‘These are gorgeous,’ said Freya, rolling her eyes. ‘Oi!’ She slapped his hand away as he reached for another. ‘These are mine.’
‘I got you some too,’ said Lucy, handing Sam a grey bag tied with a chic burgundy ribbon. ‘Even gift-wrapping is beautifully done in Paris. Have you been?’
He shook his head. ‘I’d love to go,’ he said, adding mentally, ‘with you’. God, he really needed to get a grip. ‘Do you want a drink?’
‘No, I just popped in for a moment.’ She looked at Freya, who was rummaging in a huge plastic box in the hall. ‘What’s she doing?’
‘Don’t ask.’
There was a hoot of triumph. ‘Found it!’ A moment later, she reappeared in the kitchen with her arms full of tinsel.
Lucy frowned in confusion. ‘Isn’t it a bit early for decorations? It’s not even December.’
Freya looped tinsel around the beams in the sitting room, humming a Christmas tune. For a fleeting moment Sam wished he could just freeze time, make this little scene his new normality.
‘It’s not December for long enough,’ Freya said indignantly. ‘I want maximum Christmas.’
‘You sure you can’t stay?’ He turned to look at Lucy, hopefully.
‘Oh, go on then.’ She smiled.
‘I’ve got a bottle of red lurking in the cupboard somewhere, but I can’t guarantee it’ll be up to fancy French standards.’
Lucy bent down to ruffle the ears of both spaniels, who were weaving around her legs, hopeful of treats. She looked up at him. ‘I don’t mind.’
Half an hour later, there was a brief knock on the door and then Mel burst in, swearing furiously about bloody printers. Cammie followed behind, hair tied in a knot, wearing a jumper and a pair of brightly checked pyjama trousers.
‘Can I just borrow yours?’ She caught a glimpse of the open bottle. ‘Ooh, and I’ll have a glass if we’re celebrating. What are we celebrating?’
‘Christmas,’ crowed Freya, dancing into the room with a tinsel halo wrapped around her hair. She hooked an arm through Cammie’s and they disappeared out of the sitting room. Moments later the sounds of music came thumping through the house.
‘She seems cheerful,’ Mel said.
‘Yeah.’ Sam tipped some more wine into Lucy’s glass, and his own. ‘We had a good chat the other day – talked about the whole Stella situation. I think she had a bit of a wobble, wondering what would happen if she just disappeared out of her life again.’
Lucy curled her legs up on the armchair and shifted slightly to accommodate Bee, who tucked herself in beside her. ‘I’ve been wondering about that too – I was thinking about it on the train to Paris.’
‘She’s not exactly known for her reliability, is she?’ Mel made a face.
‘I dunno.’ He looked into his glass as if searching for the answer. ‘I think she’s changed, actually.’
‘Stella?’ Mel’s tone was sharp.
He nodded. ‘They had a falling out, and she dealt with it pretty well. She’s seeing a counsellor, which I think helps a bit.’
Lucy looked across at him, her expression thoughtful. ‘I think that sounds pretty positive.’
‘I hope so.’
The wine finished, Lucy and Mel stood on the pavement outside Sam’s cottage after they’d left. Cammie ran ahead, saying she’d put the kettle on for hot water bottles. It was amazingly cold – far colder than it ever seemed to get in Brighton – and Lucy shivered, wrapping her arms round herself to get warm.
‘Are you all set for the grand opening of the library?’ Mel asked.
‘I am.’ She nodded. ‘It’s a bit weird, given that it’s been all ready to go for two weeks now.’
‘Yes, but – Helen. We must do things just so.’ Mel did a passable attempt at her clipped accent.
Helen had been appalled that nobody had yet borrowed the clearly unread copy of War and Peace she’d donated (‘an absolute favourite of mine’), and Lucy had spotted her on more than one occasion hovering around the telephone box, waiting to see the library in action.
‘Just checking everything is going to plan,’ she’d explained, when Lucy had come out of the cottage and unloaded some of the boxes she’d brought back from Brighton.
‘Of course,’ Lucy had smiled, and disappeared back inside.
She’d taken the opportunity to go through the stuff she’d brought back – most of it was either papers for recycling, or old stuff she didn’t want – and had filled up the boxes with it all, ready to take them to the tip. Sam had been coming out of the house early one morning when she’d seen him and waved hello. It was, she decided, just one of those things. She’d never been the sort of person for a one-night stand, but then she’d never been the sort of person who gave up a perfectly good career as head of department in a school before, either. Maybe it was all part of the same thing.
