The Telephone Box Library

by Rachael Lucas

  Freya shot him an odd look. ‘Well, I didn’t get my reading habits from you, that’s for sure. Bunty, did you hear Dad’s taken up a spot of light burglary on the side?’

  Bunty chuckled, leaning back against the wall and folding her arms. ‘No, I did not. Sam, what have you been up to?’

  Sam pushed a hand through his dark curls, ducking his head and looking faintly embarrassed as he told the tale of being chased out of the garden of Bluebell Cottage by an irate Lucy.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Bunty said, putting down her battered old secateurs. ‘But that is priceless.’ Sam was so earnest and sweet, his dark brows furrowed in concern.

  ‘You didn’t think to tell me someone had moved into the cottage?’

  ‘Slipped my mind.’ She chuckled, teasing him. ‘I am getting on a bit, you know. The old grey matter isn’t what it once was.’

  Sam shook his head.

  ‘Dad.’ Freya looked at her phone, checking the time. ‘We need to go – I’m supposed to be in for half nine, remember?’

  ‘Oh, of course. I’m all out of sorts because you’re not in at the usual time. Right, let’s get off.’

  Bunty watched as the two of them headed back to the Land Rover and drove off towards Bletchingham. They were like two peas in a pod – both tall, with the same easy, long-legged stride and dark hair.

  ‘Morning.’

  Goodness, it was all go today. She was just pulling off her gloves, mindful of the time, when Lucy appeared with a giddy Westie on the end of his lead. The small terrier was panting and looking thoroughly overexcited. Lucy already looked noticeably less stressed, she was glad to see. She’d seemed quite pale and wan when she’d arrived with Margaret the other day.

  ‘Hello, young chap. What’s your name?’

  ‘This is Hamish.’

  ‘Hello, Hamish.’

  Hamish wagged his tail, panting in the sunshine.

  ‘I’m going to take him for a walk, but if there’s anything you need?’

  Bunty shook her head. ‘I’ve got a parcel to send to my grandchildren in Canada, if you don’t mind?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘Come in, and I’ll just find it for you.’

  Lucy’s little dog trotted into the cottage behind her and then stopped dead in the kitchen doorway. His hackles shot up and he growled as if he’d seen a ghost. Of course; it was Stanley, who was sitting in his glass tank, minding his own business. Not that Hamish believed that. It took a good few gravy bones as bribery before he’d cross the threshold into the kitchen, and even then he looked at Stanley’s tank with a suspicious expression. Poor little chap. She gave the parcel to Lucy and saw her out.

  A few moments later Bunty watched as a gaggle of children on bikes met up on the green, sitting with their backs to the phone box, drinking cartons of apple juice and laughing and chatting. Of course a bench would do just as well, but the idea of the phone box being gone made her heart squeeze with sadness. It was, in a funny way, the heart of the village. Once upon a time, before people had telephones at home, there had often been a little queue of people waiting outside to use it. And of course – well, for her it had a special significance.

  Later that afternoon, having made some scones and left them to cool, Bunty carried on pottering around the garden. She had some plants which could do with repotting, and while the weather was holding she might as well get them sorted.

  It was a beautiful summer day, the kind she’d always loved best. Swallows were looping back and forth in a hazy sky, and the cherry tree outside the kitchen window was heavy with fruit. It was always precious, but particularly so when one was grimly aware that it might be the last time one saw it all. Old age was a bore. And Margaret, who had been round again that afternoon with Gordon as they passed by on their way home from Oxford, still wouldn’t admit that the sudden onslaught of brochures from old folks’ homes was anything to do with her. She’d be measuring her up for a coffin next. It was such a strange, narrowing sort of feeling. As if her focus had shifted. It was easier to live within the confines of the village, and this street. Sometimes when she lay in bed at night she liked to run through things that had happened in the past, wondering how she’d ended up here. Such an odd sequence of events.

