The Telephone Box Library

by Rachael Lucas

  Lucy leaned forward slightly on the sofa, listening intently.

  ‘It’s not only because of my war work that I’ve been reluctant to talk to you. I mean, of course we all signed the Official Secrets Act, and for some of us that meant we kept our mouths shut, despite what people might want us to do. It’s not that I think they’re wrong to tell their story, but – well, keeping secrets – it’s become something of a habit of mine.’

  Lucy nodded.

  ‘It’s about Gordon.’

  Lucy thought about Bunty’s stolid, law-abiding son. He was a pillar of his local community, retired accountant, married to Margaret, who was a good fifteen years younger – which was, she thought, probably the raciest thing he’d done in his life.

  ‘One of the reasons I don’t really want to go over the past is because – like most of us who lived through the war – things were, well . . . they were complicated. War made one see very clearly, in some ways.’

  Lucy had heard this before. She’d spoken to a woman the other day who’d run off to join the Land Army at seventeen because it didn’t require permission from her parents, and fallen in love with the farmer where she worked, scandalizing the village – not to mention his wife.

  ‘The thing is,’ Bunty continued. ‘I knew if I told you about my war, it would bring it all back. And I can’t –’ She faltered. A moment later she’d taken a handkerchief from her cardigan pocket and dabbed at her eyes, surprising Lucy.

  ‘It’s okay,’ Lucy said, trying to smooth things over. ‘I don’t want you to get upset. You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to.’

  ‘But I do.’ Bunty blew her nose. ‘I can’t keep it to myself forever. I thought perhaps I could. But I think – somehow – if I don’t tell someone, then it’s as if it never happened.’

  ‘Harry?’

  Bunty nodded. ‘After he died, I realized quite quickly that something was amiss. Of course in those days there wasn’t much one could do, and luckily – well, I did something which might seem rather selfish.’

  Pieces of the jigsaw were beginning to come together in Lucy’s mind.

  ‘Of course, Len had been sweet on me for a while. He was one of the ARP wardens in town, along with Henry. He was very kind. A stickler for the rules –’ she gave a mischievous smile – ‘which was clearly contagious, because my goodness, Gordon is a chip off the old block in that regard.’

  ‘But his father?’

  Bunty nodded again. ‘Was Harry.’

  ‘And nobody ever suspected?’

  ‘Oh, I think there were probably a fair few who had their private thoughts. It’s difficult to explain what it was like. All bets were off, in some ways. People were dying all over the place, or they were apart for years and years, marriages were falling apart. Nowadays there’s this rose-tinted view of the war years as everyone pulling together for the greater good. There was plenty of that, but we had a lot of fun, too.’

  ‘So you married Len and – did he know?’

  ‘I think he worked it out. But he never breathed a word. And we were perfectly happily married. He was a very nice man.’ Lucy turned and watched as Bunty eased herself up from the chair and made her way across to the window of the cottage. She looked across at the graveyard that sat behind the village green, and the telephone box where she’d met Harry, the man she’d adored – the father of her son.

  ‘I still think about him often. Wonder what my life would have been like with him in it.’

  ‘He sounded like a lovely man.’

  ‘Oh, he was. I found out, years later, that when they found the plane – still smoking – they found a wristwatch near by, the strap broken, still ticking away.’ Bunty put a hand to her heart.

  ‘I wonder what Gordon would have made of him.’

  ‘That’s a question.’ Bunty frowned. ‘I often wonder if he’d have been more carefree if he’d been brought up by Harry instead. Len was so worried about everything, it rather rubbed off on Gordon.’

  ‘But he’s a nice man.’ Lucy thought of Gordon, bumbling along, doing anything he could to keep Margaret happy.

  ‘Yes, he is. A good man. But heavens, you can imagine how it would feel to discover the truth after all this time. Gordon’s such a stick-in-the-mud that I think it would probably be the end of him. And goodness knows what Margaret would think. She’s such a prude.’ Bunty gave a sudden bark of laughter. ‘The war did funny things to us – we took risks, did things that nice girls didn’t do because we didn’t know when the next bomb was going to drop, or even if we were going to survive.’

