She went downstairs and made herself a cup of tea. Alan lay under the table and lashed out at June’s feet every time she walked past, but she was too distracted to tell him off. What about Brian and the snatches of conversation she’d overheard in the pub? Hadn’t he said something about “incentivizing councillors”? And why had one of the men asked Brian about Marjorie? They must have been talking about the library, surely.
June took a sip of tea and swore as she burned her tongue. If Brian was up to something dodgy with the library, then she should tell someone, but who? She couldn’t exactly walk up to the council and make wild accusations when she didn’t have a clue what was going on.
June reached for her mobile phone and searched for Twitter, and after several minutes she worked out how to find FOCL’s page. She stared at the tweet they’d written about the protest event, and as she did, an idea began to formulate in her mind. But could she do it? It was risky. She didn’t have any evidence, and whoever read the message would probably think she was a crank.
June put the phone down; she should stay out of this.
And then she remembered Alex’s words. What would Matilda do?
She took a deep breath, picked up the phone, and clicked on “Sign up.” In a few minutes the account was set up. She composed a short message before she could change her mind.
Matilda @MWormwoo8
@FOCL I have some information that might be of use to you.
June pressed “Tweet” and threw the phone down on the table as if it were red-hot. She picked up The Hobbit and read three sentences before glancing back at her phone. Nothing. She carried on reading, but she hadn’t even made it to the end of the page before she checked again. Who would be the person to see her tweet, Chantal or Mrs. B? And if they replied to her, what was she going to say?
She needed to do something to distract herself, and if reading wasn’t going to work, then there was only one other thing for it: cleaning.
June pulled on an old T-shirt and started in the living room. She worked meticulously, starting with the long bookcases and then making her way round the room. She polished each of the snow globes on the shelf above the TV, then moved on to the china ornaments on the mantlepiece: the Charles and Diana commemorative mug she and her mum had found together at a car boot sale, the model of a red bus they’d brought home from a sightseeing trip to London. June was dusting the china girl with a book when she heard her phone ping, and she rushed across the room to look at it. Friends of Chalcot Library followed you. June closed her eyes for a moment. She could still back out now; it wasn’t too late. Maybe Brian wasn’t up to anything dodgy after all. She opened her eyes and started typing a private message.
I think Brian Spencer is plotting against the library.
June pressed send and realized that she’d been holding her breath. A moment later a reply popped up.
Who are you?
I’m a friend of the library. I want to help you.
What do you know about Brian?
He met with two men and they talked about how he could grease the wheels and convince county councillors about something. They referenced Marjorie Spencer so I think it’s about the library.
Who were the men?
I don’t know.
What do they want to do with the library?
I don’t know. Sorry.
June waited for a response but there wasn’t one. From the curt tone she guessed it must have been Mrs. Bransworth replying, but what would she do with this information? She might confront Brian outright, but he’d just deny everything. Hopefully FOCL would do some digging and find some concrete evidence for what was going on. June wondered for a moment if Marjorie was involved but pushed the thought out of her mind. There were many things wrong with her boss, but June’s mum had always said that if you cut Marjorie in half it would say “Chalcot Library” through the middle. Still, maybe June should keep a closer eye on her at work, just in case.
She returned to her cleaning with renewed vigor. It felt good to have finally done something to fight for the library. Alex had been right; June might not be able to publicly join FOCL, but perhaps she could help them behind the scenes after all.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
June handed the copy of Gone Girl to the young woman and watched her walk out of the library. She’d never seen her before, and June imagined that the woman had moved to Chalcot because she was on the run. Her parents were a respectable middle-class couple, with a BMW and annual ski holidays to France, but behind closed doors they were mean and bullying, controlling every aspect of their daughter’s life. So she had faked her own kidnapping, creating a ransom note and leaving false clues so that her parents didn’t suspect. But then her dad happened to come to Chalcot for work and spotted her at the library. He waited for her outside, and when she left, he followed her into an alleyway and in a low and threatening voice said—
“I need new book.”
“Hi, Leila,” June said, smiling at the patron in front of the desk. “What did you make of the Hairy Bikers?”
“I think Mary Berry better,” Leila said shyly. She came into the library at least once a week now, and each time June helped her choose a new recipe book. June had found out that her son, Mahmoud, helped her translate the recipes into Arabic.
“I’ve put a new book aside for you—would you like to look at it now?”
“Thank you,” Leila said, and she waited while June went to find it.
“Here you go.”
“I have . . . for you . . .” Leila reached into her bag and pulled out a small package wrapped in a paper towel. June opened it to find a diamond-shaped slice of cake topped with crushed pistachios. It smelled delicious.
“Basbousa,” Leila said.
“Oh, wow. Thank you so much,” June said, a lump in her throat.
“I try English scone next,” Leila said as she turned and headed toward a table, a look of concentration on her face. June smiled to herself as she put the cake down next to the keyboard, to enjoy later.
“What’s that?” Vera was leaning over the desk, her face scrunched up.