Tell yourself that often enough, she thought, and you might believe it. She bit her lip and looked in the rear-view mirror of her little car, watching as Sam drove off in his Land Rover.
Later that afternoon she set off for Bletchingham with Bunty, who had decided she wanted a new cardigan. They drove through the village. The Christmas tree was already in place on the green, ready for the official switching on of the lights the following weekend. Some houses – Sam and Freya’s, of course, and several with small children – had already put their decorations up, and the lights sparkled brightly from windows that glowed in the dim midwinter light. Despite the cold, the warm glow of the stone seemed to make the village light up against the dull grey sky.
They stopped at the junction – where once they’d taken a detour – and waited for a tractor and trailer to rattle past.
‘You don’t want to stop at Signal Hill again?’ Lucy smiled.
Sitting in the car, wrapped up warmly in a thick woollen coat, Bunty gave a look of surprise.
‘Do you know what? I think I do.’
And so they bumped up the track and got out of the car. The rosebay willowherb that had skirted the edges of the worn-out path up to the building was faded and dried now and the field beside it was scored deep by the plough, ready for a new year’s crops to be planted the following spring. It was so cold that the frost that rimed the windowsill hadn’t melted.
‘Does it bring it all back?’
Lucy turned to look at Bunty. She seemed lost in thought. For a moment, Lucy could imagine her as a young girl cycling up here in the freezing winter, wrapped up against the cold, spending long shifts inside this building with only a temperamental little stove to keep it warm. From this unprepossessing place, black propaganda was broadcast across Occupied Europe. Fifteen miles away stood Bletchley Park, where so many other young people worked – never knowing precisely what they were doing, or questioning it – to do their bit. She looked at Bunty and felt a surge of admiration for the girl she’d been, and the woman she now was.
‘It brings it all back.’ Bunty nodded. ‘But actually, it’s rather nice.’
She gave the building a gentle pat, as if to acknowledge it, and turned back towards the car.
As they drove towards Bletchingham, Lucy ventured a question she’d been dying to ask. It hadn’t been clear in Bunty’s diaries, and the answer had been nagging at her.
‘So –’ she began, carefully. ‘Afterwards – I mean, after Harry had been killed . . .’
Bunty looked straight ahead at the road. ‘How did I end up married to Len?’
Lucy nodded. ‘I mean, when you had been madly in love with Harry.’
‘I loved Len. He was a good, kind, gentle man. I adored Harry, of course. But Len picked me up, took me out to the cinema and for tea on my days off. And when I realized I was pregnant, he said that he loved me and that he was sure I’d love him, too, given time.’
‘And you did?’ It seemed a huge leap – and a huge sacrifice for Len to make.
‘Oh, yes.’ Bunty paused for a moment. ‘I had to be practical, too. I couldn’t have raised a baby alone
and supported us both in those days. And the scandal –’ She shook her head. ‘Luckily it all turned out well, in the end.’
Lucy indicated left and pulled into the car park behind the old library building. It had a planning sign attached to metal grilles outside. The car engine stopped and Lucy took the key out of the ignition.
‘Len wasn’t second best, you know. That’s why I would never want Gordon to know that his father – well, that his biological father wasn’t who he thought. And why I wouldn’t ever want anyone to know – no matter what rumours there might have been back then, they’ve been long forgotten.’
Lucy thought back to Henry’s comment that Bunty had had an interesting war. He hadn’t said another word, besides that.
‘Well, I’m very grateful that you shared it with me. And I promise that I will never breathe a word.’
‘I’m very glad to hear it.’ Bunty smiled slightly. ‘But there is one thing I’d like you to consider, not in return, but just because I’ve become very fond of you.’
‘Of course.’
Chapter Twenty-eight
‘Are you ready?’
Lucy stood shivering on the front step of Bunty’s cottage, waiting for her to emerge. She couldn’t find any gloves, and her hands were freezing. They’d woken to a thick frost, the first of the winter, and over the last hour tiny bright flakes of snow had started to spin down from a pale sky.
