The Telephone Box Library

by Rachael Lucas

  Just before he turned the corner at the end of Main Street, he pulled up to let a delivery van out at the junction. He caught a glimpse of the two of them in his rear-view mirror. Lucy’s long dark hair was tied up in a swinging ponytail and she was in a blue-and-white striped top. He could picture her freckled nose, and the way she wrinkled it when she laughed. The way she smelled of apple shampoo and touched his arm unselfconsciously when they were talking. Freya had warmed to her, too. He’d found himself thinking about her since their walk up to Susan’s treehouse the other day, and trying to find opportunities to pop in. Perhaps – maybe he’d nip in later and ask her if she had any more advice on how to handle Freya. There was definitely something up. Maybe she could have a word, if it wasn’t against some sort of professional code.

  Will helped him unload the stuff at the tip – he’d decided that after twelve years, it was time to sort out the mess of the extension he’d been working on when Stella had left. The footings were wrecked and he’d have to start again, and the planning permission had expired. But really, he didn’t need any extra space. If he put his mind to it, he could get it flattened out and a nice terrace there instead before autumn. It would be good to have the place sorted out. It was time.

  When he got back, Freya was inside, sitting at her laptop at the kitchen table.

  ‘You all right?’

  ‘Fine.’ She slammed the laptop shut and put it under her arm. ‘Just going to my room.’

  ‘Frey—’

  And with that, she’d gone. It wasn’t his imagination – she was withdrawing, becoming more and more silent. Maybe she was missing Cammie, who had gone to spend a couple of weeks with her dad down in Bristol. The summer holidays were always a bit difficult, with him working and her stuck out here in the sticks. Maybe he should suggest they did something together.

  ‘Hi,’ he said later, standing at Lucy’s doorway.

  She looked happy to see him, at least. She stepped out with a smile, holding the door closed behind her. ‘Sorry, Hamish will belt off up the road if I leave it open. D’you want to come in? I was thinking of having a beer in the garden as Dutch courage before I go to the village hall meeting later. Freya says she’s coming with me.’

  ‘Go on then.’ When he’d got back from doing various errands in town after dropping Will off with a tenner for his help, Freya had disappeared inside for one of her epic, hours-long baths; so he knew he wouldn’t be missed if he stayed and had a beer. In fact, she’d seemed rather pleased he was going out, which worried him slightly. Or was he just being paranoid?

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘Fine.’ She opened a bottle and passed it to him, beckoning him to follow her through the little galley kitchen and into the tiny courtyard garden. She’d put a little pot of geraniums on top of the hedgehog house, he noticed. The wooden archway was hidden slightly by a clump of overgrown grass.

  ‘The thing is –’

  ‘What’s –’

  They both laughed.

  ‘You go on.’ Lucy tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and looked at him. She was wearing with her striped t-shirt a pair of cut-off jeans and flip-flops, with her toenails painted a shiny pink. The sun had coaxed out more freckles on her nose. She took a drink from the bottle and looked at him expectantly.

  ‘It’s Freya. I dunno, she’s really – she’s like a bear with a sore head. Just not herself. She’s on the phone non-stop, and if I ask her a question she’s a bit snappy and off.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Lucy frowned and bit her lip. ‘I mean, that sounds like fairly standard teenager stuff to me.’ She wrinkled her nose thoughtfully.

  God, he hadn’t been joking. If he’d had teachers who looked like her, he’d have been a straight-A student. Well, he’d have tried, in any case.

  ‘I don’t think it’s hormones.’ He ducked his head, not quite catching her eye. ‘I mean, I know when she’s got PMT and this doesn’t seem to coincide. It’s more like she’s just – sullen. Can’t be bothered with me.’

  ‘She’s been helping Bunty with the guinea pigs and Stanley. And she seemed okay when I saw her the other day. She was telling me about the phone box library idea. She’s been quite cheery when I’ve been there this week.’

  ‘Maybe it’s just me.’

