The Last Chance Library

by Freya Sampson

  “You guys, Facebook has gone crazy.” Chantal was looking at her phone. “And we’ve had another six hundred signatures on the online petition.”

  “That’s marvelous.” Stanley grabbed his glass of water and lifted it in the air. “To the Friends of Chalcot Library!”

  “To the Friends of Chalcot Library,” they all replied, and June laughed as she raised her glass and joined in the toast.

  * * *

  • • •

  Half an hour later, June was so full of food she could barely move. Mrs. B and Chantal were clearing up the table, and Stanley and Alex were deep in conversation, their heads close together. June stretched out in her chair, enjoying the satisfied warmth of a good meal.

  After a while, Alex stood up. “I’d better get back—my aunt will kill me for being gone so long.”

  “June, why don’t you walk out with him?” Stanley said.

  “Thanks, but I’m fine here.” June didn’t want to spoil this pleasant feeling by having an awkward conversation with Alex.

  “You should get some fresh air,” Stanley said. “You’ve not left the library all day.”

  “Quite right. You need to keep healthy during an occupation,” Mrs. B added, appearing at her shoulder.

  June opened her mouth to resist but realized they were all staring at her.

  “Fine,” she said, pulling herself up and following Alex outside. She was conscious of the fact that she was still wearing yesterday’s clothes, and her hair was escaping from its bun, loose curls falling round her face.

  “So, I’ve got a bone to pick with you,” Alex said as they set off down the Parade.

  “What have I done?” June said, alarmed at the tone of his voice. Was this about her calling him while he was with his girlfriend?

  “Why didn’t you warn me about Charlotte’s Web? I almost burst into tears in front of a customer when I finished it.”

  June smiled, relieved. “Oh. Well, just because a book is meant for children doesn’t mean it can’t pack an emotional punch.”

  “But still, why did the writer have to kill Charlotte? I’ll never hurt a spider again.”

  June laughed and felt some of the tension release from her shoulders.

  “Also, I’ve not known what to read for the past few weeks without your recommendations,” Alex said. “Where have you been?”

  “Sorry, I’ve just been busy.”

  They chatted about books as they made their way down the Parade. After more than twenty-four hours inside the library walls, it felt wonderful to be outside, breathing in the cool evening air and discussing something other than the protest. As they turned down the hill, June was aware of their steps getting shorter and slower.

  “I think The Handmaid’s Tale might be a good choice for you next,” she said as they edged toward the takeaway. “In a way it’s like science fiction because—”

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t help you at the hen do,” Alex interrupted. “I know you’ve been angry with me for not being there, and I feel terrible about it.”

  “I haven’t been angry with you.”

  “Well, you’ve definitely been avoiding me.”

  June thought of Ellie’s voice and swallowed. “I just felt bad for disturbing you when you were with your . . . someone.”

  “Don’t be crazy—I wanted to help you. You sounded so upset.”

  She picked up her pace. “It was nothing.”

  “What happened?”

  June was about to dismiss him again, but she stopped herself. Alex had already heard her at her lowest; why shouldn’t she give him the full miserable picture?

  “Okay, fine. They played this stupid game at the hen do and I was totally humiliated.”

  “What game?”

  “It’s called Never Have I Ever.”

  “Oh god, I remember that from uni. A guaranteed way to get everyone wasted.”

  “Not for me, because I hadn’t done any of the things they said. Not one of them.”

  “Don’t beat yourself up about that,” Alex said. “Those women were always super privileged, so you shouldn’t feel bad because you’ve never driven a Ferrari while wearing Jimmy Choos and drinking Dom Pérignon.” He laughed but June didn’t join in.

  “It wasn’t just stuff like that. There were some really ordinary things that I’d never done, like going out dancing all night or camping.”

  “Well, I hate camping too.”

  They’d reached the takeaway, and June stopped. “I haven’t done anything with my life, Alex. Ever since Mum died, I’ve just shut myself away at home, hiding in the same old books so I didn’t have to go out and face the real world.”

  “You’ve been grieving, June.”

  “But I let myself become so isolated, even before she died.” June turned to look at Alex. “You know I told you I was friends with Gayle? Well, that was a lie—I was only there because Marjorie made her invite me. I don’t have any real friends.”

  “Come on, I’m your friend. And what about Stanley?”

  “Stanley’s kind to me but only because he feels sorry for me.”

  “I know that isn’t true.”

  “One of the women at the hen do said my life was tragic, and she was right.” June swallowed. “My mum would be so disappointed in me.”

  They were silent for a moment, and June watched people moving around inside the takeaway. Why was she telling Alex all this?

  “You know that’s not true, don’t you?” he said. “You may not have hundreds of friends or been camping, but you’ve done lots that your mum would be proud of.”

  June gave a small bitter laugh. “That’s rubbish. She wanted me to follow my dreams and be a writer.”

  “But what about everything you’ve done for the library?”

