The Last Chance Library

by Freya Sampson

  “There you are!”

  “Hi, guys,” June said, alarmed at the determined look in their eyes.

  “When are you leaving?” Mrs. B said.

  “At twelve thirty, why?”

  Chantal checked her watch. “That only gives us half an hour; we’d better get going.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “What are you wearing to your job interview?” Mrs. B asked.

  “Eh, this.” June indicated her work trousers and white shirt.

  “What did I tell you?” Chantal said to Mrs. B, rolling her eyes.

  June looked between them. “What’s going on?”

  “You can’t go to a job interview looking like that,” Chantal said. “I’m going to give you a mini makeover while Mrs. B gives you some last-minute interview prep.”

  “Really?” June hadn’t even realized they knew she had an interview today.

  “Yes, really,” Mrs. B said. “Now, come on, we’ve got a hell of a lot to do.”

  They frog-marched her to the toilets, and for the next twenty minutes June allowed herself to be prodded, poked, and squeezed as Chantal attacked her hair and face with a variety of tools. All the while Mrs. Bransworth fired fiendish questions at her. By the time they’d finished, June felt exhausted—and she hadn’t even had the interview yet. She stood facing the two of them as they surveyed her.

  “Not bad at all,” Chantal said.

  “We’ve done a pretty good job, if I say so myself,” Mrs. B said with a satisfied nod. “Have a look at yourself in the mirror, then.”

  June turned around to face the toilet mirror and let out a gasp. Her usual plain, sensible outfit been replaced by a bright floral dress, cinched at the waist with a belt. Her hair had been released from its bun and Chantal had somehow tamed the frizz, so that now it hung in lovely loose curls over one shoulder. Her skin was no longer deathly pale, but she had a pink tinge in her cheeks, and her eyes looked like they were sparkling.

  “Wow, I look—”

  “You look bloody gorgeous,” Mrs. B said.

  June turned back to them, tears pricking her eyes.

  “Don’t cry—you’ll smudge the mascara!” Chantal said.

  “Okay.” June smiled. “But thank you both so much. You’ve made me into a different person.”

  “You’re not a different person,” Mrs. B said. “You’re the same June that the rest of us have always seen. Now you can just see it for yourself.”

  “Mrs. Bransworth, are you being sentimental?” June said, laughing.

  “No, I was not being sodding sentimental, I was just giving you some . . .”

  Chantal looked at June and raised her eyebrows. “She’ll be at it for hours. You’d better go to your interview; good luck!”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  “Thanks so much for coming, June. We’ll be in touch.”

  The man shook her hand, and as June turned and headed out the front door, she felt a wave of relief. The questions had been a breeze compared to Mrs. B’s grilling earlier. And although June was probably not experienced enough for working in such a big library, at least she’d got through the interview without completely humiliating herself.

  She walked to the station and caught the next train, crowding into a carriage for the long journey back home. As the train moved off, June reached into her bag and pulled out her book, staring at the picture on the front cover. It was a portrait of a pale-skinned Regency-style woman, her brown curly hair pulled back into a bun. She was wearing a white empire-waist dress splashed with scarlet blood. On her face, where her mouth and chin should have been, the skin was peeled back to reveal sinister skeletal teeth. Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, the title read.

  June had reserved the book from Favering Library back in the summer, but it had been out on loan and had never arrived. She’d completely forgotten about it until she opened up the green crate of deliveries yesterday morning and found a copy among the pile of books on reserve. June’s first instinct had been to put it straight back, but something had stopped her and instead she’d taken it out. Now, June opened the front cover and started to read the opening page. It is a truth universally acknowledged that a zombie in possession of brains must be in want of more brains . . .

  June had just got to the scene at Netherfield where zombies eat all the servants during Bingley’s ball when she arrived back at Winton station. She got off and caught the bus to Chalcot, disembarking on the Parade. But instead of turning left at the post office, she carried on and took the next road instead. June had been taking this longer route home for a while now and had replaced her weekly Chinese takeaway with homemade vegetable rice. She told herself this was because she needed to be healthier, but the truth was she felt a sharp ache in her chest every time she walked past the Golden Dragon. Alex was gone. Stanley was gone. And as of tomorrow, the library would be gone too. As much as June hated to admit it, all she had left in Chalcot was a house full of memories.

  She walked up her front path, unlocked the green door, and stepped inside.

  “Alan, I’m home,” she called as she kicked off her shoes and hung up her coat.

  June went through to the living room and turned on the light. The room looked exactly the same as it had when she’d left this morning, exactly the same as it had every day for the past eight years. The same old photos on the walls, June’s and Beverley’s faces smiling down from dozens of frames. The same china ornaments on the mantlepiece, the same books on the shelves. June walked over and ran her hand along a row of spines. She came to her mum’s old copy of War and Peace and pulled it off the shelf, flicking through the pages. There was a bookmark halfway through, left over from her last effort to read it back at the start of the summer. Her mum had loved this book, but as much as June hated to admit it, she was never going to finish it.

