The Last Chance Library

by Freya Sampson

  “Hey, you,” he said, when he saw her, and June was surprised to feel her stomach leap. “There’s a bus at five past. If we hurry, we can catch it.”

  As they walked to the bus stop, Alex updated June on his dad’s recovery. “He’s meant to be resting in bed, but I caught him trying to do yoga this morning,” he said as the number thirty-six pulled up.

  They climbed on board and found seats halfway back. It was only when they’d sat down that June noticed Vera from the library was sitting opposite, her face set in a scowl. June averted her eyes and pretended not to have noticed her.

  “So, I’ve got my next book for you.” Alex reached into his back pocket and pulled out a battered copy of Terry Pratchett’s The Color of Magic. “I fell in love with the Discworld series when I was nine or ten. Have you read any of them?”

  “No, sorry.”

  “Well, you’re in for a treat. They’re set on this planet that’s balanced on four elephants on the back of a giant turtle. And there’s a librarian character in the books who’s an orangutan and . . .”

  June tried to listen, but she couldn’t stop glancing at Vera, who was watching Alex with her mouth pursed in disapproval. What was the woman’s problem?

  “The books have one of my favorite characters in literature ever, Death, who is hilarious,” Alex said.

  The bus pulled up at a stop and June saw Vera haul herself up out of her seat. As she turned to leave, she muttered something that June couldn’t make out. She and Alex watched Vera make her way down the aisle and lower herself off the bus. Only when the doors had closed and the bus pulled away did Alex speak again.

  “Poor Mrs. Cox.”

  June looked at him in surprise. “You know Vera?”

  “We lived next door to her when I was a kid.”

  June glanced around to check that there was no one nearby before she whispered, “She’s an absolute nightmare at the library.”

  “Oh, don’t say that,” Alex said, frowning.

  “She makes my life hell with her complaining. And I’m pretty sure she’s racist.”

  “You realize that you’re probably the only person she talks to all day?”

  “But still . . .”

  “She’s had a difficult life.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Alex kept his voice low. “Before my parents divorced, they used to both work long hours at the takeaway, so Vera would often have me over after school. She’d cook me tea and let my friends come round to play.”

  “Vera? But she hates kids—she’s always moaning about them at the library.”

  Alex shrugged. “I don’t know the full story, but I know that Vera and her husband, Fred, wanted to have children but for whatever reason they couldn’t. So, they sort of adopted me as their honorary grandson. Vera spent hours kicking a football with me in her back garden, and she used to make birthday cakes for all the kids on our street.”

  “Wow. So, what happened?”

  Alex lowered his voice even further and June had to lean in to hear him. “When I was ten or eleven, Fred left Vera. It was all very sudden: one day he was mowing the lawn and chatting to me about whether Man U were going to win the Champions League; the next day he was gone. Vera was a mess; I remember her crying on Mum. Then Fred sent her this letter, giving her a forwarding address for his post and telling her that he’d moved in with his mistress and their children.”

  “What?” June burst out, and several passengers turned to look at her. “Oh my god!”

  “I know, right? It turns out Fred had been having an affair for years and they had two kids together. He’d been leading this whole double life and Vera had no idea.”

  “I can’t believe it. Poor Vera.”

  “After that she stopped letting me go to her house and started moaning to my parents that I made too much noise. She stopped baking and never left home, and she lost all her friends. We moved about a year later when my folks separated, and I’ve hardly seen her since. I’m not sure she even recognized me.”

  June thought of Vera in the library, her face twisted and sour as she watched the activity in the Children’s Room. June had always assumed Vera disliked kids, but maybe it was something else that made her so bitter: regret.

  “We’re here,” Alex said, and June looked out the window to see them pulling up on Mawley high street.

  She followed him off the bus and they crossed the road toward the Chequers. June couldn’t remember the last time she’d been in this pub, or any pub for that matter, and she was immediately alarmed by the noise and the number of people. But Alex steered her to a table in a quiet corner and then went to buy them both a drink. While he was gone, June’s mind drifted back to Vera. She imagined her at home, baking a birthday cake for one of the local children, and Fred walking in with his suitcase and telling her he was leaving. Vera would have begged him to stay, cried and tried to wrestle the suitcase from him, but Fred would have said—

  “Here you go.” Alex placed a large glass of wine on the table. “Are you all right? You looked a million miles away there.”

  “Sorry, I was daydreaming. Thanks for the drink.”

  “I remember you daydreaming at school,” Alex said, sitting down opposite her. “You used to do it in English; you’d stare off into space for ages and then suddenly you’d start scribbling away. Your creative writing was always the best in class.”

  “Oh, that’s not true,” June said, although she couldn’t help but smile. “But I do like to make up stories in my head; I always have. Sometimes, at the library, I watch people taking out books and try to imagine what their life might be like.”

  As soon as the words left June’s mouth, she regretted them. She’d never told anyone except her mum, and out loud she realized how silly it made her sound.

  “Ooh, let’s play it now,” Alex said. “What about that lady over there?”

