The Telephone Box Library

by Lucas, Rachael

  ‘Deal.’ Freya beamed with happiness.

  She was a sweet girl, Lucy thought, waving them both goodbye and giving Hamish a brief pat. Sam had clearly done a good job of bringing her up. It was always interesting to see just how keen teenagers were to get involved in campaigns for thing like this. Despite the bad press they always seemed to be getting, in her experience most of them were passionate about something – whether it was the environment or animals. It was just a case of working out what it was that lit them up. And Freya had clearly taken a shine to this idea. It was lovely to see.

  ‘Lucy?’

  Freya popped her head out of Bunty’s gate. Lucy had been just about to get in the car, and paused with one hand on its open door.

  ‘Can I ask you something?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Freya stepped onto the path and faced her. She put her hands on her hips and looked indecisive for a moment.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I don’t want to be rude, but – I went to the shop to get some crisps earlier and Beth was there, telling Margaret – Bunty’s Margaret – that you and Dad were wandering around the lanes together and there was definitely something going on. I said that there was definitely not.’

  Lucy opened her mouth to speak. Village gossip travelled even faster than she thought it would.

  ‘There isn’t, is there?’ Freya narrowed her eyes, as if sizing Lucy up. She lifted her pointed little chin slightly.

  ‘No.’ Lucy shook her head, decisively.

  ‘It’s just that there are always all these women – I mean, when he’s working and stuff – and they’re all, well –’

  ‘We’re just friends.’ And only barely that, Lucy added silently. They’d only spent the briefest of times together, but this sharp-eyed reaction from Freya was a shot across her bows. It was clear that they were a tight-knit unit, and Lucy wasn’t going to get in the way of that.

  She headed south towards Oxford, thinking how different Freya’s close relationship with Sam was from hers with her own mother. Despite her being the youngest, somehow she’d always been dubbed the sensible one. ‘You’re my good girl, Luce,’ her mother would say, as she heaped responsibility on her and allowed Tom to run amok. Tom was the blue-eyed boy, not expected to be anything other than charming and feckless – her mother’s type, it had become apparent over the years, as one man after another moved in and then out of their colourful, busy Brighton terrace. When her mum finally decided that Roger was the one, Lucy was so exhausted by the comings and goings of her family that she was secretly quite relieved to wave her mum off at Heathrow Airport to her new life in Darwin. Thankfully Tom had settled down over the last couple of years too.

  She tapped the steering wheel in irritation as the traffic snarled to a standstill. Despite finding Tom’s careless charm frustrating when they were growing up, Lucy was looking forward to seeing her big brother. They’d always been close, in that way that children of slightly unconventional families often were, and looked out for each other, supporting each other through the ups and downs of their mum’s love life. And he seemed to be settling down – a bit. At the very least, he’d found a demanding job that seemed to be occupying most of his attention.

  Driving in Oxford was a complete nightmare. She was used to the vagaries of Brighton traffic, but the tiny, winding roads of the university town were difficult to navigate with a satnav that kept running out of battery because of a loose connection. Tourists were everywhere, and there was nowhere to park. In the end, she pulled into a loading bay and called Tom.

  ‘Sorry, I’m just trying to find my way to you without getting trapped down a dead end somewhere.’

  ‘No rush. I’m in the bar checking out all the hot academics,’ Tom said. ‘I’ll keep your seat warm.’

  ‘Finally,’ Lucy said ten minutes later as she collapsed into a chair in the old-fashioned hotel bar. ‘This place is gorgeous.’

  ‘Perk of the job.’

  She wasn’t complaining – a chance of a free room in a posh hotel was something to be snapped up, no questions asked. ‘What are you selling now? Coals to Newcastle?’ she laughed.

  ‘Oh God, it’s far too boring to go into. But they’re on the charm offensive, hence offering me a room for you as well. Some sort of hospitality package – oh, thanks, lovely,’ he broke off as a very good-looking barman delivered a bottle of red. ‘Never mind all of that – I want all the news. And more importantly, is Hamish behaving himself? I was hoping you might’ve brought him along.’