  ‘I can understand that.’ Lucy nodded.

  It made sense. Everything she’d read, everyone she’d spoken to had said the same thing. It was a different time – as if the everyday rules were suspended for a while. It wasn’t surprising that there were consequences to that.

  After a long soak in the bath, and with Bunty’s sad story still on her mind, Lucy made her way through the village to the pub. She was looking forward to the quiz. Mel and Sam were sitting at a table by the fireplace, and there was a wooden stool waiting for her. There was also another man sitting at the table who Lucy didn’t recognize.

  ‘This is Dave. He’s our secret weapon.’

  Dave, Sam’s friend and head teacher at the local secondary school, was short and round. He was wearing a t-shirt with a rainbow-coloured dog on the front, and had more hair on his chin than he did on his head. He beamed at her.

  ‘Hang on.’ Lucy looked at Sam, narrowing her eyes jokingly. ‘I thought you said I was your secret weapon?’

  ‘He did?’ Dave made to get up, laughing. ‘I’ll be off then.’

  ‘With your encyclopaedic knowledge of music and Lucy’s wisdom on all things historical, we’re sorted.’

  ‘And don’t forget,’ Mel added, getting up and taking her purse from the table, ‘my specialist subject. We’re sorted if there’s anything on gossip from Heat magazine. Drink?’ she said to Lucy, who nodded.

  ‘I can’t imagine they’re going to be quizzing us on the latest reality TV stars, somehow.’

  ‘You never know. Bob, the quizmaster, takes this stuff very seriously. He won’t even let his wife Jane have a peek. Locks himself in the study to get it done, and prints off all the quiz sheets at work.’ Sam passed Lucy a sheet of paper, printed with a collection of black-and-white photographs.

  ‘D’you recognize any of those?’

  Lucy peered at the photographs. ‘That’s whatshisname from I’m a Celebrity, isn’t it?’

  ‘Told you,’ said Dave, triumphantly.

  ‘But what’s his name?’

  ‘Whatshisname,’ said Lucy and Dave in unison, catching each laughing.

  ‘Watch out,’ Mel said in a stage whisper an hour later. They’d failed in spectacular fashion at the first two rounds, and now Helen was approaching.

  ‘Hello, you four,’ she said, in her loud voice. ‘So nice to see you so at home, Lucy. Any chance you might decide to stay on?’ Without waiting to be invited, she pinched a stool from the table beside them and wedged herself in between Sam and Mel, beaming directly at Lucy, who fiddled with a beer mat and pulled a non-committal sort of face. She didn’t want to think about leaving the village when she was right in the middle of a perfectly nice night out, thank you very much.

  ‘Mel, Lucy – if you could have a look and see if you have anything you’d like to add to the collection for the library. We’re planning to have a sort of rotating selection available.’

  ‘I’ve got the full set of Fifty Shades books, if you want them?’ Mel snorted with laughter.

  ‘Good heavens, no,’ Helen looked shocked. ‘I think we’ll keep it PG at best. Can’t have children going in there and finding themselves faced with a lot of smut, can we?’

  The woman whose chair Helen had stolen had returned and was standing beside the table holding two wine glasses with a boot-faced expression. Helen noticed – although not until Mel had cleared her throat several times and in
clined her head with decreasing amounts of tact in the direction of the disgruntled woman – and removed her neat bottom from the chair.

  ‘See you on Thursday, then,’ she trilled, disappearing into the throng that surrounded the bar.

  ‘Okay, well, you were rubbish as a secret weapon,’ said Mel later, as they made their way down the hill and back towards home. She’d had several rum and cokes, and ricocheted gently off a green wheelie bin as they walked in single file down Lacemaker’s Lane. Sam turned, making sure Lucy, who was bringing up the rear, was okay.

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘I’m pissed,’ said Mel, unnecessarily. She took a flower from a stem of gladioli outside a cottage and put it behind her ear, twirling around and pretending to play the castanets. ‘Who wants to come in for a nightcap?’

  Sam shot Lucy a brief glance, raising an eyebrow in query. She wasn’t quite sure what it meant, and yet somehow it made her stomach flip over.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind a coffee, actually,’ Lucy said, thinking perhaps it’d help sober Mel up before she had to get up in the morning and deal with a houseful of doggy guests.