  A thought occurred to June and she walked back into the kitchen. On the counter she kept a pile of old leaflets and flyers that came through the door, mainly for takeaways that she would never order. She rummaged through the pile until she found what she was looking for, a crumpled piece of pink paper.

  Do you have any old books you no longer need? Cherry Tree Retirement Home is in desperate need of secondhand books for our residents. All genres welcome.

  June knew the place well; once a fortnight she or Marjorie used to go there to swap library books for the residents. It was a lovely Edwardian building, with big windows overlooking a well-kept garden. Her mum and Linda always used to joke that when they were old they’d live there together, drinking gin and having their pick of the elderly gentlemen. And some Cherry Tree residents had come to the library occupation: June particularly remembered the ninety-four-year-old who had entertained them all with Vera Lynn songs.

  She found an old cardboard box under the sink and carried it through to the living room. June picked up War and Peace again, closing her eyes as she lifted it to her nose and inhaled the dusty, smoky scent. She stayed like that for a moment, the book pressed to her skin, and then without looking she placed it in the empty box.

  Once she’d started, June found she worked quickly and methodically, the library assistant in her kicking in. The box was soon full, and she went upstairs and found several others, which were soon overflowing as well. With nothing else to put the books in, June started making tall piles on the floor, ordered into genre.

  Next, she turned her attention to the mantelpiece. June picked up the ornament of the girl reading a book, turning it over in her hands. She remembered her mum bringing it home from the white elephant stall when June was seven or eight. No one else wants her, poor thing, Beverley had said. I think she looks a bit like you, Junebug, so let’s give her a new life here.

  June put the girl to one side, then picked up a china model of a London bus and began wrapping it in a page from an old copy of the Gazette. Alan Bennett was sitting
on the sofa, watching her with startled curiosity.

  “For the next summer fete,” she told him. “Someone else can give these a home now.”

  When June paused to get a glass of water, she was shocked to see that it was past ten and she’d been working for almost four hours. She surveyed the chaos in the living room; piles of books for Cherry Tree House and newspaper parcels for the white elephant stall covered the whole floor. The place had never been such a mess and June suddenly felt exhausted. She hadn’t got round to eating dinner, so she went through to the kitchen and made herself a cheese sandwich. As she ate, she absentmindedly flicked through today’s post. There was a flyer from a new Chinese restaurant in Favering, which June put on her leaflets pile, feeling guilty. Underneath it was a copy of the Gazette. June was about to put it aside for wrapping purposes when the headline caught her eye. cuppa coffee pulls out of library deal as police called in. Beneath the headline was the name Ryan Mitchell and a tiny photo of his spotty face.

  The multinational beverage company behind the Cuppa Coffee chain has pulled out of its deal to buy the Chalcot Library building, as Dunningshire Council faces allegations of corruption surrounding the sale.

  As previously reported, an exclusive investigation by this newspaper uncovered bank statements showing Chalcot parish councillor Brian Spencer received payments from Lombart Inc. into his personal account. A council insider, who asked to remain anonymous, told the Gazette that the payments Cllr. Spencer received were in exchange for bribing county councillors to support the sale. When contacted by the Gazette, Cllr. Spencer refused to comment.

  Last month, Dunningshire Council launched their own internal investigation after being presented with the evidence. Now, sources say police have been called in to help with the inquiry.

  A spokesperson for Lombart Inc. said the company’s decision to withdraw from the purchase of the Chalcot building is unrelated to the ongoing police investigation.

  “We have found a site in Mawley which we believe is better positioned and so have decided to open a Cuppa Coffee branch there instead,” the spokesperson told the Gazette.

  Dunningshire Council’s Head of Library Services, Sarah Thwaite, confirmed that the library is still set for closure and the council are now looking for a new buyer for the Chalcot building.

  “Our decision to close Chalcot Library was based entirely on the results of analysis by an independent management consultancy firm, and had nothing whatsoever to do with considerations about the sale of the building to Cuppa Coffee. The library will still be closing on 19th November as planned.”

  June threw the paper down. In all the activity of this evening she’d not thought once about the library, but now the reality came crashing back. And while stories like this appeared in the paper every week and gave the village plenty to gossip about, it wouldn’t change a thing. Despite everything they’d done, the library was still closing tomorrow.

  Yawning, June picked up the last piece of mail, a plain white envelope with her name and address typed on the front. She opened it and pulled out a short typed letter.

  Dear Ms. Jones,

  I am writing to inform you that you have been named as the sole beneficiary of the residue of the estate under the Will of the late Mr. Stanley William Phelps. I enclose a copy of the relevant clause of the Will for your information.

  I will be in touch again when the estate process has been completed and I am able to make a distribution to you.

