The Telephone Box Library

by Lucas, Rachael

  If she scuttled off with haste, Lucy thought, it was probably because she felt relieved at being slightly less responsible – in her own mind, at least – for Bunty. She would be quite a mother-in-law to have.

  Closing the door behind Margaret, she slid the bolt and turned to look at Hamish.

  ‘We did it!’

  She pulled off her shoes and stood for a moment with her feet flat on the cold flagstones of the kitchen floor. They’d done it. This was home – for the next six months, anyway.

  She hauled in the boxes from the car and plonked them on the sofa, and then – mindful of what her doctor had said about balancing work and taking it easy – sat down with a large glass of water. Relaxing wasn’t something she did naturally. She still felt guilty about leaving everyone in the lurch, but there were teachers left, right and centre being signed off with stress-related illnesses. Somehow – pushing herself as hard as she could to do the best job she could, under increasingly trying circumstances – it hadn’t ever occurred to her that she’d be one of the casualties. She closed her eyes for a moment, and it all came back to her.

  * * *

  ‘No.’

  The word – so unusual for Lucy – had popped out before she even realized what she’d said.

  ‘Come on, Luce. There’ll be more money in it, of course, and it’ll look great on your appraisal.’ His voice was smooth and charming. Nick was used to getting his own way, and he knew no wasn’t in Lucy’s vocabulary. No is what she should have said when he asked if she – as head of the history department – would mind collating a report over half term. And yet, somehow, no was what she found herself repeating.

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Luce,’ he said, his voice softening. ‘Come on. You are an absolute star. I can always rely on you.’

  ‘Not this time, you can’t.’

  There was a click as the hand on the clock moved to indicate eight thirty, and a buzzer on Nick’s desk rang. He reached out a hand and switched it off, looking irritated. Outside there was a rising feeling of energy as the day started to take shape – the first, early pupils making their way past the window of his office, the last – late – members of staff sneaking in, glancing gratefully through his window to see he was there and not standing in the car park, an eye on the clock. Nick had been shipped in as a superhead, designated the saviour of their rundown secondary school. He ran the school like a business, and on paper he was getting results. In reality, though, he was breaking the long-standing, most dedicated members of staff. Lucy had been teaching for almost a decade, and now, at thirty-three, she knew what was about to happen.

  ‘I’m only asking you to take it on for this term. I promise we’ll get you some non-contact time, give you some extra TA support.’

  She knew that was rubbish – half their teaching assistants had been sacked at the end of the last school year, when the school had lost loads of money in budget cuts. Lucy twisted her grandma’s wedding ring, which she wore on the pinky of her right hand. It comforted her when she was stressed, which was pretty much all the time at the moment. She rubbed the back of her neck and gazed out of the window, only vaguely aware Nick was still talking. Her head was aching as usual, and she was so tired that she could have curled up under his desk and gone to sleep. In fact, he probably wouldn’t even notice if she did.

  ‘ . . . I know it’s not ideal,’ Nick was saying. He was going on and on, wearing her down. She still had a load of NQT lesson plans to check over.

  ‘Oh God. Fine.’ Anything to get him to shut up. She couldn’t believe she was saying it. It wasn’t fine at all. Lucy had a class of rowdy year eights first lesson, and three missed calls from a number she didn’t recognize. Nick had already sent through a barrage of emails about head of department meetings. At break, she stayed in her room and checked her voicemail.

  Hello, Lucy? It’s Amal, from the flat downstairs. I don’t want to worry you, but there seems to be a leak coming through our ceiling, and I wondered if I—

  Oh hell.

  Lucy shoved the phone back in her bag. The pretty Victorian house she shared with her brother Tom – a parting gift from their mother before she left for Australia – was divided into two flats. She lived in the top half with Tom and the bottom half was let out to tenants. The only trouble was, it seemed to have one thing wrong after another, and Tom was never around to solve the problems. She sighed, and then quietly laid her head down on the cool surface of her desk. Perhaps if she just lay here for a moment, nobody would notice . . .

  ‘Miss!’

  She shot upright in a split second.

