The Telephone Box Library

by Lucas, Rachael

  He looked at her with a thoughtful expression. ‘That must be hard. Teaching’s one of those things that’s in your blood, I think.’

  She smiled ruefully. ‘You’re not helping.’

  ‘Sorry.’ He made a face.

  ‘No. Well, I’m supposed to be writing out some notes but I came for a walk instead, then got caught up in reading all about the parish council and their debates over the phone box library idea.’

  ‘Right. Come with me.’ He turned on his heel, the dogs instantly jumping to attention.

  ‘How come everyone in this place has such well-trained dogs? Hamish puts me to shame.’

  ‘Ah, having a friend who’s a dog trainer puts me at a bit of an advantage.’ He clicked his fingers and both spaniels dropped instantly into the down position. ‘I’d like to say it was all my doing, but Mel uses them as demo dogs. They’re more like demon dogs with me.’ He smiled, beckoning the dogs, who got up and started trotting by their side again.

  They walked down the path together until it narrowed. Lucy stepped sideways to move behind Sam, just as he stepped into her path. If only she’d met someone like this when she was teaching, and not when she was on a temporary visit to somewhere she didn’t belong. She walked ahead, oddly conscious of his presence behind her. Neither of them spoke for a few minutes until the path widened again and she paused, waiting for him to fall into step beside her.

  ‘I’d love to hear more about what Bunty did in the war,’ he said. ‘Will you let me in on the secret if she tells you?’

  ‘Of course. She adores you. You’d probably have more luck getting it out of her than I have. Maybe you should come with me one day and bring some of that coffee cake from the village shop. I bet you could charm it out of her.’

  He looked a bit embarrassed, pulling a face and rubbing the back of his neck. ‘I’m not really known for my charm.’

  ‘Really?’ Lucy said, then blushed, realizing what she was implying.

  Sam cleared his throat and said gruffly, ‘Let’s hope Freya hasn’t climbed back into bed. It’s the last day of the holidays, she’s probably trying to catch up on a term’s worth of sleep.’

  Freya was actually lying in the back garden with headphones in, typing furiously on her phone screen. When she saw them, she jumped upright, looking slightly guilty. She shoved her phone into the back pocket of her jeans.

  There’s definitely something going on with her, Lucy thought. Probably a secret boyfriend – or girlfriend – or something like that.

  ‘Hi.’ Freya brushed grass off her sleeves.

  ‘You look like you’re up to something,’ said Sam. Lucy shot him a look. Whatever Freya might be hiding, approaching it head-on was definitely not the way forward. It was such a typical parent thing to say. And one thing that teaching had taught her was that just at the point where teenagers started to pull away, parents tended to come down heavily in a way that made them feel claustrophobic. If she was going to get Freya to open up, she needed her dad out of the way.

  ‘D’you know what? I am dying of thirst. Sam, can you do me a huge favour and get me a glass of water please?’

  Thankfully he took the hint. He wandered up the garden path, one hand tucked in the back pocket of his jeans.

  Freya glowered after him. ‘He’s always giving me the third degree. He’s obsessed. Where are you going, what are you doing, who are you talking to . . . ’

  ‘I think if you’re not online much like your dad, it’s hard to appreciate how much of life is there now.’

  A large sigh. ‘God, yes. If you don’t reply to someone straight away, you get hassle for ignoring them.’

  ‘You just catching up with friends before term starts? How are you feeling?’

  ‘All right.’ She looked down at the blank screen of the phone, turning it over in her hand. ‘Actually, I was looking for someone.’ She flicked a glance up at Lucy through the curtain of hair, then shifted, chewing her lip.

  ‘Someone you know?’ She had a suspicion she knew where this was going.

  ‘Yeah, but—’

  ‘Here you are. I’ve even put some ice in.’ Sam handed her the glass with a flourish.

  ‘Actually,’ Lucy gave him a hard stare, opening her eyes wide in the hope she could communicate without speaking ‘If it’s not too much trouble, you don’t fancy putting the kettle on? I would love a cup of coffee.’