  ‘Yeah, well, parents usually do tend to get the worst parts of teenagers. I’ve known some that behave impeccably at school, and they’re nightmares at home. I’d rather that than the other way round, mind you.’

  ‘Because they’re easier to deal with?’

  ‘No,’ Lucy shook her head again and the lock of hair she’d tucked away flew loose, curling against her cheek. ‘If they’re misbehaving with the parents, they’re comfortable. I worry most when they’re placid at school and apparently angelic at home. Being a teenager is hard. They’ve got to let it out somewhere.’

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘Were you an angel at school?’

  ‘God, no.’ He laughed. He spread his hands on the table and looked down at them, noticing how many scrapes and bruises he had from work. ‘I was a complete nightmare. Disruptive, bored, desperate to get out. But they didn’t know then I was dyslexic.’ He looked up at her and saw her expression change.

  ‘Oh, that makes more sense,’ she said, trailing off.

  ‘What does?’

  ‘Freya said you’re not keen on reading. I have to confess, I just thought maybe you were one of those anti-school parents I struggle with.’

  He pulled a face and laughed, feeling uncomfortable. ‘Charming.’

  Lucy went pink. ‘Oh God, I’m so sorry. I don’t mean that. I mean – well, I guess I need to watch my own prejudices. I always loved reading.’

  ‘Whereas I struggle to read a menu when I go out for a meal. It’s a nightmare.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ She reached over and touched his arm fleetingly.

  He looked down at the spot where her hand had lain for a moment and then cleared his throat. ‘It’s fine.’ His voice was low.

  She moved her hand away and laced her fingers around the bottle, sitting back in the chair and looking at the ground for a moment.

  ‘I’d like to help Freya. I can try talking to her, see if I can find out if there’s anything that’s bothering her.’

  ‘I’d really appreciate that.’

  If Lucy had thought about what a WI meeting would involve, she mightn’t have been so keen to go along. But Freya was desperate to say her piece, and so they trooped into the village hall and were greeted effusively by Helen.

  ‘Goodness, we’re starting them younger and younger. Freya, you’ve just dropped our average age by about twenty years!’

  Freya shuffled her feet and looked awkward.

  ‘Ah, Lucy, how lovely to see you.’ Susan appeared, with a tea towel in hand. ‘I’m sorry, I’m on tea duty tonight. Come and chat to me while I get everything done.’

  When the meeting got under way ten minutes later, Lucy heard the strains of ‘Jerusalem’ being sung – not particularly tunefully, but with gusto – from the main part of the hall. Freya lurked by the side of the kitchen, sitting on a table and looking at her phone, one leg swinging back and forth.

  ‘We’ve been talking to the printer about how best to do our little celebration book,’ Susan was saying, ‘and they’re going to come up with a price.’

  ‘I’ve had a lovely chat with Sarah and Joan at the Abbeyfield house. They told me all about their time here during the war, and how they ended up staying on afterwards.’

  ‘It’s lovely, isn’t it? Of course, we don’t have that many stories from living memory left. I don’t suppose you’ve had any luck persuading Bunty to have a chat?’

  Lucy shook her head. If she mentioned anything about writing stuff down, she knew Bunty would clam up immediately. It was more important to gain her trust than to chase her for something for the WI celebration book.

  ‘And so,’ said Helen a while later in her commanding voice, ‘we come to the final issue – what to
do about the telephone box. We’ve had some quite interesting suggestions.’ She looked at Lucy and Freya. ‘My idea of replacing the phone box with a commemorative bench to celebrate one hundred years of the WI here in Little Maudley has been well received.’

  There was a pause while Helen looked around, pleased, as the small ripple of appreciation she expected travelled through the room.

  ‘There’s also been a suggestion that we turn it into a little museum – which I think is rather interesting, especially as we are creating our very own little piece of history with the anniversary book – but Freya here has had what I have to confess is a rather wonderful idea.’

  Freya shifted in her seat, looking uncomfortable.

  ‘Would you like to tell us what it is, Freya?’

