The Telephone Box Library

by Rachael Lucas

  ‘You know it’s the topic for discussion at the village meeting tonight. You’ll be going, I take it?’ Flo called across the cafe.

  ‘No bloody chance.’ Mel shook her head.

  A few moments later, after Flo had served her customers, she came back over to their table again, pulling up a chair and sitting down. Lucy felt caught halfway between awkwardness because she hardly knew either of the women, and an unexpected desire to be part of something. She hadn’t come to Little Maudley for companionship or intrigue, and yet here she was, with both. Flo lowered her voice.

  ‘I’ve been roped in to take the minutes because Judith’s got a cold. You bloody well will come – I’m not going in there alone. I’ll get beaten to death by Helen’s opinions.’

  ‘Oh for goodness’ sake.’ Mel looked at Lucy. ‘You could join us?’

  Lucy shook her head. ‘I don’t think . . .’ She frowned. ‘Isn’t Saturday night a strange time of the week for a village meeting?’

  ‘Yes. It’s all to do with Helen’s drive to bring the community together, apparently. Oh, go on,’ urged Mel. ‘In fact, there’ll probably be people there you can talk to about war stuff. There were lots of families involved, one way or another. They sent loads of evacuees out here from London.’

  What was the alternative – a quick pop in to say hello and check on Bunty, then an evening watching terrible Saturday night TV?

  ‘Oh, go on then.’

  ‘Excellent.’ Mel gave Flo a wink. ‘Another victim. I’ll call for you at seven.’

  Popping in to see Bunty, Lucy was momentarily surprised when the door was opened by a tall, silver-haired man in a jacket and tie.

  ‘Oh – hello.’

  ‘You must be Lucy.’

  She smiled, hesitantly.

  ‘Gordon. Bunty’s son?’

  ‘Oh gosh, of course, I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Come in. She’s inside. We were just about to leave, actually.’

  Bunty was sitting not in the kitchen this time, but in a tall, upright armchair by the fireplace. The afternoon sun lit the room with a golden glow, making it feel as warm as if the fire was lit. Mr Darcy was sitting on the arm of Bunty’s chair, his tail curled in a proprietorial manner over her hand.

  ‘Ah, Lucy. You’ve met Gordon, then?’

  ‘Just.’

  He waved an arm, indicating to her to sit down on the sofa. ‘Margaret’s just making a cup of tea for Mother. I’ll get her to make you one, too.’

  Bunty gave him a sideways look. ‘Are you planning to give Lucy here a list of things to do to get me organized?’

  She said the word organized as if it was a dreadful prospect.

  ‘No,’ Gordon gave Lucy a smile as he went to open the door. ‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’

  ‘I just thought I’d pop in – I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you had visitors.’

  ‘Don’t worry, these two are off to dinner with friends in Oxford. Margaret was just dropping in some meals she’s made for the freezer.’

  ‘Oh that’s nice,’ said Lucy.

  Bunty made a face and lowered her voice, leaning over towards her slightly. ‘Not really. Fish pie and shepherd’s pie. Nursery food. I don’t really like either.’

  ‘I love both.’

  ‘Well, that’s good news for both of us. When she’s gone, you can take them and pop them in the freezer at Bluebell Cottage. She’ll be none the wiser, and I can have what I want to have for my meals.’ Bunty gave a quiet chuckle.

  ‘Here we are. Hello, Lucy. You seem to be settling in well, by the looks of things?’ Margaret appeared with two cups of tea on a tray.

  ‘I am,’ said Lucy, feeling quite pleased with herself that she had something to report. ‘In fact, I’m going to a meeting at the village hall this evening.’

  ‘Well, I never.’ Bunty chuckled. ‘Did you get roped in by Helen already?’

  ‘No, I met a girl called Mel who trains dogs. Then we ended up going to the cafe together, and somehow the next thing I knew I was caught up in a conversation about the village phone box, and—’

  ‘Mel’s a nice girl. I’m glad you’ve met someone of your own age to chat to. Now, what’s this about the telephone box?’ Bunty looked up, her blue eyes sharp.

  ‘Oh, something about it being taken away because it’s in disrepair.’

  ‘It is in a bit of a state, right enough.’ Gordon hooked a finger round the lace curtain and peered out. ‘Funny, I haven’t paid it any attention in years.’