  ‘Tyler. Hello. What can I do for you?’

  ‘Was you sleeping?’

  ‘No.’ Had she been? God. No, she’d been resting her eyes. And why was her head hurting so much? Those painkillers were hopeless. She reached down to her bag to see if she had any ibuprofen to take alongside them.

  ‘I wanted to know if you had any of that revision stuff from the session last week. I couldn’t come because I was looking after my little sister, but . . .’

  ‘Two seconds.’ She rifled in her bag and pulled out a packet, popping out another two pills and swigging them back with the bottle of water on her desk. ‘Yes. I’ve got some of the notes in my car, I’ll get them for you at lunch if you can nip back later?’

  Tyler beamed. He was one of the kids that reminded her why she loved teaching. He had a difficult home life, no parental support, forgot his homework nine times out of ten, but genuinely loved the subject. His love for history made perfect sense to her, and he’d explained it recently in a way that summed it up.

  ‘Fing is, miss, that history doesn’t change. Everything –’ he’d motioned with a massive arm in the direction of the window, where everyone else could be seen leaving for lunch ‘– it’s all kind of – unpredictable, y’know? And history stuff’s – like – it stays the same.’

  Lucy had smiled and waved him off, sighing as she watched him stride out of the classroom. God, she knew exactly what he meant. Her love of history had stemmed from a childhood spent poring over old books at her grandpa’s house on the seafront. He’d been an inveterate collector of World War Two memorabilia, which had triggered her own fascination with the subject. She’d studied social history at university in Brighton, and spent hours trawling through the National Archives. When she’d gone into teaching, it had been with a desire to share her passion for the subject with her pupils, and because she loved working with teenagers. What she’d completely disregarded was the ever-increasing amount of stress, paperwork and admin that came with the job. And then when the well-meaning but inefficient head had been ousted after the school was put in special measures, and the new superhead bussed in, she’d found herself working twelve-hour days and falling asleep in front of the television every night. It wasn’t a life. And now she was dropping off in the middle of break. And her nose was running.

  She reached across to the side of her desk and pulled out a tissue, wiping her nose and tossing it into the bin. It was only because she missed, and the tissue fell onto the floor, that she realized that it was scarlet with blood, and her nose was still dripping. She grabbed another tissue, holding it to her nostrils and tipping her head back. Or was it forward? God, she couldn’t remember which one you were supposed to do. The tissue leaked wetly all over her fingers.

  When Lucy woke up again, a kind-faced paramedic was strapping belts around her waist. She was lying on a trolley in an ambulance, with wads of blue paper towel stuff tucked into her chin like a bib. She made to sit up, but the belts, and a wave of blinding headache and nausea stopped her in her tracks.

  ‘No you don’t, young lady,’ said the paramedic. ‘Let’s keep you nice and still, and don’t you worry about anything. We’ve got everything under control.’ She looked at a monitor fastened to the side of the trolley and gave a nod. ‘Right, Dave, we’re in. Wagons roll.’

  With a clonk, the doors closed at her feet.

  ‘What? Where
are we going?’

  ‘Don’t you worry. Just lie still there, and we’re going to get you sorted.’

  It all seemed a bit of a fuss for a nosebleed. She’d had a nosebleed and now somehow she was in an ambulance. And she was so, so tired. And her head felt like it was going to explode. The last thing Lucy remembered, before she slipped back to sleep, was that she’d left the test papers for Year 8 in the boot of the car.

  * * *

  ‘Bloody hell, Luce.’

  The lights were dim and she was vaguely aware of rustling behind the curtain. Her brother Tom was perched on the edge of a plastic chair and shot up, knocking it sideways with a screech of metal on hard tiled floor.

  ‘You okay?’

  ‘Mmph,’ Lucy heard herself saying. She lifted her arm, realized there was a tube in it and looked away, grimacing.

  ‘Thought you didn’t like all those Real Life A&E programmes?’ Tom grinned and rolled his eyes. ‘Don’t want to sound like a cliché, but you gave me a bloody fright.’