  “Oh no, we don’t have to. It’s just a stupid thing I do.”

  “No, go on. See that lady in the butterfly dress? What do you think her story is?”

  “Really?”

  “Yes!”

  June turned to study her. The woman must have been in her mid-twenties, wearing a pretty fifties-style tea dress and red lipstick. She was with a man wearing a linen shirt and chinos. June thought for a moment.

  “Her name is Hannah. She lives with two friends in a flat full of clothes and laughter. She works in a dull office job, but at the weekend she and her friends dress up and go dancing until dawn. She dreams of doing something creative, maybe becoming a painter.”

  “And who’s the guy? Is he her boyfriend?”

  “No, but she wants him to be. They’ve been seeing each other for a few months but he won’t commit to her.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because he has a long-term girlfriend. She has no idea that he’s just stringing her along.”

  “Poor Hannah,” Alex said, and he sounded genuinely sad. “I think the guy is bad news. In fact, do you think he’s dangerous? Maybe he’s a serial killer and tonight she’s his victim.”

  June raised her eyebrows. “I was going for tragic romance and you want grisly horror.”

  Alex laughed out loud and June grinned. She’d never played the game with anyone else before.

  “No wonder you were so good at those creative writing assignments. I always got a C because I added zombies and monsters. Do you still write?”

  “Not really,” June said, and she took a sip of her wine.

  “Oh, that’s such a shame. I always thought you were going to be a—”

  “Do you have any hobbies, Alex?” June said before he could finish his sentence.

  “Sure, I have hobbies, June,” he said, and she thought she could see a faint smile on his lips. “I like to go climbing, and I play football on a local five-a-side team: we’re rubbish but
the drinking after is fun. I love going to the cinema—there’s an amazing independent one near my flat in London that plays old sixties and seventies horror movies. And on Tuesday nights I go . . .”

  June listened with growing amazement. She’d expected him to say one or two things, but how could one person be so busy? It sounded exhausting.

  “What about you?” Alex said when he got to the end of his list.

  “I read,” June said. There was a pause as Alex waited for her to carry on. “And I like walking.”

  “Cool. Do you ever go hiking? I used to do a lot with Dad when I was younger.”

  “Sure,” June said, and she took a gulp of her wine to cover up the fact that the only walking she did was to and from work.

  “Do you like traveling?” Alex said. “I went backpacking every summer while I was at uni; it was amazing.”

  “What was your favorite place?”

  “Ooh, the million-dollar question. India is brilliant, and I also loved Vietnam. Have you been?”

  June shook her head. The farthest she’d ever been was to Weymouth with her mum.

  “You should go; it’s amazing. There’s such a rich history, and the food is . . .”

  June nodded as she listened to Alex, but inside she was squirming. This was exactly why she hadn’t wanted to come tonight. She had nothing interesting to say, no exciting hobbies or exotic travel to talk about. All she’d done for the past ten years was work in the library and read books. June closed her eyes, wishing she could run out now and spare herself the humiliation of him realizing what a pathetic little life she led.

  “June?”

  She opened her eyes. “Sorry, what?”

  “I said, do you still see many people from school?”

  Oh god, this was it. The moment she had to tell Alex that she had no friends, no hobbies, and no life. “Well, the thing is . . .” June stopped as a thought occurred to her. “Actually, I’m going to Gayle Spencer’s hen do in a few weeks.”

  “Gayle? No way, how is she?”

  “She’s good. She got engaged in the Maldives at New Year.”

  “Nice,” Alex said. “I never realized you and her were close at school.”

  “We’ve been friends since primary school.” This wasn’t a complete lie, but June could still feel her cheeks coloring.

  “Wow, I had no idea. You two always seemed so different,” Alex said, and June cringed at the reminder of what a loser she’d been at school.

  “I know, Gayle was a lot cooler than me,” she said, taking a despondent swig of wine.

  “Actually, I thought you were the cool one,” Alex said. “All those girls ever talked about was boys and parties, while you were reading all these amazing, interesting books.”

  June was so surprised that she choked on her drink.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Sorry,” she said through the coughing.

  Alex waited for her to finish. “This might sound strange, but I always had this image of your life after school, where you’d go to uni and have all these smart, bookish friends, and you’d all have deep, intellectual conversations.” His face had gone quite pink. “Sorry, that sounds absurd. Feel free to laugh at me.”

  But June didn’t laugh; instead, she felt her stomach fall. What Alex had described was exactly what she used to dream of herself: going to university and finally making close friends, staying up all night talking about books and supporting one another’s writing. She went to take another drink and realized her glass was empty.

  “Do you want another pint?” she said, standing up and grabbing his glass before he could answer.

  June made her way toward the bar. How had Alex so accurately guessed her eighteen-year-old dream? They’d hardly known each other at school; she was amazed he’d even noticed her, let alone understood her so well. She thought back for a moment to that fantasy, the friends and the life she’d imagined for herself, and then pushed it out of her mind.