  Sam hesitated for a moment, his forehead crinkling. She could virtually see his brain ticking over. ‘Oh. Right. Yes. Coffee. Great idea.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Lucy indicated the house with her head. She knew that sometimes it was easier to talk about something with a teacher or an adult who had a bit of distance. Ten years of working with teenagers had given her an instinctive feeling for when something was bubbling away under the surface.

  ‘So. Who is it you’re looking for?’

  ‘My mum.’ Freya picked a daisy and started pulling off the petals, one by one. ‘I’ve found her.’

  Lucy swallowed. This was good news for Freya, who must’ve spent years feeling like something was missing. But how would Sam feel if the mother of his child reappeared and wanted to be part of his life? She felt strangely uncomfortable at the thought of him playing happy families – but of course she was leaping miles ahead.

  ‘She’s in London. Not even that far away.’

  ‘And you’ve been talking to her?’

  ‘A bit.’ Freya chewed the inside of her cheek, brows furrowed. ‘I felt like I wanted to know who she was. Why she left.’

  ‘And how do you feel?’

  ‘I dunno. I wasn’t expecting the big running into each other’s arms thing, but – I don’t feel anything.’

  ‘Were you thinking you’d feel relieved?’

  ‘Or happy. Or nervous.’ Freya chewed on her lip. ‘Maybe I am a bit nervous, actually.’

  Lucy gazed across the untidy garden. The grass was in desperate need of a cut, and the flower borders were choked with tangles of bindweed and rosebay willowherb. The white seed heads were floating prettily in the hazy sunshine. Autumn was coming, and with it came all sorts of changes, and a reminder – in the form of Freya’s discovery – that life here had gone on, and would go on, without her. She wasn’t part of Little Maudley. She brushed a ladybird off her arm and watched it spin off into the air.

  ‘I expect you’ve got a lot of mixed-up emotions about it all. I know I would.’

  Freya nodded. She looked down at the pile of shredded daisies and laughed briefly. ‘All the emotions,’ she said, rolling her eyes.

  Turning to humour was an obvious defence. She needed to talk to Sam, let him know what was going on.

  ‘Have you told Camille?’

  ‘Nope. I felt like she’d tell her mum, and Mel would tell Dad because they’re so close. It’s different telling you, because you’re nothing to do with us.’

  Lucy winced inwardly. Teenagers had no need of sugar-coating.

  ‘Do you think you’ll say anything to your dad?’

  ‘Maybe?’

  ‘Are you wondering how he’d react?’

  ‘A bit. I don’t want him to have a meltdown and tell me I’m not allowed to see her.’

  ‘D’you want to see her?’

  Freya stared off into the distance for a few moments before she spoke.

  ‘She’s my mum.’

  Lucy looked at Freya. Her heart-shaped face reflected the conflicting emotions – hope, curiosity and a guardedness which made sense after all this time. Freya frowned slightly.

  ‘Mums can be tricky.’ Lucy pulled up a daisy, thoughtfully pulling one petal off after another. ‘Mine is in Australia. It’s an awful lot easier to get on with her there than it was when we were living in the same house.’

  ‘Yeah, I know. I don’t think I even want to talk to her, but at the same time . . .’ She tailed off, biting her thumbnail.

  ‘You don’t need to make any decisions, though.’

  ‘No.’ Freya brightened at that.
r />   ‘Maybe you should speak to your dad?’

  ‘I don’t want to upset him.’

  ‘I don’t think you’re going to. I’m sure he’s expected this day would come – I know I would have.’

  ‘I don’t know what to do.’ Freya closed her eyes, her dark eyebrows gathering.

  ‘Think about talking to your dad. I know you’re trying to protect him, but he can cope. I’m sure of that.’

  ‘One coffee,’ Sam said, in a slightly too hearty voice. He was giving them warning that he was coming back, and Lucy was grateful for it.

  ‘If you want to talk, I’m always here,’ she told Freya quietly.

  ‘Thanks.’

  They sat in the garden, soaking up the last of the sunshine, and turned their thoughts to plans for the telephone box library.

