‘All right, all right. I’ll get the ink when we’re in Tesco if you remind me. Then you can always print it off at home.’
‘There’s leaflets and stuff in the library I want to see too. Archive stuff from the war.’
‘Fair enough.’
They drove out of the village, down narrow lanes that frothed with cow parsley and the bright acid green of summer. Turning the corner, he slowed the Land Rover to a stop behind a row of cars which were waiting patiently for a herd of brown-and-white cows to cross from one field to another. A couple of minutes passed, and with the gate secured, the farmhand raised an arm in thanks.
They pulled into the car park beside the little library that hid down an alley behind Bletchingham’s picture-postcard high street. Willows drooped over the narrow canal, and beyond that the park sloped gently towards the red bricks of the housing estate that had sprung up on the old common where they’d hung out as teenagers. He watched two teenage boys cycle past on BMX bikes, hopping off the kerb and laughing, and wondered if he’d still be able to do any tricks. He’d spent years hanging out at the skate park, which was where the boys were headed.
‘Dad? You coming?’ Freya paused, her hand on the door. Sam shook his head.
‘I’ll wait here. Got a couple of calls to make.’
‘Okay.’
‘Freya?’ He called her and she spun round, hair flying. ‘Do you need money for the photocopier?’
She shook her head and patted her jeans pocket. ‘I’ve got change.’
He watched her striding off. Once she’d disappeared out of view, Sam pulled out the rough plans he’d drawn for Annabel’s treehouse. He’d fallen into the job as a treehouse designer by accident, somehow. After school, he’d trained as a joiner and spent a few years creating luxury kitchens for a bespoke company. Then when the company he worked for went bust, he’d decided to fill in time and keep money ticking over with odds and sods locally. He’d built the first treehouse for the local park after a conversation in the pub one evening, and – after a long and detailed battle over health and safety elements, which had taught him exactly what was and wasn’t safe – the build had ended with a celebration barbecue opening, a horde of delighted children from the village, and three commissions that evening alone. Word had spread – money was plentiful in the Cotswold/Buckinghamshire borders, where they lived – and somehow TreeTops Treehouse Design had blossomed into a business that made a decent living. If he could deal with the fact that the clients could be a little bit demanding, which he could, and he could cope with the nagging concern that he was doing something that wasn’t really making a difference, he’d be fine. Making treehouses for children who lived a privileged, well-off life at least meant they’d be outside, instead of glued to their phones or Xboxes all weekend long. He couldn’t help thinking, though, about how much he would have loved something like that for himself when he was growing up. And there were so many children out there who equally deserved somewhere special to play and didn’t even have a garden, let alone one with a bespoke treehouse.
He rang a supplier, hoping he might catch someone before they left the office. No luck. He tapped at the steering wheel, staring out of the window, not really focusing. A couple walked by with a toddler girl, swinging her by the arms as they headed towards the canal. The woman was carrying a bag of bread for the ducks. If Freya was there, she’d be chuntering crossly about the dangers of feeding them unsuitable food. Instead, though, she was taking ages in the library. The dogs sighed heavily from the back seat – really he should have left them behind, but they were so nosy they liked to be with the rest of their pack. And then Bee shot to attention, aware of Freya before Sam could even see her.
She marched towards the car, huge clumpy trainers at the end of skinny matchstick legs clad in tight black leggings. She had braces on her teeth, and her hair was tied back with a band to keep it off her face. She looked, as ever, as if she had the cares of the world on her shoulders. She was a worrier, the absolute opposite of her mum, and he wanted to scoop every one of those imaginary worries off her narrow shoulders and make life as easy for her as possible. It was the least he could do. Growing up without a mum was hard. He’d grown up without a dad – he knew. Back then, the whole village had seemed to be stuffed full of nuclear families, and he’d felt like he was missing out. His mother had muttered darkly on more than one occasion that he definitely wasn’t, and that if he’d known his dad he’d know what she was on about. But he didn’t, so he felt, if not his absence, then the absence of something he’d never had.