  As she reached the bar, June heard a sudden explosion of laughter behind her, and she glanced round to see where it was coming from. Shit. Brian Spencer, Gayle’s dad, was sitting at a table next to the bar with two younger men. Had he heard her just lie about still being friends with his daughter? Brian’s mouth was open as he laughed, and June could see the half-chewed food inside. She grimaced and turned away so he wouldn’t see her. As she waited to be served, she could hear Brian’s voice, full of privilege and self-importance.

  “What you have to understand, boys, is the value of a bit of wheel grease.”

  “And, in this particular instance, you think that the wheels could be greased?” one of the men said.

  “Of course. Although I should warn you, it won’t be cheap.”

  “What can I get you, love?” The barmaid was staring at June impatiently.

  “A pint of lager and a white wine, please.”

  “Of course, I can’t make any promises.” Brian’s voice floated back over. “But I play golf with a couple of the councillors and they trust me. I’m sure they could be incentivized to see the benefits of this idea.”

  “I told you, Phil—Brian here could be a good investment.” This guy sounded younger and posher. “I know this better than most.”

  They laughed at this, the deep guffawing laugh that men only seemed to do around other men.

  June paid for the drinks and headed back toward the table, careful to keep her face away from Brian. As she walked past, she caught a glimpse of one of the men sitting with him, his cheeks flushed with alcohol, his hair so blond he looked like Draco Malfoy.

  “And what about Marjorie? Won’t she mind?”

  “Oh, you don’t need to worry about that,” Brian said. “I can handle her.”

  Back at the table, June found Alex looking embarrassed. “Sorry. You must think I’m a complete weirdo for saying all that,” he said.

  “Not at all. I’d have loved to have had that life you described, but it just . . . didn’t quite work out that way.”

  “Why not, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  June had managed to spill some wine on the table, and she traced a pattern in it with her finger. “I always wanted to go to Cambridge to study English, but Mum got diagnosed with cancer while we were in the sixth form. She still wanted me to go, so I applied and got offered a place, but they let me defer it so I could look after her. And then she died, two years later.”

  “Oh, June, I’m so sorry.”

  “I know I could have taken up my place after that; it’s what Mum would have wanted. But once she was gone, the idea of leaving home felt too . . . terrifying.”

  “And you’re not tempted to go to university now? There are some great courses for mature students.”

  June shook her head. “No, I don’t think that’s for me. Besides, I love my life here in Chalcot.”

  “Well, I’m glad you’re happy here. And you’re so lucky to have a job that you love.”

  “I honestly can’t imagine working anywhere else, which is why all this council stuff is so terrifying.”

  “How’s the campaign going?”

  “I wish I knew. It’s been a month now and there still haven’t been any public events. I’m trying to eavesdrop at the library, but no one says anything in front of me.”

  “What have FOCL been doing all this time?” Alex said with a frown.

  “I’ve no idea. Although I did pick this up in the village shop the other day . . .”

  June reached into her bag and pulled out a crumpled flyer, which she laid on the table. The words “Save Our Library (please)” were written at the top in large Comic Sans font.

  “Jesus, this isn’t going to save anything,” Alex said. “What are they doing on social media?”

  “I don’t know. I’m not on it.”

  Alex took his phone out and typed s
omething in. “They must be on Twitter, surely?” He scanned the screen. “Aha, here they are.”

  He passed the phone over to June and she saw there was one tweet.

  Friends of Chalcot Library @FOCL

  Join us on Saturday 7th August for a protest event at the church hall. A raffle, face-painting, and a performance from Chalcot’s very own Colin the Clown. All welcome! #savechalcotlibrary

  “Well, that’s something, I suppose.” June went to hand Alex’s phone back, and as she did, she saw a WhatsApp message flash up on his screen.

  Ellie

  Just got some exciting news—call me ASAP! xx

  June felt her heart drop when she saw the kisses, and then felt stupid: it was none of her business who messaged Alex. He glanced at his phone and smiled, and June took a long drink of wine.

  “So, are you sure there’s nothing you can do to help FOCL?” he asked once he’d put his phone away.

  “No, I can’t risk it. The council would sack me if I do anything in public; it’s as simple as that.”

  “What if it’s not public? What about trying to help them in secret?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, I know you can’t risk the council seeing you being involved, but you could be FOCL’s undercover operative.”

  June chuckled. “I’m not sure I’d make a very good secret agent, despite having read Harriet the Spy three times as a kid.”

  But Alex didn’t laugh. “I know you won’t believe me, June, but I think you have much more to offer than you realize.”

  “No, I don’t,” she mumbled.

  “You know, when I was reading Matilda, I kept thinking how much you reminded me of her.”

  “Matilda?”

  “Well, obviously you both love books, but Matilda also had so much integrity and really cared about people. You were always the same at school.” Alex took a swig of his pint before he spoke again. “I think you need to ask yourself: What would Matilda do?”

  * * *

  • • •

  That night June slept deeply and didn’t wake until after nine on Saturday morning. She lay in bed running over the events of last night: Alex’s busy and exciting life, his ridiculous comment about her being cool, the WhatsApp message . . .