  Of course – she tugged at a particularly stubborn geranium which had adhered itself to the terracotta pot – it had all been stirred up when the truth started to come out about what had happened at Bletchley Park during the war. She pulled – hard – and plant and pot were separated. The roots were a thick, tangled mass. Not dissimilar, she reflected, to the tissue of lies and half-truths that had kept everyone in the dark about what they did. So many years of keeping what she’d done secret. It wasn’t even the half of it. She teased at the roots gently, loosening them off before placing the plant carefully into a new, slightly bigger pot of compost. So many secrets. She’d buried most of them with Len. Pushing in earth around the edges of the pot to hold the geranium firmly in place made her think fleetingly of the handfuls of soil they’d thrown down on his coffin. She looked across the green, past the telephone box, to the churchyard beyond. There he was, sleeping. She must go and put some flowers on his grave. Margaret would have been over there this weekend, of course. She never missed a birthday or an anniversary. But – Bunty shook the peat from her hands, then rubbed her arms, feeling suddenly chilly. It wasn’t the weather. It was the thought of him lying in his heavy oak coffin, decomposing. Such a grim way to go. It amused her to think that Margaret, who liked to have everything in order, had no idea that Bunty had already booked and paid for her own cremation and written a careful list of what she did – and more importantly, didn’t – want at the service. God knows Margaret would probably ignore most of it in any case, and it would be done as tastefully and inexpensively as her daughter-in-law could manage.

  She pulled off her gardening gloves, finger by finger. Goodness, it never ceased to amaze her how old her hands looked. The hands of her grandmother. The knuckles swelled on bony fingers spotted with age.

  She looked down the lane, casting an eye over the row of cottages beside the churchyard where Sam and Freya lived. He needed to cut back that wisteria. Ridiculous that he was so busy helping others that he didn’t seem to have time to do things like that; but then, he was bringing up Freya alone. And doing a good job of it, too.

  Sam was such a good, kind boy. She’d known him all his life, watched him grow up into a handsome young man. If only he’d meet a nice girl and settle down. It was a terrible waste. Wasn’t like that in our day, she thought. The telephone box caught her eye once again and she smiled, remembering. If there was one thing that war taught us, it was that we should take our brief pleasures where we found them.

  She put a hand on the wall and eased herself up to standing. Goodness, everything was so slow to move these days.

  Bunty gathered up the handful of lavender she’d trimmed, intending to dry it by the Aga later. Perhaps she’d have a little doze in the armchair before cooking something for dinner.

  When she woke two hours later it was chilly, and the sun had gone from the east-facing room. She’d read years ago that doing the crossword and keeping active were the keys to staying well and not losing one’s marbles in old age. Well – she eased herself up from the armchair – at ninety-six she still had a reasonable complement of marbles, and she was still as healthy as a horse. That was something, she supposed. All those crosswords she’d done in the past had stood her in good stead. If she hadn’t done that particular one and filled it in, she mightn’t have ended up at Bletchley Park for the war, and then she wouldn’t have been here, and . . . well. Life would have been very different indeed.

  There was a knock at the door.

  ‘Hello,’ Lucy called. She popped her head around the door. Her face was flushed slightly pink.

  Hard to think of her teaching a class of unruly teenagers. She was quite diffident – almost shy. But perhaps she put on a persona when she walked into the classroom. Bunty�
�s friend Milly had been full of mischief, and yet one would never have guessed. She’d ruled her schoolroom with a rod of iron. Bunty looked up, realizing that Lucy was still hovering in the doorway.

  ‘Do come in.’ She shooed Mr Darcy off the chair and waved a hand to indicate Lucy could sit. Lucy sat. The little Westie looked at Mr Darcy hopefully, wagging his tail. Mr Darcy, who had seen off more dogs in his time than Hamish could count, made his way to the top of the bookcase and looked down at Hamish with narrowed eyes, tail twitching in irritation.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Just bumped into Helen Bromsgrove when I was out for a walk. She really does talk a lot. I had to make my excuses and run, literally.’

  ‘Ah, that’s why you’re pink.’

  Lucy put her hands to her cheeks. ‘Yes.’ She laughed. ‘I couldn’t think of an excuse, so I told her I’d left something in the oven.’

  ‘And what was Helen saying?’