  ‘I couldn’t. Plus he was more than happy to spend the evening with Bunty.’

  ‘You seem settled in.’

  ‘You sound surprised.’

  ‘Well, I honestly didn’t think you’d last five minutes in the back end of beyond. How are you surviving without a Starbucks every morning?’

  ‘There’s a cafe, actually.’ Lucy poured wine into both of their glasses. ‘And there’s quite a lot going on. I went to an Abba night the other day, I’ll have you know.’

  ‘Fancy.’ Tom took a sip of wine. ‘Any interesting rural gossip? How’s it all going out there in the sticks?’

  ‘Well, it’s fun, actually.’

  Tom raised a dubious eyebrow.

  ‘It is. I thought everyone would be like they are back home – keeping themselves to themselves – but it’s like stepping back in time. I’ve been roped into writing a piece for the WI celebration book—’

  Tom snorted.

  ‘Shut up. It’s really interesting, actually. All about the women in wartime in Little Maudley and what they were doing.’

  ‘Oh, you mean the Home Front type of thing? All right, I can admit that would be right up your street.’

  ‘Not just that. Bunty, the woman I’m keeping an eye on – she had something to do with Bletchley Park, I think. TS, I’ve been told.’

  He looked at her, quizzically.

  ‘Top Secret.’ Lucy gave a knowing tip of her head. ‘Anyway, she’s lovely, but absolutely from the Careless Talk Costs Lives generation, so trying to find anything out is like getting blood from a stone. I still don’t understand how she kept a secret in that village, mind you. Everyone seems to know everyone else’s business.’

  ‘So that’s what you’ve been up to?’ he teased. ‘Hanging with a load of ninety-year-olds?’

  They stopped talking as the waiter came and took their order. Lucy nipped to the loo, checking her hair in the mirror. It was tangled from driving down the road with the window cracked open in the heat – the air conditioning in her beaten-up little car was non-existent. She turned her head upside down to shake her dark waves loose, then ran a comb through it and applied some barely there lipstick. She’d come out – without thinking – bare-faced, having got into the habit of just getting up, tying her hair up in a loose messy bun and applying some sunscreen. It seemed ridiculous putting on a full face of make-up just to hang around in the village, taking Hamish for walks and spending time with Bunty or Mel. Or Sam. A girl appeared beside her in the mirror and took out a pillar-box red lipstick. Same colour as the phone box, she found herself thinking, then shook her head. For goodness’ sake. The village was getting to her.

  She returned to her seat. Tom put away his phone and gave her his full attention.

  ‘So. I want all the goss. Did you find out if Mel and that bloke are friends with benefits or not?’

  Lucy shook her head. ‘No, I think they’re genuinely just friends. They’ve got daughters the same age, they’re both single . . .’

  ‘Sounds like a match made in heaven.’

  ‘Yeah, but they’ve known each other since they were tiny. I think it’d be a bit –’

  ‘So what’s he like?’

  Lucy felt her cheeks flushing, but hoped the dim light of the restaurant would hide it. ‘He’s nice. But he’s a single dad.’

  Tom lifted his chin slightly, sizing her up.

  ‘Uh-huh, and?’

  ‘Focused single dad. As in, there’s h
istory there with the mum – she’s not around – and Freya is his priority.’

  ‘Right,’ said Tom. He took a mouthful of his wine and sat back in the chair, looking at her. He spread his arms out across the back, confidently, and looked her square in the eye.

  ‘What?’ Lucy looked back at him.

  ‘What?’ Tom’s expression was innocent.

  ‘Not everyone spends every second of their existence looking for a hook-up, Tom.’

  ‘Right.’ He grinned at her briefly. ‘If you end up with him, you owe me a bottle of –’ he picked up the expensive-looking bottle of red – ‘A bottle of this.’

  She watched as he sat back and scanned the room. He was so affable and charming that he attracted attention from both the male waiters and the women who were dotted around the room. One single woman, sitting alone with a glass of white wine and her laptop open, was quite openly giving him the eye when Lucy looked up.

  ‘Am I cramping your style?’ Lucy was used to the effect her brother had on, well, everyone.