  “What about it? The place I love more than anywhere has been threatened, and until yesterday I’d done nothing except hide in the background, too scared to put my head above the parapet. If my mum was here, she’d have been—”

  “June, you need to stop comparing yourself to your mum,” Alex said, cutting her short. “You’re your own person with your own qualities. Yeah, maybe you’re shy and prefer to keep to the back rather than shout from the front. But you’re also smart and kind and loyal, and I for one think you’re pretty amazing.”

  Alex stopped talking and looked a little stunned at what he’d just said. The takeaway door opened, and a couple walked out. As they did, a small gray-haired woman behind the counter caught sight of them. “Alex, where’ve you been? I need you in here!”

  “Coming, Auntie,” he called back as the door slammed shut. He looked at June. “I’m sorry, I have to go in.”

  “That’s okay.” There was a pause and June stared at her feet. “I’m sorry I’ve been avoiding you, Alex. I just felt humiliated after that phone call.”

  “Well, I’m sorry I wasn’t around to help you. I really wish I could have been there for you.”

  “Alex!” came the voice from inside, louder.

  He looked at June and shrugged helplessly. “Good night.”

  “Good night, Alex.”

  June watched him walk inside, and the door swung shut behind him. She looked down the hill, toward her road and the comforts of home: her bed, the books, solitude.

  And then June turned and made her way back up the hill, toward the people waiting for her at the library.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  June was repairing some damaged books when Alex walked in through the library front door. When she saw him she smiled, her heart beating faster. Alex kept his eyes locked on hers as he walked toward her, never breaking his gaze. When he reached June he didn’t say anything, just reached out and took her hand, pulling her up to standing in one deft movement. He leaned toward her, across the issue desk, so that his face was just centimeters from Jun
e’s. She held her breath, not daring to move as Alex stroked her cheek and whispered—

  “Wake up, lazybones.”

  June opened her eyes and sat up, dazed. There was Stanley, sitting in his chair reading the newspaper. There was Chantal, eating a chocolate croissant. And there was Mrs. B, thrusting a mug of tea toward her.

  “This isn’t the time for a bloody lie-in—we have work to do.”

  June took the mug and walked over to Stanley, hoping no one could see how flushed her cheeks were from that dream.

  “Good morning, my dear.” He gave her a smile, but June noticed he looked pale.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine, just a small headache. I didn’t sleep well last night.”

  “Why don’t you go home today and get some rest?”

  “Oh, I’ll be as right as rain once I’ve had this coffee. Besides, I wouldn’t want to miss the drama here.” He indicated Mrs. B, who was stabbing the air with her finger.

  “I think we should make a formal complaint to Ofcom,” Mrs. B shouted. “That news report was blatantly ageist.”

  “And they didn’t use any footage of me and my friends,” Chantal said. “It’s like we weren’t even there.”

  “Exactly. This is why I’ve never paid my license fee. They’re all right-wing b—”

  “There’s someone at the door,” June said, pointing outside toward a man wearing combat trousers and an exhausted expression. He had a camera slung over his shoulder.

  “He looks like one of those bottom-feeder journalists,” Mrs. B said. “Go and tell him to piss off.”

  “He’ll just want to humiliate us again,” Stanley said.

  June ran a hand over her hair and walked to the door. “Can I help you?”

  “Is this the library with the pensioners protest?” the man asked.

  “Well, you see, it’s not exactly a pensioner protest.”

  “That’s what everyone’s calling it.”

  “Everyone?”

  “It’s gone viral. It was trending on Twitter last night.”

  “What?”

  “Here.” He pulled out his phone and showed it to her. The hashtag #oapprotest was everywhere on the screen. “People have gone mad for it—your old dears are famous now. Especially that guy who talked about surfing.”

  “But we thought the news made us all look a bit, well, silly.”

  “Nah, people love a feel-good story. And I’m not the only one to think so.” He signaled over his shoulder to where several other men and women were crossing the road toward the library. “Can I come in and do some interviews before this lot get in?”

  “Hang on a minute.” June shut the door and returned to the group.

  Mrs. B was mid-rant when June arrived. “I hope you told him to put his camera where the sun don’t shine.”

  “Not quite.” June explained what the man had told her.

  “I’m sorry, but what does ‘viral’ mean?” Stanley said. “It sounds rather unpleasant.”

  “But they completely misrepresented us,” Chantal said.

  “Look, if we’re going to stand any chance of saving the library, we need to get as much attention as possible,” June said. “And if that means playing up to this ‘pensioner protest’ thing to get in the papers, I think we should do it.” She turned to Stanley. “You were the one who started this occupation. What do you think?”

  He sighed. “Reluctantly, I agree with you. We’d be fools to miss this opportunity.”

  “But I’ve never been called an OAP in all my life,” Mrs. B muttered. June looked at her and she frowned. “Fine. If it’s for the good of the library, I suppose I can handle it one more time.”

  “There’s just one problem,” Chantal said. “If they only want to see pensioners, it’s going to seem like a pretty small protest.”

  June looked from Stanley to Mrs. B. “I could put out calls to the Knit and Natter group to see if some of them could come?”

  Mrs. B shook her head. “That’s still not going to be enough. We need to fill this library if it’s going to make a news story.”