“It’s called basbousa.”
She nodded her head in the direction of Leila. “Did she make it?”
Ever since Alex had told her about Vera’s past, June had been making extra attempts to engage with Vera and encourage her to join in activities at the library, but so far, all her efforts had been in vain. Now she took a deep breath.
“You know, Leila is really keen to learn about English cooking. I heard that you’re a good baker, so perhaps you could suggest some recipe books for her?”
“Who told you that?” Vera said, suspicion etched onto her face. “Well, they’re wrong. I haven’t baked in years,” she spat, and she turned and headed back toward her chair. She knocked into Jackson on her way past, and the armful of books he was carrying tumbled onto the floor. June hurried over to him.
“Are you okay, Jackson?” she said, bending down to pick them up.
“I’m fine.”
June handed him a tome called Japan Encyclopedia. “Your gran didn’t tell me you’re going on holiday.”
“I’m not. I’m just doing a project about Japan. Did you know that it’s made up of six thousand eight hundred and fifty-two islands? And the Japanese eat more fish than any other country in the world?”
“I did not know that.”
“Also, Stanley told me that in Japan they have haiku, which is a special kind of poem with only three lines and seventeen syllables.”
“That’s fascinating, Jackson.”
“I’ve written a haiku. Would you like to hear it?”
“I’d love to.”
He stood up straight and started to recite in a monotone voice, “Libraries are boats / And the books are life jackets / Without them we’ll drown.”
June was so taken aback th
at she didn’t know how to respond. “Wow, Jackson. That’s very . . . powerful.”
“Do you like it? I’m going to perform it at the library protest on Saturday.”
“I’m sure everyone will love it. I’m sorry I won’t be there to hear it.”
June really was sad she wouldn’t be able to go. Saturday’s event at the church hall was all anyone in the library had talked about all week, and June had picked up snippets of information from her eavesdropping. It seemed that Mrs. Bransworth had gone all Cersei Lannister and was driving the rest of FOCL mad with her demands for banners, PA systems, and “a raffle that will rival the one at Favering Summer Fayre.” The one good piece of news was that someone had managed to secure a local news crew to cover the event. The village had talked of nothing else since, and June was delighted that they might finally get some publicity for the library campaign.
Out of the corner of her eye, June saw Marjorie bowling toward her, a determined look on her face.
“Sorry, Jackson, I’d better get on with my work. Good luck with your haiku.”
“June, a word,” Marjorie said when she reached her. June followed her boss behind the Local History shelf. “Gayle tells me you still haven’t replied to her about the hen do. Why not?”
Oh god. Despite her lie to Alex about being friends with Gayle, the idea of attending was giving June anxiety dreams, and she’d put off sending a reply. “I’m sorry, Marjorie, I’ve just been busy.”
“Well, I need you to e-mail now, before Gayle starts to suspect that I’ve put you up to this.”
“Now?”
“Come on, get your phone out.”
June was aware of Marjorie staring at her screen as she began to type, and she prayed she wouldn’t get a sudden Twitter notification from FOCL. She hurriedly wrote, Thanks Gayle, I’d love to come to the hen do. See you on Saturday, and pressed send.
“That wasn’t so difficult, was it?” Marjorie said. “Now, just remember, you’re not going there to have fun. You have a job to do.”
* * *
• • •
At four o’clock, Chantal’s mum, Michelle, came into the library. June wanted to ask her about Chantal, who had been ignoring her ever since she’d refused to join FOCL, but Michelle was engrossed in swearing at the computer.
“Those council bastards,” she said, hitting the keyboard as June approached. “They send me a text telling me a new property has come up, so I drop everything and race here. But by the time I’ve got onto their website, the sodding house has gone.”
“Not again, Michelle. I’m so sorry.”
“And what am I supposed to do if this place closes down? Do the council expect us all to have computers at home?”
“I was wondering, how’s Chantal?”
“God knows. She’s in a right grump, has been for ages. I’ve no idea what’s got into her.”
June felt a pang of guilt; she was pretty sure she knew what was wrong with Chantal, and part of it was June’s fault.
“Has she told you she wants to drop out of school?” Michelle asked.
“What? That’s awful. What about going to university?”
“Says she doesn’t want to. She’s always been a right little geek, but now she says she wants to get a job instead.”
“Oh no. Would you ask her to come in here and I can have a chat with her?”
“I’ll try, but I’m not sure it’ll do any good. She’s going to that protest thing on Saturday—you could talk to her there.”
“I’m afraid I’m at a hen do on Saturday.” It was the truth, but June still felt terrible.
Michelle logged off the computer and got up to leave. “Was that one of those management consultants I saw here first thing this morning?”
“What do you mean?” June said.
“With Marjorie. I was dropping the twins at nursery, so it was before eight.”
“What did they look like?”
“She was a skinny woman in fancy clothes. Not from round here, I’d say.”
June remembered the Mrs. Coulter look-alike she’d seen here weeks ago with Marjorie. “Did she have long dark hair?”