  ‘She was going on about the plans she mentioned the other night – she’s desperate to get rid of the old telephone box on the village green. I don’t know why – I think it’s lovely. Anyway, I think she’s trying to get as many people as she can on side. And –’ Lucy sounded breathless with excitement – ‘I’ve been asked to help write a booklet about women in war for the WI, to celebrate their eightieth anniversary.’

  ‘The telephone box?’ Bunty sat forward and clasped her hands together, tightly. She took a careful, measured intake of breath.

  ‘She thinks it’s an eyesore. That’s what the meeting was about – well, that and various other things. But apparently it’s being decommissioned so they can opt to take over maintenance of it, or get rid of it.’

  ‘And she’d rather whip out almost a century of history than give it a lick of paint.’ How utterly depressing, and yet how predictable, thought Bunty. She sighed. ‘I was just thinking about my friend Milly, who was a schoolteacher here during the war. We used to meet our friends at that telephone box before we went to dances in the village hall.’

  ‘Oh, really?’

  ‘Yes,’ Bunty smiled. ‘When I was washing dishes for our landlady when I first moved here, I used to look out and see couples meeting there. It looked incredibly romantic. But I don’t expect Helen has much time for romance. She’s more the practical sort.’

  ‘Well, no – exactly.’ Lucy grimaced.

  ‘Such a lot of history in that one phone box; but it’s not the sort of history that makes the news. It’s the day-to-day stuff. I don’t suppose that sort of thing matters when it comes to the history books, does it?’

  ‘This is exactly the sort of history I love.’ Lucy looked at her, clearly eager for more information. ‘So you said you came here during the war?’

  ‘I did, yes. I was seventeen. I came here to work.’

  ‘That must have been a change from Walthamstow?’

  Goodness, the girl didn’t miss a trick. Bunty had only mentioned where she lived in passing.

  ‘Yes, quite a change. Of course, the village was quite a bit smaller then – the houses up on the Rise were built in the 1960s, and the new houses were built in the gardens of Yew House.’

  ‘I passed the Rise when I was out for a walk up to the woods the other day.’

  ‘I suspect Helen doesn’t approve of it, either. She’d like the village to be a picture postcard version, but that’s not what this place is. Or was, for that matter.’

  Lucy asked a few more questions, but Bunty found herself keeping the answers brief. Keeping mum had been the habit of a lifetime, and she didn’t hold with what the papers called oversharing. Such a dreadful description, and yet all too apt. Young people these days seemed to spill out every little detail about their personal lives to anyone who’d listen. That was one thing she wouldn’t miss – she gave a brief laugh. Of late, she’d noticed herself referring to the things she wouldn’t miss, as if she was planning to move somewhere new and interesting, rather than her next destination being a rather more final one. It would be nice to have a good, solid faith. She’d stood in the church many times over the years and wondered how it would feel to actually believe all that stuff. Maybe, after all, when the time came and Anno Domini took over, she’d discover that there was in fact a friendly angel sitting on a cloud waiting to welcome her. It would be quite nice if there was. Restful.

  ‘. . . So I just thought I’d pop in and check if there was anything you needed, as I’m off to Bletchley Park tomorrow first thing.’ Lucy’s voice broke through her thoughts.

  ‘No, thank you, dear. But I’m glad you did, because I’ve had another chance to say hello to Hamish. Isn’t he lovely?’

  Hamish rolled over at her feet and waved his paws in the air. He was a merry little thing, with shiny button eyes and a wet glossy black nose. He rolled back to upright and licked her hand, nudging her for treats.

  ‘There are some doggy chocolate drops in the tin there on the top of the bookcase.’

  Lucy stood up, smiling, and took a couple out. She handed them over, saying, ‘You’ll be a friend for life now.’

  ‘Well, that’s good news.’

  Hamish snuffled them up in an instant.

  ‘So tell me what you’ve found out about Little Maudley during the war. Have you been doing lots of reading?’

  ‘Well, yes,’ Lucy said, reaching down to scratch Hamish behind the ears. ‘Although I think it’s much nicer when you actually hear it from the horse’s mouth, so to speak. But there seem to have been so many evacuees here, not to mention the Land Girls and the Wrens who were billeted here from the air bases nearby. Did you meet lots of them?’