  Vague images of the kind woman in the ambulance filtered through her mind, and the sound of sirens.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘You work too hard is what happened.’ Tom bit his thumbnail, his brows knitted together. He looked unusually serious. ‘Your blood pressure went up, probably because you’re constantly mega-stressed. Apparently nosebleeds are a side effect of that.’

  Oh God, Lucy thought, remembering the tissue and the drips all over the desk and the spreading pool of crimson and . . .

  ‘How did I get to the ambulance?’

  ‘One of the pupils found you, apparently. He’d left something on your desk and went back to find you there, passed out in a pool of blood. I imagine you’ll be the talk of the school for all eternity.’

  She could feel her eyes drifting closed again. ‘Really . . . tired.’

  ‘Not surprised.’ Tom reached out and gave her arm a squeeze. ‘I’ve only got you, sis. You need to look after yourself a bit better.’

  She tried to nod, but she was so sleepy that it was more of an intention than an actual movement.

  * * *

  And that was how it had all begun. Then, idly surfing the internet – she couldn’t ever remember how it had happened – she’d come across Margaret’s advert. Before, she’d always convinced herself that keeping hold of the money she’d inherited from her grandpa had been a sensible option – a decent little nest egg for a rainy day. It was Tom – who’d spent his on a round-the-world trip and a snazzy convertible BMW – who pointed out to her that this was a rainy day, and that this was the wake-up call she needed.

  Before she knew it, Tom was standing on the doorstep of their shared flat, her bags were packed, the little Corsa loaded up with books and boxes and an eager Hamish, and she had a whole six months ahead of her, right on the doorstep of the very area that was so full of history and the secrets of the women of Bletchley Park. For the first time in what felt like forever, Lucy had been excited – she was doing something for herself. Not to please the head, or to smooth the way for other people – and even though she’d felt a ripple of guilt, the idea that she could read all the books she’d piled up beside her bed and visit interesting places was exhilarating. She could completely absorb herself in her love of history and have time to actually relax. Maybe she’d even make some friends.

  So now here she was. All she had to do was keep a daily eye on Bunty, and the rest of her time was her own. She could stay in bed all day if she wanted to, or wander round antique shops and visit farmers markets. A whole six months of nothingness stretched out ahead of her. She rolled herself off the sofa and went to poke around in the dresser, pulling out a few local maps.

  It wasn’t all that easy, doing nothing. She’d chosen a pile of interesting-looking local history books and stacked them neatly on the little table by the armchair, and pored over the maps. There were a few lovely-looking circular walks around the village – Hamish would enjoy them. Maybe she’d unpack first.

  She took a bag upstairs and sorted out her clothes, putting them in the little wooden drawers beside the bed. Then she hung her things in the wardrobe and carefully arranged her toiletries in the bathroom. The bath was tiny – as if someone had taken a normal one and shrunk it. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Still pale, still not quite back to – well, what was normal? She’d been stressed and exhausted for so long that she couldn’t remember what she looked like. She splashed some cold water on her face and rubbed it with a towel, loosened her hair from the scruffy bun she’d tied it up in whilst bringing in all the bags from the car, and shook it out. There. At least with it down, she didn’t look quite so frazzled. A bit of country air and she’d be fine, hopefully.

  Downstairs, Hamish had woken from his power nap and was gnawing happily on a corner of the rug. He looked up, wagging his tail and grinning toothily. Oh God, he’d actually chewed the entire corner off.

  ‘That’s probably an antique,’ wailed Lucy. Hamish ducked his head, ready for another chew at it.

  ‘Leave it. In fact, come on. You’ve been stuck in the car for ages. Let’s go exploring.’

  Outside, a small and very cross-looking teenage girl was sitting on the same bench Lucy had been perched on an hour before. She didn’t look up as Lucy approached but carried on scrolling through her phone, her hair hanging in two smooth curtains of black and obscuring her face. Lucy walked past. It was a relief not to have to deal with teenage angst for a while. All she had to do was shut herself away in her little cottage with no complications. Nothing but rest, relaxation, peace and quiet. A daily check in on Bunty next door was a pretty good exchange for all of that. For the first time in ages, Lucy felt a little bit like her old self again.