  Chapter 15

  Bunty watched from the window as Susan and Helen bustled up to the telephone box, dressed in overalls, and set out their painting equipment. She’d half expected a painter and decorator to be given the job, but she’d been surprised to watch as villagers came back and forth, in twos and threes – first clearing away the weeds, then someone from the telephone company came by and stripped away the entrails of the phone box. A glazier arrived and replaced the cracked and broken windows. It was quite interesting to watch how everyone was coming together. There had been a flyer posted through the letter box, too, asking if she had any books in good condition which might be suitable for the lending library. Lucy had told her all about the meeting at the parish council where they’d agreed to a schedule – which was Helen’s favourite word – and now there they were, restoring it to its former bright livery. Oh, that telephone box. The stories it could tell. Bunty had stood by the window washing dishes for over seventy years, watching children meeting there, calls being made, secret meetings, drunken kisses – there wasn’t much that hadn’t happened in that little box. She was glad it hadn’t been knocked down. It would have been like taking out the heart of the village.

  She turned away, putting the tea towel on the Aga to dry. There was something very precious about September, Bunty thought. It was the feeling of soaking up the final days of summer, making the most of them before everything faded and went dark for the winter. She’d always hated winter – it was funny how the cold had made everything feel worse. All Lucy’s questioning about the war had brought back memories of freezing in layers of clothes as she got on her bicycle in the morning and set off for the hut. That had made her think about how long it had been since she’d been there – it was funny how they’d all been so keen to whitewash over everything that happened, carry on with life as if the war was something they’d all rather forget. And here were these young things, desperate to go over it all and ask all sorts of questions. It was bringing things back in a way that was most disconcerting. She picked up her bag and opened the front door to see Lucy waiting beside her little blue car. She was looking across the lane at Bell Cottage, clearly lost in thought.

  ‘There you are.’ Lucy turned, pushing her hair back from her face and smiling. She was covered in freckles from sitting in the garden writing up notes, and looked pretty in a blue-and-white sundress and a cardigan. There wouldn’t be many warm days like this left, unless there was an Indian summer.

  ‘It’s very kind of you to give me a lift,’ Bunty said as she climbed into the passenger seat and pulled the seatbelt across. Goodness, these things were stiff, and her hands were so uncooperative. She tried to click it into place twice, thankful that Lucy didn’t reach over to help – it was one of the things that she liked about her. Margaret was always so quick to jump in, patronizingly, treating her like she was an old woman, which was patently ridiculous. Her shoulders shook with amusement.

  ‘Sorted?’ Lucy fastened her own seatbelt and turned the ignition.

  ‘Where’s Hamish today?’

  ‘He’s being used by Mel as a demonstration dog in her training class.’

  ‘Star pupil?’

  ‘Probably more likely how not to behave,’ Lucy giggled. ‘He ate one of my sandals last night. Every time I think he’s grown up a bit, he likes to remind me that he’s still a puppy.’

  ‘Mel’s terribly good with them, isn’t she?’

  ‘Yes. She and –’ there was a tiny beat of silence – ‘and Sam are very nice. I’m glad I met them.’

  ‘They’re both good sorts. I’ve known them both since they were babes in arms.’

  ‘And they’re such good friends. It’s nice that the girls get on so well, too.’

  Interesting, Bunty thought. Lucy was definitely digging for information. She looked sideways at Lucy, taking in the soft curls and the turned-up, freckled nose. She was a very pretty girl. Clever, too. And she must be almost thirty – so nice that nowadays they weren’t rushed into getting married. If Bunty herself hadn’t felt the pressure not to be left on the shelf, perhaps things would have turned out very differently. She’d found herself looking at her old diary again last night. Strange how the distant past seemed more familiar in some ways than a few years ago. She could remember cycling along this road so many times – the moment when the incline started to tell on the back of her calves, burning as she’d stand on the pedals to make it to the top of the hill, breathless, before swooping down through the dappled sunshine of the tree-covered lane and left onto the –

  ‘Can you turn left here?’

  Lucy glanced at her in surprise, slowing down. ‘I thought you wanted to pop to the chemist?’