  Lucy looked sideways at her. She chewed her lip for a moment, and then tucked her hair behind her ears and stood up, bravely.

  ‘I’ve been reading about a village where they turned their phone box into a library.’

  Helen looked around at the faces as they registered this idea. She gave a slightly proprietorial nod, as if she was giving permission. ‘Go on,’ she urged.

  ‘And the Bletchingham library is closing next month because of cuts – which I think is terrible, by the way – and a little book exchange isn’t going to make up for what we’re losing but it might mean we can swap books and have something to read in the meantime.’

  Freya collapsed back onto the hard plastic chair and gave a gusty sigh of relief. ‘That was scary,’ she said, under her breath.

  ‘I think it’s actually terribly inventive,’ said Helen. Murmurs of approval spread through the room.

  Over tea and slices of lemon drizzle cake, Freya found herself the centre of attention.

  ‘It’s such a marvellous idea, I rather wish I’d come up with it myself.’

  ‘Books are magical,’ said a woman holding a cup of tea, with a far-off look on her face. ‘I spent most of my childhood lost in stories.’

  ‘Me too,’ said Freya.

  ‘And me,’ agreed Lucy. ‘It’s such a wonderful way to see the world through someone else’s eyes. They teach us empathy.’

  ‘That’s what our English teacher says.’

  ‘She’s quite right,’ said the older woman. ‘Humour, and kindness, and so much more. What’s your favourite book, Freya?’

  She scrunched up her nose in thought. ‘I’m not sure. I have so many. Different ones for different moods.’

  ‘I still love Pride and Prejudice,’ said the woman, dreamily. ‘And Mr Darcy.’

  ‘We all love him,’ said Susan, appearing with an iPad in hand. ‘Look, I’ve found an article all about a telephone box in Berkshire which has been converted into a library. It looks wonderful. Well done, Freya.’

  Freya looked very pleased and slightly pink. It was agreed that they’d take the idea to the village parish council meeting the following Tuesday, and if everyone was in agreement (‘which they will be,’ Helen said, quietly, to Lucy, in the tones of one who was used to getting things her own way) then they’d have an extraordinary meeting of the WI to arrange how best to convert their battered but much-loved phone box into a tiny little village library.

  Helen took Lucy by the arm as they were preparing to leave.

  ‘Pop round to my place this week and we can have a chat about this. I’ll get Susan to come along – we can have drinks in the garden.’

  Susan looked up, hearing her name. Helen raised her voice slightly, including her in the invitation. ‘Drinks at mine? Tuesday?’

  Lucy walked along through the summer evening to Helen’s huge, imposing manor house on the edge of the village. It was the house she’d peered in at when she’d first arrived, and this was her first time through the gates. It felt like forever since she’d arrived, but it was only a matter of weeks. Already the rowan trees were laden with berries, hinting at the season to come. All around the village the fields were a hive of industry; combine harvesters were chugging from morning until well after dark, and the air was full of a dusty, wheaten smell. The hedgerows were growing heavy with fruit that was starting to ripen, and the acid brightness of the early summer leaves had been replaced with a dull, faded green.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Wandering through the village the next day, Lucy paused at the noticeboard by the green. Behind its glass, various flyers and bits of paper advertised everything from beekeeping classes to Zumba at the village hall.

  It was funny how much longer the summer holidays felt when there wasn’t the prospect of a new term at the end of them. There were a couple of rainy days where it was cold enough that Lucy had even lit the log burner, curling up on the little sofa with Hamish and scribbling notes by hand in her Moleskine notebooks. The article for Susan’s WI booklet had come together nicely – there had been so many people willing to chat to her about the surrounding villages, and how women had done so much during the war to keep everything running smoothly. It was no wonder, really, that only a couple of decades later the feminist movement had taken off. Women who’d previously been stuck at home, bringing up children and expected to be silent and well behaved, had stepped out of their boxes and realized they wanted more. They were the grandmothers of today’s women. She wondered how they felt, realizing that there was still such a long way to go.

  ‘Hello.’