  ‘You’re not the only one,’ said Margaret. ‘It’s an eyesore. Nobody uses it these days. They could get rid of it and put a nice bench there instead.’

  Lucy caught Bunty giving Margaret a gimlet stare, but said nothing. Gordon and Magaret left soon afterwards, making their apologies and somehow taking forever to depart. Margaret kept fussing over Bunty and whether she needed anything.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Lucy pointed out, ‘I’m here if she does.’

  ‘I think she expects me to keel over at any moment. She was exactly the same when Janey was a little girl.’ Bunty pointed to a photograph on the mantelpiece of a much younger Gordon and Margaret with a fair-haired girl of about twenty. ‘Sometimes I wonder if that’s why she disappeared off to Canada as soon as she could.’

  ‘Is she your granddaughter?’

  ‘Yes. Lovely girl. She’s a doctor in a town outside Calgary. Three children and a very nice husband. Funny that she should end up with a Canadian, of all things.’

  Surely, Lucy thought, standing up to look more closely at the picture, ending up with a Canadian was one of the more obvious side effects of moving to Canada? There was another picture beside it – this one more recent. Unmistakably the same girl, but older now, with her arm around three children in ski gear – all brown from the sun, and with the same bright blue eyes and blonde hair.

  ‘Do you see them often?’ She turned to look at Bunty, who was stroking a contentedly dozing Mr Darcy.

  ‘No.’ Bunty looked up. ‘It’s just the way of things, sadly. Flights are expensive, and it’s a long way to come when there’s so much for the children to do over there in the holidays. But we speak on the telephone.’ She gave a snort of laughter. ‘She calls me up sometimes to despair about her mother.’

  Lucy wanted to say that Margaret seemed well-meaning, if a bit bossy; but she thought perhaps it wasn’t her place. So she just smiled, sipped her tea and said nothing.

  When she left shortly afterwards, Bunty – who had switched on the television and was about to watch a wildlife documentary – looked up briefly.

  ‘Bring that little dog tomorrow when you come. I’d like to say hello. And if you hear any interesting village gossip, I want to know all about it.’

  ‘I promise on both counts.’ She raised her eyebrows knowingly, and left with an armful of frozen meals. It might be her imagination, but Bunty seemed to be thawing, slowly.

  Meanwhile, at the village hall, it turned out that the gossip machine had already rolled into action.

  ‘Hello. You’re the young lady who’s interested in the Second World War, aren’t you?’

  Lucy nodded.

  ‘Told you, you can’t keep anything to yourself round here,’ Mel muttered to her. They’d only just walked in the door of the village hall; Lucy was still taking in the scent of wooden floors and school PE shoes, and wondering how all village halls seemed to smell the same. Mel was standing at the shoulder of an elderly woman who was wearing a lemon-yellow twinset and a pearl necklace, her hair blue-rinsed and neatly set.

  ‘This is Susan.’ She held out a papery hand. ‘Very nice to meet you.’

  ‘Hello.’ Lucy was wondering how on earth she had already heard of her.

  ‘My bridge partner Henry was sitting in the cafe when you were chatting this morning. He sent me a text message to tell me that he thought I’d be very excited to meet you. And I am.’ She beamed at Lucy and took her arm. ‘Why don’t you sit down over here beside me and I’ll get you a cup o
f tea and a biscuit. I’m sure we’ll have lots to chat about. In fact, you might be just what we need.’

  Sorry, mouthed Mel as Lucy looked back over her shoulder in alarm while Susan towed her away with surprising firmness.

  ‘Little Maudley has an absolutely fascinating war history, as I’m sure you’ll already know. I’ve written several articles about it for the local newspaper – you’ve very possibly read them already – and I’m known as something of an expert in these parts.’

  ‘I’ve only just arrived,’ Lucy stuttered, looking across at Mel, who was helpless with laughter.

  ‘Well, of course you’re with the expert – not that she’ll talk to you about it, of course – but Bunty was involved in something TS during the war.’ Susan paused for a moment and waited for Lucy to look confused, which she did. ‘Top Secret,’ she continued, looking pleased, and tapping the side of her nose. ‘Anyway, if you’re looking for something to keep you busy, I’ve got just the thing that should be right up your street—’

  She was interrupted by the very loud clearing of a throat, designed to catch everyone’s attention.