  At that moment, the library door creaked open. They all looked toward it hopefully, but the only person to walk in was Vera, scowling. “There’s a minibus just turned up,” she said. “They’ve parked in the disabled spot. Can you believe it?”

  “It must be more journalists,” June said, looking outside as the driver’s door opened and a silver-haired woman wearing a Barbour jacket and tartan skirt climbed down. A stream of women was coming out of the minibus, helping one another disembark. June went to the door to meet them. “Can I help you?”

  “Mary Cooper-Marks.” The Barbour lady stepped forward and gave June a firm handshake. “We saw you on the news last night.”

  “I’m sorry, who are you?”

  “We’re from the Dornley Women’s Institute. Our library got closed down a few years ago. Bloody tragedy. So when we saw your protest, we thought we’d come along and lend a hand.”

  The women had finished filing off the bus now. There must have been at least fifteen of them, and the majority looked well past retirement age.

  “You’ve come to help us?” Stanley asked.

  “Is that all right?” one of the WI ladies said. “We all quite fancied the idea of joining a pensioners’ protest. Much nicer than the rowdy ones you normally see on the news.”

  “This is amazing,” June said. “You’re all amazing. Thank you!”

  “Look, love, can we come in or not?” one of the journalists said. “I need to get back to London by lunchtime.”

  “Yes, of course you can. Please come in, all of you.”

  June spent the morning running around the library, helping the journalists and fetching cups of tea for the protesters. Some of the sprightlier WI ladies were marching around the shelves, waving homemade placards and chanting, “Save Chalcot Library.” Others were sitting in small groups talking with locals about the library. June noticed that Mrs. B and Mary Cooper-Marks spent much of the morning huddled in a corner together, deep in conversation. At ten o’clock another minibus turned up, this one full of residents from Cherry Tree Retirement Home who had seen the news piece too.

  “I used to come here with my children fifty years ago,” said an elderly gentleman, helping himself to one of the sandwiches that Chantal and Stanley were busy making. “It’s a crying shame to see places like this get shut down.”

  “We get a mobile library in our village now,” said one of the WI women. “The librarian is a sweet lad, but it’s just not the same.”

  “I miss seeing the children playing in the library,” said her friend.

  “Shall we have a sing-along?” asked one lady from the retirement home, who June had been told was ninety-four. “Does anyone know any Vera Lynn?”

  As the protesters burst into song, June saw Leila walking through the front door. She headed over to her.

  “Thanks so much for the cakes yesterday,” June said. “They were a huge success.”

  “Can I take a new book?”

  “Of course.”

  They walked over to the cookery section and began scanning the shelf together.

  “What about this Nigella Lawson one?” June said, pulling out How to Eat. “My mum always loved her recipes.”

  Leila took the book and studied the cover. Over her shoulder, June saw Vera approaching, a frown on her face.

  “Waste of time,” she said in a low voice as she walked past.

  June felt a flush of anger. “What did you say, Vera?”

  The old woman paused and spoke more loudly. “I said it’s a waste of time.” She pointed at Leila holding the recipe book.

  “Vera, we do not tolerate any kind of discrimination in this library. I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to—”

  “
You don’t want Nigella for baking,” Vera said, cutting June off. “She’s good with savories but she won’t get you anywhere with cakes.” She reached up to a shelf and pulled down an old, battered book. “This is what you want. A good old-fashioned recipe book, none of this celebrity chef nonsense.”

  Leila clearly couldn’t understand a word of what Vera was saying and she looked to June for reassurance.

  “Also, you used the wrong cocoa powder in the chocolate cake yesterday,” Vera continued, raising her voice to try to make Leila understand. “You used drinking chocolate, but you want something for baking.” She reached into her bag and pulled out a pot of Bournville cocoa powder, which she thrust at Leila. The woman stepped backward in alarm. Vera stood for a moment with her hand stretched out, then put the Bournville down on the shelf and walked away.

  * * *

  • • •

  The journalists all left by late morning and things quietened down. June hadn’t had a moment to rest and her eyes were itchy from lack of sleep, so she stepped outside and sat down on the bench opposite the library. She and her mum used to sit in this exact spot when June was a child, eating jam doughnuts on a Saturday morning. June felt a familiar pang of longing at the memory and turned to look into the library window. Mrs. B and Mary Cooper-Marks were standing together by the front door, talking with intensity. Chantal was reading to a couple of ladies from the retirement home, the ninety-four-year-old nodding as she listened. Vera and Leila were sitting together at a table by the window, bent over a recipe book; Vera was trying to explain something, waving her hands around with force. June smiled to herself and closed her eyes, allowing the sun to warm her face.

  “I thought you might like a cup of tea.”

  She looked up to see Stanley approaching, holding two mugs. He handed her one.

  “Thanks, Stanley. How’s your headache?”

  “Oh, it was nothing.”

  He sat down next to her and for a few minutes they remained in silence, enjoying the peace and calm.

  “I can’t believe we’ve done this,” June said after a while. “Until this week, the most exciting thing to happen to me was winning the reading prize at school.”