When Stella, Freya’s mum, had left, scandalizing the villagers, he’d reeled with guilt that somehow here he was in the exact same situation with his daughter. He’d resolved to be careful never to say a bad word against Stella, and to try and do everything by the book. But he still felt consumed with guilt that he wasn’t doing the best he could, or trying his hardest to make their family unit of two feel complete. The one thing he’d resolved – and stuck to – was that he wasn’t going to bring anyone else into her life. His mum had introduced a series of boyfriends, but none of them had ever stuck around. He didn’t want that for Freya. And if that meant staying single until she was safely off to university – well, that’s what he would do.
‘Get everything you need?’
‘They’re closing the library.’ Freya carefully placed the bag of books at her feet and looked up. She had a smudge of mascara under one eye, and he wanted to reach out and brush it away. He lifted a hand, but she flopped back against the window.
‘Closing it for what? Renovations?’
‘No, permanently. If you need a library service, there’s one in Bletchley, or Aylesbury, it says.’ Freya held a flyer in her hand and waggled it so it made a crackling sound. Sam saw the letters swimming around but couldn’t make out what it said.
Freya strapped herself in. ‘Which is handy,’ she continued, sounding cross, ‘because I’m hardly about to get on the bus and travel half an hour to Bletchley just to go to the library.’
He looked at her and raised his eyebrows.
‘Yeah, all right. Maybe I will.’
‘I can always give you a lift.’
‘Thanks. But that doesn’t help with school stuff. How am I supposed to get anything done? I’m trying to get good grades and now we don’t have a bloody printer, the library’s closing, we live half an hour from school in the back end of beyond, and . . .’ She tailed off as Sam reversed and headed out of the car park. God, she was persistent. She’d make a good politician.
‘You need to stop worrying so much about this stuff,’ he said, flicking a glance at her as he waited to pull out and head to the supermarket.
‘I’m not stressing. I just want to get decent grades.’
‘I know, sweetheart.’
‘Really?’ She looked at him, eyebrows raised. Her tone was crisp. Ever since she was tiny, she’d had a way of making him laugh by sounding like she was the adult.
‘Yes. Of course. I want you to do the best you can.’ He indicated and pulled off the roundabout and into the supermarket car park. ‘Just because I didn’t do well at school doesn’t mean I don’t want you to.’
‘Why’d you keep going on about there being more to life than school and grades, then?’
‘Oh God,’ he groaned, laughing. ‘Can I buy your silence with some ice cream?’
‘Only if it’s posh stuff. Not just Tesco own-brand.’
They stopped and he turned off the engine. Freya jumped out before he’d even unfastened his seatbelt, and grabbed a trolley. He followed behind, locking the car and heading to the entrance, where Freya was saying hello to a Labrador puppy in the arms of a rather frazzled-looking woman.
‘Isn’t she gorgeous? Can we get another dog?’
He rolled his eyes at the woman. ‘We’ve already got two waiting in the car.’
‘Another one wouldn’t hurt,’ wheedled Freya.
‘That’s exactly what my boys said to me,’ the w
oman told her. ‘Now they’re in there buying pizza, and I’m the one staying up all night potty-training a puppy.’
‘Exactly,’ Sam said, taking Freya’s arm and prising her away. He pushed the trolley and she headed towards the fruit and vegetable section.
‘What d’you want for dinner?’ His stomach growled. He was ravenous, and there was nothing in the fridge.
‘Sausages?’
‘And mash?’ He grinned at her.
‘And peas,’ they said, in unison. It was their favourite dinner. They headed for the fridges and gathered what they needed. Somehow he found himself being conned into buying three tubs of Ben & Jerry’s because it was on special offer (even though they both knew she’d devour it with her friend Cammie in the space of twenty-four hours). Purchases made, they headed home.
It wasn’t until he was turning the sausages under the grill later that evening that he remembered he’d forgotten razor blades again.