  ‘I do. But I just – oh, it doesn’t matter.’

  ‘No,’ Lucy clicked on the indicator. ‘I’m not in any rush. Where are we going?’

  ‘Left again up here.’ Bunty pointed a finger towards a single-track lane that curled up through overhanging trees. Sunlight and shade played on their faces as Lucy made her way along it. Steep banks lined with hedgerows, their leaves fading to olive green, towered on either side of them. They pulled into a passing place to let through a battered Land Rover, thick with dust and towing a trailer full of sheep. One of the sheep looked Bunty in the eye and bleated silently as he passed.

  It had been donkey’s years since she was here, and yet nothing had changed.

  ‘Right here.’

  ‘On this track?’

  The unmade road was laid with rough hardcore, with dried-out potholes which would fill with water as soon as the weather changed. She used to get soaked to the ankles, covered in mud splashes. In summer it was hot and boring, in winter freezing cold, and the days would drag on interminably.

  ‘Yes, go on. Might be a bit bumpy.’

  The little car rattled up the rutted track until they crested a hill. She looked out at a field full of cows.

  ‘Here.’

  There was a creak as Lucy pulled the handbrake and turned, looking at her expectantly.

  ‘Is this us?’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Bunty. She peered through the window. ‘It’s been such a long time. I can’t believe how overgrown it is.’

  Lucy frowned, following her gaze.

  At the end of the path, at the top of the hill, there stood a concrete hut with a flat roof. It was overgrown with weeds, and the windows covered with metal grilles.

  ‘Is this something to do with your job in the war?’

  ‘I spent almost every day in that place.’

  ‘So you weren’t actually at Bletchley.’

  Bunty shook her head.

  ‘No. We were sent there, but then I was packaged off here. The work we did was top secret – I never breathed a word about it. Not even my husband knew what I did.’

  It felt slightly illicit to admit it, even now. They’d signed away their right to talk, promised king and country that they’d keep their work from everyone they knew.

  ‘You didn’t even tell Milly?’

  Bunty shook her head.

  ‘Not a word. She emigrated to Australia after the war with her husband. She died in eighty-nine, and we never talked about it once. One just didn�
�t.’

  ‘Didn’t she wonder what you were doing?’

  ‘Oh, everyone was doing something in those days. War work. We were far more interested in what was going on after hours. That’s when the fun happened. That’s what you should be looking at in that research of yours.’

  ‘It seems as if life was incredibly full back then. When I spoke to the women in the Abbeyfield house about growing up here as evacuees, they told me the place was quite different, with lots going on. I suppose people shopped locally, and didn’t drive into Bletchingham as much.’

  ‘Oh, we caught the bus, or cycled in summer – back then we seemed to have heaps of energy. But yes, there was the post office and the shop and there was a little tea room on the corner of West Street – it’s a holiday cottage now.’ A breeze blew in over the hill, through the car window, making the hairs on Bunty’s arms stand up. She pulled her cardigan more tightly across her chest and wound the window back up. ‘We didn’t have a spare moment. If we weren’t working, or out dancing or going to the cinema or to talks, we were still busy. Mrs Brown had us knitting comforts for the WVS to send off to the troops. I could do a pair of gloves in no time at all back then. We used to listen to the radio and knit like the devil.’

  Lucy had read all about that. Back in wartime, the Women’s Voluntary Service had provided an astonishing five tons a month of knitted comforts – they included scarves, hats, balaclavas and gloves. They were doled out to servicemen and women, and constantly in demand because they were more comfortable than the standard-issue ones given out as part of their uniforms.

  They both looked out of the window at the dilapidated building. Wind ruffled the trees that surrounded it and a couple of early falling leaves spun down, reminding Lucy it was September, and time was passing. She looked across at Bunty, who was lost in her thoughts.

  ‘You don’t want to get out and have a look?’

  Bunty shook her head. ‘No. I don’t know what made me think of coming here. Just a fancy, I think. It’s been so long.’

  ‘I’d like to look.’

  Bunty wavered for a second.

  ‘Oh, go on then.’