe they’ve taken the computers and desks? They’re vultures. Vultures!’

  June looked around her. All the tables had been removed and crates were stacked in the corner, waiting to be filled with books. The few patrons in the library were standing in front of the half-empty shelves, looking confused.

  ‘You’d think they’d at least have waited until we shut the doors at five,’ Marjorie said, shaking her head.

  ‘Hi June.’ Chantal walked over to her. ‘I keep thinking I’m going to wake up and this will all be a bad dream.’

  ‘I know, Chantal.’

  ‘Leila and I went over to Winton Library this morning,’ Vera said, joining them from the cookery section. ‘It’s a miserable place, big and impersonal. We wanted to find a cake recipe for Mahmoud’s birthday.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘He’s fifteen next week and Leila has invited me to join them for a family meal. I’ve said I’ll bake him one of those rainbow cakes,’ Vera said.

  ‘What complete and utter shit this was.’ June looked across to see Mrs Bransworth marching through the door, waving a copy of Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone. ‘It’s a load of overprivileged kids and a bit of magic. Absolute crap. Ah, hello June. How was the interview?’

  ‘It went well, thanks. They’ve offered me the job.’

  ‘That’s amazing news,’ Chantal said, grinning. ‘When do you start?’

  ‘They said as soon as possible.’

  ‘Well, I’m pleased one good thing has come out of this damn library closure,’ Mrs B said. ‘Stanley would have been happy for you.’

  ‘About Stanley. I have some news.’ June felt their eyes on her and swallowed. ‘I found a letter from him this morning.’

  ‘A letter from Stanley?’ Jackson had appeared from the Children’s Room. ‘What did it say?’

  ‘Well, it turns out he had a will.’

  ‘What could he have possibly left in a will?’ Marjorie said. ‘The poor man was homeless.�
�

  ‘In his letter, Stanley told me that he’d managed to claim rights to the land he was squatting on, and he’d decided to sell the land to the property developers.’

  ‘Why the hell would he do that?’ Mrs B said. ‘He hated those developers – they made his life a misery.’

  ‘So, that’s the other thing. Stanley knew he was going to die.’

  ‘Oh, dear lord,’ Vera said, crossing herself. ‘That’s sent chills down my spine.’

  ‘He had a brain tumour, but he refused all treatment. I think, because he knew he was going to die, he decided to sell his land.’

  ‘The poor old bugger,’ Mrs B said, shaking her head. ‘But how does all of this involve you?’

  June felt her cheeks growing red. ‘Well, for some reason, Stanley decided to leave the money to me.’

  ‘Oh, that’s wonderful.’ Marjorie smiled at June. ‘He always had a soft spot for you.’

  ‘What are you going to do with the money?’ Vera said.

  ‘If I were you, I’d get the hell out of this village,’ Chantal mumbled.

  ‘I could. But there was one other idea I had.’

  June’s phone bleeped. There was a text message on her screen, just two words. It’s done.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Mrs B said.

  ‘It’s a message from Alex.’

  ‘For god’s sake, we don’t care about your love life. You were telling us about Stanley’s will.’

  ‘This is about Stanley. In his letter, he said that Alex had put him in touch with a solicitor, a woman called Eleanor. I called Alex this morning and he told me she’s his flatmate, Ellie, and she’s also been dealing with Stanley’s will and the sale of his land.’

  ‘Yes, and?’ Mrs B said.

  ‘Alex said that Stanley had expected to get ten to twenty thousand pounds for the land. But it turns out the property developers really want it, and they’ve offered Ellie almost one hundred thousand pounds.’

  ‘For a piece of derelict land? That’s insane.’