  Bunty chuckled. ‘You could say that, yes. This little village was just stuffed full. The school was packed with little urchins from the East End, and one couldn’t move for Land Girls. They were either brilliant or utterly hopeless, in my experience.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Oh, well – some of them worked as hard as they could. The others – quite a few of them were a bit posh – came from nice families and wanted to do their bit. They spent more time leaning on pitchforks and mooning over the airmen than they did working on the farm. I remember the farmer’s wife having a good old grumble about them every time she came to visit Mrs Brown. They were friends, you see, and they had tea together once a week. Always time for tea, even in wartime.’

  ‘You see what I mean? You’ve made the stories sound more alive than a textbook ever could.’

  After Lucy had left, Bunty found that the memories she usually kept well buried were now floating around in her mind, distracting her. She went to the dresser in the kitchen, pulling open the drawer with difficulty – gosh, it was stiff – and looking inside.

  There it was. A black notebook with lined white pages, turned yellow with age. She opened it and looked at her own handwriting.

  May 30th, 1941

  Got home from King’s Cross feeling wretched after a parlous train journey. Even the trains to Walthamstow are packed in like sardines now. We were absolutely crammed together – I couldn’t even lift a hand to scratch my nose. But it’s terribly exciting. I’ve been plucked from my position at Electra House and given a train warrant, and I’m being sent to Bletchley. I had to look up Bletchley on the map to find out where it was, and I’m rather puzzled as to what I can possibly do out there in the middle of the Buckinghamshire countryside.

  I can hardly wait to find out what we’ll be doing. Tessa has joined the Land Army because her mother didn’t want her doing war work, and they don’t ask for parental permission. Luckily I’m old enough that I can do what I like – luckier still, dear Mother and Dad are quite happy for me to do my bit. Gosh, it’s dark this evening – darker than usual. I’m scribbling this by candlelight – Dad’s such a stickler for the blackout – and I can hardly see a thing. I wonder what my digs will be like. Maybe I’ll be in a big house somewhere or in billets with some nice girls. It feels rather wrong to be thrilled by the idea of doing war work, but I am . .
.

  She smiled at her past self. If only she’d known. Almost-eighteen-year-old Bunty had been so caught up in the glamour of it all, and the excitement of leaving Walthamstow for something as important as war work, that it hadn’t even occurred to her that she might end up stuck for the duration in Little Maudley. Nor – she closed the book and slid it back into the drawer, covering it over with a pile of neatly folded napkins smelling of mothballs, dry wood and dust – that she’d still be here all these years later. And that they’d be threatening to rip out that telephone box, of all things.

  She put a hand to her chest and closed her eyes for a moment. Long, long-forgotten memories flooded back. No – she pushed the drawer closed – some things were best left in the past. Lucy would have countless memories from people who wanted to tell their stories. Hers could stay where it belonged.

  Chapter Eight

  Bletchley Park was a revelation for Lucy. Having read about it over the years and been inspired by the story of Dr Sue Black, who drove people on social media to get involved in raising the money needed to preserve it for future generations, it gave her goosebumps to walk in the gate and see the huts for herself. It was living history, and she was in heaven. Despite arriving there as the doors opened and stopping only briefly for lunch at the cafe in hut 4, she couldn’t begin to take it all in. Not only was the old manor house restored and full of atmosphere, but the huts were so authentic that they gave her chills of excitement. She paused there, taking in the old-fashioned manual typewriters and the gloomy, claustrophobic rooms where men and women had spent the whole of the war years crammed together, each working hard on a piece of a project. But there had almost never been any sense of resolution for them – just relentless, exhausting, never-ending work. In each hut there was a fat little stove that heated the room and belched out fumes; on the backs of doors, gas masks were hung up for safekeeping. It was lovely to wander about at her own pace, reading the information on the boards and listening to the spoken histories recorded by Bletchley veterans. The last time she’d been on a school trip to the Imperial War Museum in London, she’d been so busy trying to stop the two troublemakers from year nine from sneaking off to McDonald’s that she’d hardly had a chance to take anything in. It was so lovely to see how excited the curators were to show her around. She’d even had a turn on the machine herself, and failed dismally at the crossword they’d used to lure the brightest minds to work at the Park on their top-secret missions.