  Chapter 2

  At the end of a long day, groaning with exhaustion and desperate to put his feet up with a coffee and the TV remote, Sam Travis secured the roofing felt he’d need for tomorrow to the back of his flatbed truck. Pulling the straps tightly, he jumped down from the back, landing lightly on the cobblestoned driveway of Bell Cottage, and fastened up the truck catches. He had to admit to himself, there was something quite satisfying about getting everything sorted for the next day as soon as he got home after dropping off the lads who worked alongside him – it meant the mornings, which were stressful enough with lost homework and trying to prise a reluctant teenager out of bed, were a little bit easier to cope with. At least with school breaking up next week, he wouldn’t have to extract Freya from under the covers with fifteen minutes to spare for a whole six weeks.

  There. That was tomorrow sorted, at least. He gave the truck an absent-minded pat, as if it were a horse.

  ‘Freya?’ he shouted across the top of the truck, in through the window of the kitchen. It was propped open, as always, to allow the cats to hop in and out. Trevor, chair of the village Neighbourhood Watch committee, had rapped on the door earlier that week to inform him that not only was he putting his own belongings at risk, but he was enticing burglars into the village. Sam, who suspected it was unlikely that the tiny, out-of-the-way village of Little Maudley was going to become overrun by organized crime, had reassured Trevor that yes, he’d consider putting in a cat flap instead. When he was supposed to do that, between running a business, acting as taxi for a fourteen-year-old with a non-stop social life, and managing as a single parent running a house, he wasn’t quite sure. Like most people who ran their own business, his own place was the domestic version of the shoemaker’s children going barefoot. There were outstanding jobs that harked back years. He looked at the back of the cottage, where heaps of reclaimed bricks for the conservatory he’d been planning years ago were still sitting untouched. Grass was growing over a heap of topsoil he’d dumped with the best intentions of sorting out the garden, so it looked as if a miniature hill had landed out of nowhere on the cobblestoned driveway. God, he really needed to get his act together. And – he rubbed the bristles of stubble on his chin – he really needed to shave, which requ
ired razor blades, which he wasn’t going to get unless they made it to the shop . . .

  ’Freya!’ he called again, but louder this time.

  ‘Just a minute.’

  In teenager speak, that could mean anything from thirty seconds to half an hour. He climbed back into the truck and shifted slightly, and the two spaniels waiting inside shot to attention. Amber caught his eye and craned her neck upwards hopefully, her full tail whirling like a flag. Amber’s mum, Bee, scrambled over her daughter, barking loudly. They pressed their wet noses against the already filthy window.

  ‘She said just a minute,’ Sam said to the dogs, laughing. He shook his head and leaned back against the truck, pulling out his phone from the back of a pair of battered, mud-splattered Levis. Four messages from Annabel Bevan, his current – and very demanding – client. He’d only left Green Acres half an hour ago. He scrolled through them absent-mindedly.

  15.01: Sam if you haven’t left, I wonder if you’d like to nip in for a cup of tea and a little bite before you do? xxx

  15.08: Popped down the garden, think you must have gone already x

  15.20: I’ll put some brownies in the oven for tomorrow – come and have one before you get to work first thing! Xx

  15.21: Wonder if you could give me a ring. Have emailed! Xxx

  Annabel was persistent, he had to give her that. Unfortunately there was something that came along with the job that made women – a certain type of woman, anyway – think that his practical services came with an option of . . . extras. The best way to handle it, he’d worked out, was to pretend he hadn’t noticed. He thumbed his phone closed and pulled open the car door, shoving a folder of plans and a thermos of coffee from this morning off the passenger seat to make space for Freya.

  Ten minutes later, Freya appeared, wearing a heavy layer of some sort of face make-up and her perfectly nice eyebrows pencilled in so they were thick and dark. The whole make-up thing was a mystery to Sam in any case – he’d worked out that the answer was to buy whatever Freya said she needed – but why she needed to apply an entire coating of war-paint to go the library and the 24-hour supermarket was beyond him.