  ‘Good idea.’

  ‘You two are such boring old farts,’ Mel said, pulling her keys out of her pocket. ‘No wonder you make such a good match for each other.’

  Luckily it was dark, so nobody could see the expression on Lucy’s face. She looked down at her feet as Mel opened the door, avoiding Sam’s gaze.

  The moment Mel put the key in the lock, a cacophony of barking started. ‘I’m coming, I’m coming,’ said Mel, slurring slightly.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ came a shrill, outraged voice from the top of the stairs. ‘Mum, couldn’t you come in without setting off all the dogs in the village?’

  ‘Sorry, lovey,’ Mel said, dropping her keys in the fruit bowl on the dresser. ‘Shh. Go back to bed.’ She giggled. ‘Right. Coffee for the old farts, and a brandy for me. You two sit down there. I’ll put the kettle on.’ She motioned to the sofa.

  There was a huge, shaggy-haired lurcher curled up asleep on the armchair, so there was nowhere for them to sit but beside each other. Lucy felt alarmingly aware of the sensation of Sam’s body close to hers. Mel reappeared a moment later with three mugs and plonked them on the table. She crashed down on the sofa, squashing them even closer together.

  ‘No milk. So I thought we could drink a toast to something lovely.’

  ‘I don’t mind having it black,’ Lucy began. Sam shot her a look and rolled his eyes.

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ Mel said, heaving herself up. ‘Forgot the brandy. Hang on.’

  ‘Did she have much more to drink than we did?’ Lucy whispered, watching as Mel made her way out the door, stopping to pat the lurcher on the head.

  ‘She got talking at the bar before we arrived. Steve, the landlord, has a bit of a crush on her. Think he gave her a couple of free shots before, and then again after the quiz. Mel’s always been the same – she’s Mrs Wholesome Outdoor Living ninety-nine per cent of the time, and then once in a while she lets herself off the leash, gets plastered, wakes up with the hangover from hell and swears she’s never drinking again.’

  ‘Here we are.’

  Mel sloshed a huge measure of brandy into each mug.

  ‘So the big question is,’ she said, sitting back with a sigh against the sofa cushions, ‘what’s going on with Freya? You figured it out yet?’

  ‘She’s been a bit less grouchy this week. Maybe it was hormones or something.’

  Clearly Sam hadn’t got to the bottom of it. Lucy perched on the edge of the sofa, not wanting to sit back because if she did she’d sink into the cushions and end up wedged between the arm and Sam, who was now sitting with a Jack Russell curled up on his knee.

  ‘I tried to give Camille the third degree, see if I could get anything out of her. But nothing.’

  ‘I’m sure it’ll sort itself out,’ Sam said, easily. He stroked the head of the Jack Russell. Lucy noticed that, like her, he wasn’t touching his drink.

  ‘Mmm,’ said Mel.

  A moment later, there was a faint sound of snoring from her end of the sofa.

  ‘I’ll get her a blanket,’ Sam said, passing his mug to Lucy. ‘She’ll wake up covered with dogs.’

  Ten minutes later they let themselves out of Mel’s house and stood for a moment on the footpath. Sam pushed his hair back from his forehead in the gesture that had grown familiar, and smiled ruefully.

  ‘See you at the phone box meeting, then?’

  Lucy felt the sensation of her stomach dropping to her feet. God, it would be so easy to curl her hands up and around the back of his neck, lean her face up and kiss him. For a second, she wondered if she could – but then turned away, with a casual wave. She’d never been that sort of person. The kiss on the cheek she’d given him the night they’d drunk too much wine had been so out of character. Just because she could still feel the graze of his stubbled cheek on her lips and smell the faint, oaky smell of his aftershave, didn’t mean –

  ‘Lucy.’

  Sam’s voice was soft. She turned around, halfway across the lane, and looked at him. He was standing on the footpath, hands by his sides.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’ll see you on Thursday. Thanks for a lovely evening.’