  ‘Nah. I’m on the straight and narrow now, anyway.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yep. Met this girl at an event last month, and I really like her. It’s early days, but –’ He pulled out his phone and flicked it open, showing a photo of a girl with close-cropped dark hair. She was holding a grey-and-white cat and looking directly at the camera, her freckled nose scrunched up with laughter.

  ‘She looks nice.’

  ‘You mean, not like posh Hattie or weird Heather or scary Chloe?’

  Tom had had a bad run of girlfriends over the last year.

  ‘I mean, she looks relatively sane. Could you choose one who doesn’t mind Hamish peeing in her handbag this time?’

  ‘Kate wouldn’t mind at all. She works at an animal sanctuary.’

  ‘How did you meet her, then?’

  ‘She was on a stall when we were doing hospitality for a fundraiser thing.’ Lucy watched her brother looking down at the photograph for a moment before he pocketed his phone. His face softened. ‘I like her a lot, Luce.’

  ‘Oh my God.’ She looked at him. ‘You’ve actually got it bad, haven’t you?’

  ‘Shut up.’

  They spent the rest of the evening catching up – Lucy telling him about her research and how she was getting on, and Tom ribbing her gently about how she’d gone native in the countryside and turned into a bumpkin.

  ‘You couldn’t even navigate through blooming Oxford,’ he laughed as he picked up the bill.

  ‘I’m just enjoying the slower pace of life.’

  They went through to the luxurious hotel bar for a nightcap and she treated herself to a large brandy, cupping it in her hand and swirling it around in the wide-bottomed glass, enjoying the fact that she wasn’t driving and only had to ride in the lift upstairs to her posh bedroom.

  Much as she was enjoying village life, it was absolute bliss to spend the evening in a bedroom with soft white linen and a huge, full-size bath. She luxuriated, slightly hazy with wine, in bubbles that were so foamy they spilled over the edge and onto the floor, and then lay in bed in the darkness. When she fell asleep, she dreamed of the treehouse, and – disturbingly – of Sam.

  Chapter 12

  Meanwhile, back at Bunty’s house, Freya was playing with the guinea pigs, lying on the grass in the evening sunshine. Swallows swooped overhead, full and replete, not even attempting to catch the insects that still buzzed around in the warm air. Bunty sat on the chair and let her eyes drift across the garden she’d loved and tended over decades. The honeysuckle climbing around the archway smelled delicious. Somewhere in the distance she could hear the low grumbling of a tractor cutting hay. So many summers sitting here in this garden, watching the plants and flowers bloom and grow and then die away – only to burst miraculously back into life again the following spring. She watched Freya rolling over, catching an escaping guinea pig with a long, graceful arm and feeding him a piece of dandelion leaf. Right then, Bunty could see the little girl who’d dashed across the road after a day at nursery school to share a painting she’d done. And then, as she rolled over, flicking her long hair back from her face and smiling, the moment was gone and once again she looked like a young woman on the cusp of growing up.

  She sat up and looked at Bunty.

  ‘Do you think Dad likes Lucy? Beth thinks he does.’

  Bunty steepled her fingers and looked at Freya. She’d picked up a piece of grass and was shredding it into thin pieces. ‘Does she, now.’

  ‘But Lucy says they’re just friends. Like him and Mel.’

  ‘Your dad and Mel have known each other since they were children.’

  ‘Yes, but –’ Freya caught her lower lip between her teeth.

  ‘How would you feel if he did like Lucy?’

  ‘I don’t know. I – the thing is – well, I asked him –’

  Bunty didn’t say anything. Freya would get there in the end. She just had to find the words. She waited, patiently.

  ‘You knew my mum, didn’t you?’

  There it was. Almost on cue, really. She’d wondered if it would come up as adolescence hit and Freya felt the absence of a mother she’d never known.

  ‘I did. Not as well as I know your dad, or Mel, but I knew her a little.’

  ‘Why do you think she left?’

  Bunty thought. She’d half expected this question for a long while, and yet now that it was here she still wasn’t quite sure what the answer was.

  ‘I think . . . people are complicated. And that she was very young. And your dad – well, I think she knew you’d be safe with him.’