Chapter Three
Sam had woken up feeling out of sorts after a night where he couldn’t sleep. At half past two, he’d given up and gone downstairs. He’d curled up on the sofa with some toast and one of Freya’s fleecy blankets. He’d sat for ages, finally falling asleep in front of the television, only to be woken up at six when the dogs had trodden on him on hearing his alarm go off upstairs. It was going to be a long, long day. And then Freya – who’d been a lark all of her childhood, springing out of bed, but who over the last year or so as puberty had hit had become typically bed-hogging – had groaned and pulled the covers over her head when he’d gone in to wake her up. So the day had begun with the tension that only a teenager reluctant to get ready brought to the morning. He’d tried to stay calm, ignoring the minutes as they ticked by, but as the time for the school bus edged closer and closer he strode to the bottom of the stairs and yelled one last time.
‘You don’t need to stress,’ she’d said, appearing with her tie hanging loosely round her neck. ‘Have I ever missed the bus?’
‘No,’ he said, teeth gritted, but still amused at her insouciance. ‘But I have better things to do in the morning than spend my time standing at the bottom of the stairs giving you a countdown.’
‘Do you, though?’ She’d winked and grinned at him, ducking under his arm.
‘Watch it, madam,’ he’d said, laughing. She’d texted him a couple of moments later with a photograph of herself – cross-eyed and tongue poking out – next to her best friend Cammie.
Very funny, he’d replied. He’d snapped a picture and sent it back to her. He looked down at it. His stubble was crossing over towards beard territory, and his hair really needed a trim. And God, the eye bags under his brown eyes were almost grey. He really needed a decent night’s sleep tonight – and meanwhile, a bucket of coffee. Several of them.
‘I thought I’d bring you coffee down, as you didn’t reply to my invite for breakfast,’ purred Annabel, flicking away her long blonde hair as she carefully deposited a tray on the wide stump where the old oak tree had stood in their garden for years.
‘Careful with that, it’s got treatment on it,’ Sam said, scooping the tray up quickly and placing it on the ground.
‘Coffee, cream, sugar – although I’m sure you’re sweet enough,’ Annabel said, with a giggle.
‘Three, please,’ said Sam, firmly.
‘And can I tempt you to one of these lovely brownies I made? I got the recipe when I was in Oslo with girlfriends the other week. They’re glorious.’
‘I’m fine, thanks.’ Sam, who wanted to swill back a mouthful of coffee and get on, shook his head.
‘This is looking quite lovely!’ Annabel motioned to the framework of wide wooden boards that would make the platform on which the treehouse stood. There was a gap where the staircase would lead, and a space underneath for a picnic table. ‘I wanted to talk to you about the picnic table idea.’ She looked at him over her coffee mug. Her honey-coloured hair was tied back in a ponytail, and there was a pair of sunglasses perched on her head. The weather forecast suggested they had another four days of grey, dull weather before the rain set in, and he was determined to get on as much as possible. Or he would be, if Annabel would stop interrupting him.
‘I’ve been thinking it would be fun to have a hot tub under the treehouse. There’s just the right amount of space, and it wouldn’t be too tricky to pop some pipes and stuff like that along here, would it?’
God, this job was a nightmare. He’d known it was going to be from the moment he’d turned up at Annabel’s house to discover she’d set out a little lunch for them to brainstorm some ideas, darling. But self-employment meant he had to go where the work was, even if that meant gritting his teeth and putting up with entitled, bored, rich housewives. Normally he’d have his two apprentices with him, but this was their day at college, so he was on his own.
‘I’ll need to have a word with a couple of subcontractors about that. Might hold everything up a bit.’
Annabel’s mouth curved into a catlike smile. ‘Oh, what a shame that would be. Do you think you can put up with me for a bit longer?’
‘Of course,’ said Sam, politely. His jaw was rigid, but Annabel seemed to be oblivious. ‘But if you don’t mind, I really ought to get on. I’m racing the weather.’ He looked at the sky, where a couple of clouds were looming.
‘Absolutely.’ Annabel bent over to pick up the tray, angling herself carefully to show off her bottom, clad in a pair of clinging blue jodhpurs. She stood up and turned around, giving a little laugh. ‘I don’t want to be distracting you, now, do I?’