“Yeah. She looked a bit snooty.”
“Damn!” June said, and then realized she was talking to a patron. “Sorry.”
“What is it?”
“I don’t know. Nothing, I hope.”
Marjorie was at the other side of the room, helping Mahmoud look something up in the reference section. June watched her patiently explaining something to the boy. What was she up to? If Mrs. Coulter was a management consultant, then why was Marjorie trying to keep her visits secret from June and everyone else? There was something suspicious going on here—June was sure of it.
She went into the toilet, locking the door behind her, and pulled out her mobile. Opening Twitter, she typed a private message to FOCL from Matilda.
Marjorie Spencer has been secretly showing people around the library. I saw her with a woman here weeks ago and I think the same woman was back here this morning before the library opened. Possibly a management consultant?
There was a rattle as someone tried to open the door, so June pressed send. Seconds later she heard a beep outside. June pulled the door open to see Mrs. B staring at her phone screen.
“Fuck,” Mrs. B said, and she turned and walked back across the library.
June watched as she went to Stanley’s chair by the window and showed him her phone. June was dying to hear what they were saying, but she didn’t want to raise their suspicions by walking too close. She spotted the returns trolley sitting in the middle of the room where she’d abandoned it earlier, so she grabbed it and began to steer it over toward them. But the trolley was in a particularly uncooperative mood today, and as June pushed it right the thing started veering off toward the left. As she coaxed it nearer to the window, she could hear snatches of the conversation.
“I think we need to pass this information on . . .” Stanley was saying.
“But how do we know we can trust this Matilda?” Mrs. B said.
June edged the trolley closer.
“Does it matter who she is? What we need to do is—”
“Ouch!”
June swung round to see Vera bent over in pain.
“What the hell are you doing, you stupid girl? You ran over my foot.”
“I’m so sorry, Vera. Are you okay?”
“No, I’m not. I think you fractured my toe.”
“What’s going on here?” Marjorie was pacing toward them.
“June deliberately ran me over with that trolley,” Vera said.
“What were you thinking, June?” Marjorie glared at her as she helped to lower Vera into a chair and elevate her leg.
June bit her lip. “It was an accident.”
“She’s always had it in for me,” Vera said.
“We should call an ambulance,” Marjorie said.
“Quite right. I’ve a good mind to sue the library—this is gross negligence.”
“For god’s sake, stop making such a bloody fuss,” Mrs. B said, walking over. “There’s a bus due soon; I’ll help you get to Winton Hospital.”
Vera looked up at her with a frown. “I think we’d better call an ambulance.”
“Don’t be soft. The NHS is stretched enough without having to send out ambulances for bruised feet. Come on, stand up and I’ll help you.”
Vera opened her mouth to complain but thought better of it. She stood up, hobbling after Mrs. B.
“As if we didn’t have enough problems already,” Marjorie hissed at June once they’d gone. “Do you realize what will happen if she makes a formal complaint to the council? They’re looking for excuses to shut us down, June. And you could well have handed them one on a plate.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
On the morning of Gayle’
s hen do, June was awake at six a.m. in a cold sweat. Why had she told Alex she was going? Now, if she didn’t go, he’d realize that she’d been lying and actually had no friends. But if she did go, June would have to see Gayle and all those terrifying women from school again, plus Marjorie would probably fire her for not stopping the stripper.
“What am I going to do?” she groaned at Alan Bennett, who was lying at the end of the bed. He stared at her with contempt. “You’re right, Alan. Of course you are.”
She pulled herself out of bed and opened her wardrobe. Gayle’s e-mail had said they had to come dressed as film heroines, so June stared at her clothes for inspiration. Two pairs of black jeans, one black skirt, and five identical white blouses, all for work. Several gray cardigans, also for work. Her one black dress, which she’d worn to her mum’s funeral, and some old faded T-shirts and jumpers. How was she going to fashion a fancy dress out of these?
June turned around and scanned her eyes along the bookcase in her room. This was where she kept some of her favorite childhood books, the ones that made her feel most comfortable and safe. One book caught her eye.
“Yes, Alan, Hermione Granger!”
June hurried through into her mum’s room and pulled her wardrobe open. A rainbow of different colors greeted her, from a long patchwork coat to a gold sequined dress that her mum had loved. Nothing in this wardrobe was black or gray except for one item, so June rummaged around until she found it. Her mum’s old university graduation gown—perfect for a Harry Potter–themed fancy dress.
Back in her own room, June put the gown on over a white shirt, her old school tie, and a black skirt, and then stood in front of the mirror. Now there was just her hair. She undid the tight plait that she slept with every night and allowed her hair to fall loose. June couldn’t remember the last time she’d looked at her unruly curls like this: every morning she went straight from the plait to a neat bun, and vice versa in the evening. But as much as she hated to admit it, her wild mass of hair did look quite like Hermione’s in the early films.
The Last Chance Library Page 9