  Freya nodded.

  ‘And you are. He’s a good man, your father. But I don’t suppose that stops you wondering, does it?’

  Freya got up from the grass, bent over and carefully picked up both guinea pigs. She walked over to the hutch and put them inside. She climbed up the step and back onto the lawn where she pulled a handful of dandelion leaves and divided them carefully into two piles, then went back and placed them carefully in the food bowls of the hutch. Only then did she turn around, and her little heart-shaped face was a picture of confusion.

  ‘It doesn’t.’

  * * *

  Later, once Freya had gone home and Bunty’s animals were safely tucked up in bed, she took a cup of tea upstairs to bed and called Hamish to follow her. Under her arm she’d tucked her old diary – just to check, she’d assured herself, that there wasn’t anything in there she’d forgotten about.

  August 23rd, 1941

  Oh! I’ve been in such a whirl. If it’s not work, it’s whizzing up to the aerodrome for dances and socials. Mrs Brown does Not Approve. She’s such a martinet. Luckily Harry (my Harry!) is so clever that he’s come up with the perfect solution.

  ‘I’m going to leave you a note,’ he said. ‘Next time I’m passing by. I’ll hide it behind the shelf in the telephone box. You just have to look out for a little flash of white in the glass.’

  Lo and behold, two days later when I was washing dishes at the kitchen sink I looked out of the window and I could see a flash of white against the glass. I left the soapy water in the sink and dashed across the road. It was stuffed so far down – tucked inside the window-frame – that unless you were looking, you’d never have noticed it. But I did. I pulled it out and unfolded it and there was a little note just for me.

  ‘Well hello, beautiful,’ it said, ‘I’m glad you found this. Meet me here at the telephone box at eight on Friday night, and I’ll take you to the flicks.’

  Well, my heart just leapt with excitement. I didn’t want to risk Mrs Brown finding out, so I stuffed it inside my pocket and ran back across to the cottage just in time. When she walked into the kitchen, beetle brows gathered in disapproval, I had just plunged my hands back into the washing-up water and was scrubbing away laboriously.

  Now I just have to find something nice to wear! And I must try doing some of Milly’s keep-fit exercises.

  Mrs Brown
just came thumping up the stairs to tell me that I ought to be asleep. She’s frightfully cross because Milly missed dinner because she was out for a walk with one of Harry’s friends, and of course now Milly’s fast asleep and I’m taking the flak.

  ‘I’m responsible for you, young lady, in your mother’s absence.’

  I’ve told her time and time again that I’m eighteen years old and perfectly capable of making my own decisions but No, she says, I must Behave Appropriately. I might add that I haven’t done a single thing wrong.

  August 25th, 1941 (Friday)

  It was so hot in the hut today I thought I might just melt away to nothing. The hours dragged by so slowly that I felt I should never be free, but then when my shift was over I cycled back to the cottage at top speed, galloping up the stairs (‘you sound like a herd of elephants, not a young lady’) and washing as quickly as I could. I was all dressed – Milly lent me her muslin dress and I’d done my hair with the curl at the front and loose at the back – when I was summoned by Mrs B before I had a chance to put on any lipstick.

  ‘Can you peel these potatoes for me?’

  I gestured to Milly’s dress and all she could say was ‘very nice’ and then she tossed me an apron and told me to get on with it! The cheek!

  Luckily I was almost done when I looked up – and there, standing in the telephone box waving at me whilst pretending to make a call, was Harry. I threw the peelings in the pig bucket, dropped my knife and dashed across the street to see him.

  ‘You look more beautiful every time I see you,’ he said, and I thought my heart would just melt.

  And then I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the window of the telephone box.

  ‘Oh my goodness,’ I said, putting a hand to my mouth. ‘I’ve forgotten my lipstick.’

  ‘That’s good,’ Harry said, with his eyes sparkling with mischief, ‘because I was going to kiss it all off anyway.’

  And he held me by the waist right there by the telephone box in the middle of the street and kissed me in broad daylight. Anyone could have seen us – and goodness knows what Mrs B will have to say about it if she gets word.