  Yours sincerely,

  E. Davis

  June reread the letter several times, worried her exhausted eyes were deceiving her. What could the “residue of the estate” be? She’d seen where Stanley lived—he clearly didn’t have any possessions except the trailer. And if that was his estate, then that was very kind of him, but what on earth was June supposed to do with it?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  At half past six the next morning, June pulled on her coat, scarf, and wellies and left home before the sun was up. She took the long route, avoiding Alex’s family’s takeaway, and turned right onto the Parade. None of the shops were open yet and there was little sign of life, just a few cars carrying dull-eyed commuters.

  June slowed her pace as she passed the library. Marjorie would be there in a few hours to unlock the front door for the final time. Soon after, the regulars would start arriving: Vera and Leila to look at recipe books together, families to use the Children’s Room, and Mrs. Bransworth to complain about her latest read. June turned her back on the library and walked down to the bridge, joining the footpath by the river.

  After a mile or so, she consulted her phone to check the route, then found the stile, climbed over it, and set off across the fields. There was a narrow track, worn by repetitive footprints over the years, and June wondered if it was Stanley’s feet that had etched it into the soil. At the far side of the field she crossed a narrow lane and was confronted by a huge metal fence blocking off the fields beyond, the words alexander properties emblazoned on the side. June peered through a gap. It was too early for any work to have started and there was no one about, but through the gloom she could make out diggers and an excavator parked up alongside a portacabin. What looked like the foundations for some of the new houses were already in place. June walked along the lane, following the large fence for five hundred meters or so, until it ended, and she came to some hedges. She squeezed through a gap and walked along the edge of the building site and into the small copse at the far side.

  As she emerged through the trees, June was relieved to see the trailer still there, although it looked even more decrepit than before. As she approached it, she saw brambles climbing up the side, and large clumps of stinging nettles had popped up round the wheels. A perfectly formed cobweb hung over the door, glistening in the first light.

  Was she really going to go inside? It had seemed like a good idea last night; given the trailer was now her property, she might as well get on with the unpleasant task of clearing it out. But still June hovered at the door. This was where Stanley had died, where his body had lain for almost forty-eight hours before it was discovered. Goodness knew what state the place would be in, having been left unoccupied for two months. For a moment June was tempted to walk away, but she forced herself to turn the door handle. This trailer was the place that her friend had called home, and for some reason he’d wanted her to have it. She braced herself and stepped inside.

  The first thing that hit June was the smell. It was worse than she could ever have imagined—a sickly, rotten stench that made her retch. The curtains were drawn, and the trailer was pitch-black, so she pulled her phone out of her pocket and switched on the torch. Holding her breath, she took a step forward and saw the remains of what must have been Stanley’s last meal sitting in the sink, now a putrid, semiliquid mass. June reached into her rucksack and pulled out a pair of rubber gloves and a bin bag that she’d brought with her. She put on the gloves, closed her eyes, and put her hand into the sink, scooping up the gloopy mass and the plate it was on, and threw them into the sack. She also picked up a pan that was sitting next to the sink, covered in a thick layer of mold, and put that in too, before tossing the bag outside.

  Next, June pulled back the curtains and opened the two small windows to let some early-morning light and fresh air into the trailer. Now she was able to see the space better, it was much as she remembered it. On the left was the narrow single bed, still neatly made, and hanging up next to it was Stanley’s suit, the jacket done up and the trousers folded underneath. There was something about seeing these meager items hung up with so much care that brought a lump to June’s throat, and she turned away from the bed. The small table was covered in piles of paper, as it had been the last time June had visited. She recognized the leaflets they’d made up during the occupation, and what looked like some minutes from a Friends of Chalcot Library meeting. June began sifting through them, wondering what she was g
oing to do with it all, when she caught sight of an envelope on the corner of the table. She picked it up and almost dropped it in surprise. Written on the front were five words.

  June Jones, c/o Chalcot Library

  With shaking hands, June carried the envelope outside and sat down on the front step of the trailer. She opened it and pulled out a thin sheet of paper covered in close lines of handwriting. The date at the top was the ninth of September, the day before Stanley died.

  My Dearest June,

  I hope this letter finds you well. I imagine it may come as a bit of a shock, and for that I sincerely apologize. But please humor an old man, as there are some important things that I must share with you whilst I still can.

  At the start of the summer, I was not in what you young people would call “a good place.” I pride myself on never letting this show: a childhood spent in English boarding schools gives one an excellent education in hiding one’s emotions. But, in truth, the burden of guilt I carry about my past had almost entirely consumed me. Add to that the not inconsiderable stress I have been under from those darned property developers, and all in all I was having some rather desperate thoughts.

  Then our friends at the council announced they wanted to close the library, and everything changed. I have told you at length why I feel so passionately about libraries, not just Chalcot but every one out there. Libraries have quite literally saved my life on more occasions than I care to admit, and finally I felt this was my chance to save one in return. As I write this letter, I do not know what the outcome of our battle will be, and I fear that I will never find out. But whatever happens, I do know that we have fought the very best fight we could.