Sam closed his eyes and took a breath. He might be businesslike, but he was still human. ‘Definitely not.’ He picked up a tape measure and clicked it onto the edge of one of the bars. ‘Thanks so much for the coffee. I’ll measure up the hot tub space and get back to you, okay?’
‘Fab.’ Annabel gave a little wave of her fingers. ‘I’m off for a riding lesson now. Back soon!’
Sam turned back to the trunk of the beech tree and banged his forehead gently against the bark. Bloody hell. He’d better ring Jack, the plumber. Not only was he a dab hand with this sort of thing, but he had no scruples whatsoever about shagging the clients. If Annabel realized he was up for it, Sam would be able to get on with work without temptation. He had enough on his plate being mum and dad to Freya without getting caught up in some messy work romance, let alone one with Annabel Bevan, wife of the head of MI6 or whatever it was Malcolm did. If Jack wanted to risk being offed by an anonymous man in a suit for the sake of getting his end away, that was his business. All Sam wanted to do was do the job, get the money and get out. With a sigh, he picked up his saw and got back to work.
‘I was thinking,’ an elderly voice said later, from beyond the hedge in the garden, ‘that you could perhaps check those hedgehog houses in the garden, if you have a moment.’
Sam, home from work and rifling through a pile of junk mail on the doorstep, jumped. He’d finally got rid of Annabel, and had made good progress – which was a relief, because that was one job he’d be glad to see the back of.
‘You mean at your place?’
‘And the cottage, if you don’t mind. I want to know if we’ve got any new residents.’
Bunty, who lived in the cottage opposite, had a habit of surprising him, which even after all these years he’d still not learned to predict. She would also continue conversations that they’d begun days, if not weeks before. It was, he supposed, something to do with being as old as she was. Perhaps time ceased to have the same meaning when you were ninety-six. Whatever it was, Sam wished she’d clear her throat or even try something radical like saying hello before she launched into a conversation. She emerged from behind the hedge and stood with one gnarled hand holding onto the gatepost.
‘Course I will. I’ll pop in tomorrow, if it’s okay with you? Am I checking for hedgehogs, or . . .?’
‘Rats.’
He looked up. Bunty looked back at him, her face seemingly untroubled.
‘Rats?’
‘Just something I read. I don’t want any little visitors moving in. And don’t forget to check the cottage garden next door too. I don’t want any of them scampering into the garden, or worse.’
‘Right.’
Well, that was something to look forward to. It was never dull with Bunty, he’d give her that. It wasn’t being ninety-six that made her irascible and prone to eccentricity – he’d grown up with her, and she’d always been the same. She was just what people called a bit of a character.
Despite all of that, Sam would do anything for his neighbour. She was obstinate, apparently planned to live forever, and stubborn as an old mountain goat. Despite the best efforts of her daughter-in-law, Margaret, she remained at home with only a twice-weekly cleaning company popping by to help out. Or – as Bunty put it – interfere.
‘Where’s Freya?’
‘Lurking inside somewhere, I should think.’
‘She should be out enjoying the fresh air.’ Bunty tutted, and adjusted the thick cardigan she was wearing despite the warm weather.
‘I know. I can’t physically drag her out. And she claims she’s doing homework, so who am I to stop her?’
‘It’s the end of term, isn’t it?’
‘Next week.’
‘If she wants to do something useful, I’ve got a few odd jobs she could do. She can earn herself a bit of pocket money. How old is she now?’
‘Fourteen. Not old enough for a holiday job, so she’d love that. Might stop her tapping me for money constantly.’
‘Hrmm.’ Bunty nodded shrewdly. ‘I remember being that age. I was always after money for trips to the cinema, and nice things to eat, and – oh, it was a lovely age. Old enough to have a bit of freedom, not old enough to be worrying about boys and all that sort of thing.’
Luckily, Freya hadn’t shown any interest in boys – or girls – or relationships of any kind, for that matter. He looked at Bunty and found himself counting backwards: eighty years ago. He tried to imagine her as a teenager, full of life and arguing with her parents.
The Telephone Box Library Page 4