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Oh, for God’s sake. Sam woke up the next morning, remembering. If he’d – oh, why the hell didn’t he just admit how he felt about Lucy? He gave a groan of frustration, and rolled over onto one of the dogs. Amber gave a woof and jumped onto the wooden floor of the bedroom, nails clattering on the wood, whining immediately to be let out.

  He opened the curtains and looked across the road, as had become habit. He could see Lucy’s sitting room curtains were open, and – he stepped back out of view, realizing she was coming out of the front door. This was ridiculous. He was turning into a peeping Tom.

  Just then Freya emerged from her room.

  ‘Morning, darling. You organized for school?’

  She nodded, not looking up from her phone.

  ‘I’m going to be late tonight. Got study stuff on.’

  ‘Do you need me to pick you up?’

  ‘Nah. Cam says she’ll get the bus back with me.’

  ‘Okay.’ Sam tipped dog food into two bowls, flicking on the kettle. ‘God, I didn’t realize the time. I better get in the shower. See you later.’ He put a hand on her shoulder and dropped a kiss on her head.

  He stood in the shower, feeling the needles of hot water pummelling his shoulders, running over the day’s plans as he always did. They had a few last pieces to finish off on the treehouse, and then he was taking the lads to their weekly college course in Bletchley. After that, he had a quote to do, and bloody Annabel Bevan wanted him to come back again and double check something. And then it would be Thursday, and the WI meeting. He felt a buzz of excitement. What the hell was going on with his life, if he was getting excited at the prospect of a bloody WI meeting about a telephone box?

  It was all down to Lucy. He’d gone to sleep last night with her on his mind, and then dreamed about her. It was ridiculous. She was a temporary visitor, and he had a responsibility to Freya to be the best parent he could be – the only parent she had. Maybe once she was grown up, he’d think again. But right now he needed to be there to make sure she stayed on the straight and narrow and didn’t veer off like Stella had. That was one of the worries that niggled away at him in the middle of the night. Right now, though, she wasn’t showing any signs of being like her mother. Freya was very much her own person, and he was proud of her for that.

  He was in the midst of taking some measurements for a quote when his mobile rang.

  ‘D’you need to get that?’

  If it was Freya, she’d message – teens never actually used their phones to make a call. He shook his head at the owner of the big country house on the other side of Bletchingham, who was after a two-storey treehouse for his teenagers to escape to. If the weather held, he cou
ld get it done before winter really hit.

  ‘It’s fine, my voicemail will catch it. So when you say you want an apex roof, are you thinking something like this?’ He pulled out some paper and started sketching. The phone started ringing again. He hit the mute button, silencing it.

  ‘So sorry.’

  ‘Not at all.’

  It rang again twice, buzzing in his pocket like an irritating wasp. Shaking hands with the potential client, he headed back to the truck. Next stop was driving back to Brackley to collect the lads from college. He sat down and closed the door of the cab, pulling out his phone. Bletchingham High School – four missed calls.

  Shit. He hit the return call button, worried sick.

  ‘Hello? This is Freya Travis’s dad. I’ve had a missed call – well, four of them.’

  ‘One moment.’

  ‘Mr Travis,’ said a voice, smoothly. ‘No need for alarm, I’m sure. I wanted to check with you as we hadn’t had a call this morning to say Freya wasn’t going to be in.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ His stomach lurched.

  ‘The automated text system. We didn’t get a reply back from you to our message asking why she hadn’t registered this morning.’

  All his nightmares were coming true. Where the hell was she?

  ‘She’s not with me. I mean, she might be at home. I need to go. I need to find her.’

  Hitting the phone buttons with shaking fingers, he tried her number.

  ‘Hi there,’ said Freya’s chirpy voice. ‘I can’t come to the phone right now because I’m busy, or I’m asleep, or it’s been confiscated. Please leave a message and I might call you back . . .’

  ‘Freya, darling. Where the hell are you?’

  He tried calling the landline at home, but it rang out until he heard his own voice on the answer machine. Mel didn’t pick up – probably in the middle of a dog training class. He dialled Bunty’s home number.

  ‘Little Maudley 823390,’ she said, crisply.

  ‘Bunty, it’s Sam. Have you seen Freya?’