  ‘More in a moment,’ she hissed, putting a finger to her lips. ‘Better let the boss have her say.’

  ‘Hello, everyone, terribly sorry I’m late,’ said a booming, very well-spoken voice. It carried through the porch and into the room and had the effect of making everyone sit up straight. A moment later the voice was followed by a tall blonde woman in a white shirt and neatly pressed navy blue trousers, with a jaunty polka-dot scarf tied round her neck. She could have been any age between thirty and fifty. It was the woman with the Breton top who had spoken to her the day she’d arrived, Lucy realized. Chin lifted slightly, she did a sweep of the room, nodding and smiling to people as she made her way to the front where a chair sat ready beside a small oak table. She gave Lucy an extra smile of greeting, and sat down.

  ‘Here we are.’ She took a sip of water.

  ‘That’s Helen Bromsgrove,’ whispered Susan. ‘She’s absolutely wonderful.’

  That wasn’t quite how Mel had described her, Lucy thought, hiding a smile. But she had to admit, Helen was pretty dynamic. Taking an iPad from her handbag, she whizzed through the first few items on the agenda (recycling bins, church roof fundraiser, don’t forget to save your plarstic bottle tops for the preschool) and then got on to the topic de jour.

  ‘And – I won’t keep you too long, because I’m sure you’re all desperate to get a cup of tea and some of Susan’s excellent fairy cakes – just one last thing. Well, really, a rather pressing thing. We need to talk about the telephone box on the green.’

  Mel caught Lucy’s eye. Here we go, she mouthed.

  ‘It’s an eyesore, it’s dilapidated, there are no plans for British Telecom – or whatever they’re called these days – to sort it out, and in fact it’s up for decommissioning.’

  ‘Wouldn’t take much to clear it up,’ someone pointed out. Several people turned to see who had spoken, but nobody owned up.

  ‘Wouldn’t take much to knock it down,’ said Helen briskly. ‘And we could replace it with something far nicer, like a bench or a floral display. A floral display, of course, would tie in rather nicely to our Britain in Bloom plans.’ She paused, looking rather pleased with herself.

  ‘The phone box has always been the heart of the village.’

  ‘Has it?’ Helen looked disdainful. ‘When we inspected it the other day, it smelled very strongly of –’ she grimaced and lowered her voice – ‘male urine.’

  ‘If you’ve got to go, you’ve got to go,’ called a wag from the back of the room. Several people chortled for a moment. Helen looked back at them with slightly lifted eyebrows and a schoolmarmish expression.

  ‘Anyway, I think perhaps we should have a full discussion of the benefits of removing it and replacing it with something more in keeping with our lovely village.’

  There was a murmur. Lucy couldn’t work out whether it was agreement or dissent. Helen clapped her hands together and continued, ‘I think that’s everything covered. And now one thing we can all agree on is – tea.’

  ‘I met all my boyfriends at the phone box,’ said Mel as they gathered round the tea table.

  ‘The emphasis being on the all,’ Flo said, laughing.

  ‘Shut it, you.’ Mel nudged her. Lucy stood with a cup of tea in one hand and an iced fairy cake in the other.

  ‘I’m quite fond of the phone box, myself,’ said Susan, reappearing. ‘Now, about what we were discussing earlier.’

  Mel widened her eyes. Susan somehow wedged herself between them and started explaining that she was trying to write a booklet for the Women’s Institute that would feature some of the women in the village, and talk about their history. ‘It’s been eighty years since we started the WI here in Little Maudley, and we thought perhaps it would be nice to look back at some of the women who’ve been a part of it all along. And with you being a historian, you might find some interesting information.’

  ‘I’d love to help.’

  It was a history nerd’s idea of heaven – chatting to elderly people about their memories of the past. Susan beamed at her, and then caught a glimpse of someone else in the room who she was clearly planning to commandeer.

  Mel, who had vanished briefly, reappeared bearing a plate of fairy cakes. ‘Susan, would you mind terribly if I borrowed Lucy for a moment?’

  ‘Not at all. I must talk to Geoff Lewis about the line painting on the cricket green. I’ll pop round one morning to the cottage, Lucy, and give you a list of people to chat to.’