  Sam appeared out of nowhere, making her jump. She turned around to see him standing, work polo shirt on and a bottle of water in hand. He had both spaniels at his feet, their tongues lolling.

  He read one of the postcards pinned to the noticeboard. ‘Cleaner wanted for large well-kept house in village – that’s Helen. No chance.’

  Lucy laughed. ‘No, I can’t imagine Helen’s an easy taskmaster.’

  ‘Not tempted to go back to teaching? It must be on your mind at this time of year.’

  ‘A bit,’ Lucy admitted. She’d been into Oxford to do some shopping that weekend, and seen all the adverts for Back to School stationery. ‘I nearly bought a mountain of stickers and Post-it notes and then remembered I didn’t need them.’

  He looked at her with a thoughtful expression. ‘That must be hard. Teaching’s one of those things that’s in your blood, I think.’

  She smiled ruefully. ‘You’re not helping.’

  ‘Sorry.’ He made a face.

  ‘No. Well, I’m supposed to be writing out some notes but I came for a walk instead, then got caught up in reading all about the parish council and their debates over the phone box library idea.’

  ‘Right. Come with me.’ He turned on his heel, the dogs instantly jumping to attention.

  ‘How come everyone in this place has such well-trained dogs? Hamish puts me to shame.’

  ‘Ah, having a friend who’s a dog trainer puts me at a bit of an advantage.’ He clicked his fingers and both spaniels dropped instantly into the down position. ‘I’d like to say it was all my doing, but Mel uses them as demo dogs. They’re more like demon dogs with me.’ He smiled, beckoning the dogs, who got up and started trotting by their side again.

  They walked down the path together until it narrowed. Lucy stepped sideways to move behind Sam, just as he stepped into her path. If only she’d met someone like this when she was teaching, and not when she was on a temporary visit to somewhere she didn’t belong. She walked ahead, oddly conscious of his presence behind her. Neither of them spoke for a few minutes until the path widened again and she paused, waiting for him to fall into step beside her.

  ‘I’d love to hear more about what Bunty did in the war,’ he said. ‘Will you let me in on the secret if she tells you?’

  ‘Of course. She adores you. You’d probably have more luck getting it out of her than I have. Maybe you should come with me one day and bring some of that coffee cake from the village shop. I bet you could charm it out of her.’

  He looked a bit embarrassed, pulling a face and rubbing the back of his neck. ‘I’m not really known for my charm.’

  ‘Re
ally?’ Lucy said, then blushed, realizing what she was implying.

  Sam cleared his throat and said gruffly, ‘Let’s hope Freya hasn’t climbed back into bed. It’s the last day of the holidays, she’s probably trying to catch up on a term’s worth of sleep.’

  Freya was actually lying in the back garden with headphones in, typing furiously on her phone screen. When she saw them, she jumped upright, looking slightly guilty. She shoved her phone into the back pocket of her jeans.

  There’s definitely something going on with her, Lucy thought. Probably a secret boyfriend – or girlfriend – or something like that.

  ‘Hi.’ Freya brushed grass off her sleeves.

  ‘You look like you’re up to something,’ said Sam. Lucy shot him a look. Whatever Freya might be hiding, approaching it head-on was definitely not the way forward. It was such a typical parent thing to say. And one thing that teaching had taught her was that just at the point where teenagers started to pull away, parents tended to come down heavily in a way that made them feel claustrophobic. If she was going to get Freya to open up, she needed her dad out of the way.

  ‘D’you know what? I am dying of thirst. Sam, can you do me a huge favour and get me a glass of water, please?’

  Thankfully he took the hint. He wandered up the garden path, one hand tucked in the back pocket of his jeans.

  Freya glowered after him. ‘He’s always giving me the third degree. He’s obsessed. Where are you going, what are you doing, who are you talking to . . .’

  ‘I think if you’re not online much like your dad, it’s hard to appreciate how much of life is there now.’

  A large sigh. ‘God, yes. If you don’t reply to someone straight away, you get hassle for ignoring them.’