  ‘That sounds wonderful.’

  Mel hooked her elbow and gently tugged her away.

  ‘I’m so sorry, I should have known she’d commandeer you. She’s got a good heart, but if you’re not careful she’ll tell you in incredibly boring detail about the entire history of the village going back to the Domesday Book.’

  Lucy opened her mouth to say that actually the idea sounded quite interesting, but Mel nudged her again. ‘Watch out, Queen Bee coming through.’

  ‘Hello,’ said a hearty voice behind Lucy. She turned. ‘Helen Bromsgrove. We said hello the other day. Lovely to see you here. I hear you’re a historian. How exciting!’

  ‘I’m not, I’m just . . .’ Lucy began. ‘Well, sort of,’ she finished, lamely.

  ‘Awfully good of you to come along to our village meeting, even though you’re not a local. Very sweet of you. It takes a village, they say – and a village doesn’t get anywhere unless everyone gets involved.’

  Lucy sipped her tea and smiled.

  ‘Anyway, very nice to see you. We have a cinema night here next Friday, and we’re showing the Mamma Mia! sequel. Why don’t you come along and join us?’

  Lucy made a polite noise which she hoped passed for a yes.

  ‘Marvellous,’ said Helen. ‘We’ll see you then.’

  ‘And that,’ Mel intoned, as Helen made her way off to say hello and press the flesh with some other villagers, ‘is how you find yourself assimilated. You’re one of us now – there’s no escape.’

  Chapter Seven

  As she’d done for donkey’s years, Bunty had woken early and followed her usual routine: cup of tea in bed while listening to Radio 3 (it was often a bit much, but she couldn’t bear the adverts on Classic FM) and waiting until the news at seven before rising for a quick wash. She’d never got out of the habit, despite Gordon and Margaret insisting on paying for a fancy shower. Never saw the point. In, quick scrub, and back out and downstairs, ready to face the day. She was a creature of habit. This house had been home for so long that she could scarcely imagine living anywhere else. All those brochures about sheltered accommodation – she shuddered. Even the phrase made her feel queasy. It smacked of overcooked Brussels sprouts and organized activities and everything that she couldn’t bear. No, she’d lived here for as long as she could remember, and she’d prefer to die with her boots on, ideally in a peaceful manner.

  Not that she
had any intention of popping off just yet. The front garden was overrun with weeds, for one thing. She pulled on her gardening gloves and tied on her apron. If she did half an hour before nine, she could sit down with a cup of tea and listen to In Our Time on the radio.

  The early morning sun was shining in a very pleasant way on her back when she heard a familiar voice calling hello.

  ‘Hello, my darling.’ She looked up with pleasure to see Freya, long hair tied in two low bunches, crossing the road. She was dressed in jeans and a white gingham shirt.

  ‘Are you finished with school now?’

  ‘Last day today.’ She indicated her clothes. ‘But it’s mufti day, so we can wear what we like. And we’re finishing at lunchtime. I can’t wait.’

  ‘Are they working you too hard?’

  She shook her head, laughing. ‘Not until next year when we start our GCSEs. But I’m so tired –’ she yawned, on cue – ‘and I just want to chill out and do nothing for the holidays.’

  ‘So no big plans?’

  Freya shrugged. ‘Dad’s working and Cammie’s going to stay with her gran for a bit, so I’ll just be hanging around.’

  ‘Well, if you need anything to keep you occupied, I’m always here.’

  ‘I’d like that.’ Freya brightened. ‘Oh, there’s Dad.’

  ‘Morning.’

  ‘Freya was just telling me she’s off for the summer from this afternoon.’

  ‘Yeah, and I’ve got to work to keep her in books now the library is closing.’

  ‘It is?’ Bunty frowned.

  ‘Yes, and there’s no way Dad’s going to be able to keep up with my reading habits.’

  ‘You’re welcome to help yourself to anything from my shelves.’ Bunty had always been a voracious reader – it was nice that even in these days of computers and mobile phones, Freya was still keen.

  ‘Oh, really?’ Freya’s heart-shaped face brightened as she carried on. ‘Thank you. First they closed the mobile library, now they’re getting rid of the one in town. And then they complain that literacy levels are dropping.’

  Sam grinned and shook his head. ‘I have no idea where you came from, sometimes.’