‘Here I am.’ Bunty came out of the formal sitting room, the one that was never used. She’d put on a slick of red lipstick and was wearing a very smart brown felt hat, along with a woollen coat and scarf. Outside the snow was still falling, dusting the top of the stone wall that enclosed the cottage garden. It iced the dried brown flower heads of the hydrangea bush and was just starting to settle on the grass.
Beth from the shop had come down to the village green, and was standing with a thick puffa jacket over the blue-and-white pinny she wore to protect her clothes.
‘Hello, you two,’ she said, lifting her chin and smiling at them. ‘Haven’t seen you around for a while, Lucy. What have you been up to?’
‘Oh, this and that,’ Lucy said. She wasn’t giving anything away to Beth. Bunty gave Lucy a tiny sideways smile.
There was a little crowd gathering around the telephone box library, and a photographer from the local paper, his camera around his neck, shooing people out of the way to get some pictures. Someone had crocheted a garland of colourful flowers, which had been hung around the phone box like bunting. Freya ran over to them, grinning.
‘Doesn’t it look amazing?’
Bunty took her arm. ‘It looks splendid. Your dad has done a lovely job with the fittings.’
‘He’s over there,’ Freya said, excited.
‘Hi.’ Sam looked up, his hand still on the door of the phone box.
Lucy felt her stomach give a disobedient swoop of excitement.
‘Hello, stranger.’ He let go of the door and leaned over, kissing her on the cheek, surprising her. Her stomach flipped over, sending a fizz of excitement through her body.
‘Oh for goodness’ sake,’ grumbled Bunty. ‘I do wish they’d hurry up with all this preamble. My toes are freezing.’
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ began Helen, loudly. Having had her thunder stolen at the WI meeting, she was clearly determined to get in first. Susan looked across at Lucy and gave her the tiniest wink of complicity. Everyone carried on talking.
‘I heard there was mulled wine afterwards,’ said Henry loudly to nobody in particular. Susan put a hand on his arm and shushed him, smiling broadly.
Helen cleared her throat, and one of the WI women offered her a microphone from a box on a trestle table behind them. She shook her head.
‘It’s fine. I just need everyone to stop chattering.’ Helen clapped her hands loudly. That did the trick.
‘She doesn’t need a microphone,’ whispered Freya, ‘She’s like a foghorn.’ It made them all giggle. Helen launched into her speech.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ she began again. Everyone stopped talking. ‘As chair of the Little Maudley WI, it gives me enormous pleasure to celebrate the opening of our very own telephone box library. When we discovered that with the decommissioning of the phone box there was a possibility for us to take it over, we talked for a long time about the different options open to us.’
‘I thought you wanted it knocked down,’ said Henry, loudly.
Helen shot him a disapproving look.
‘D’you want a drink?’ Mel handed Lucy a silver hip flask. ‘Knowing Helen, this could go on for some time.’ Lucy took a sip and passed it on to Sam. He was standing close by her side again, just like the bonfire night, clad in a thick flannel shirt. He had a black woollen hat pulled down over his dark hair, and his collar turned up. Lucy, who had dressed more for the event than the weather in a navy wrap dress and a pair of tights and boots, shivered in her thin coat.
‘Do you want my jacket?’ Sam turned to her, his voice low.
‘Better not,’ she whispered. ‘I don’t think I’d be very popular if I helped Bunty cut the ribbon wearing a lumberjack shirt. Can’t let the side down,’ she added, imitating Helen’s plummy tones.
He gave a snort of laughter, earning them a glare from one of Helen’s minions.
Lucy realized that she’d better be standing by Bunty just in case she needed a hand, so squeezed through the little crowd of villagers. Bunty turned to her and gave her a brief smile of welcome.
‘. . . and so, as the oldest resident of the village . . .’
Bunty gave a look of such horrified disgust that Lucy had to cover her mouth with her hand to stop herself from snorting with laughter.
‘. . . we thought it only appropriate that Bunty, who has seen the telephone box every day from her cottage window, and who – like all of us – has her own memories of meeting friends and making calls from it . . .’
Bunty slid a glance at Lucy that made her smile. Only they knew the secret of what the phone box meant to her, and the memories it held.
‘Oh, get on with it, I’m blooming freezing,’ shouted a voice from the crowd, and everyone started to laugh.
The snow was getting heavier now, swirling through the air, covering the top of the wooden bench Sam had made to sit outside the phone box.
Bunty took the scissors, and Lucy held the ribbon firmly. With one swish, she cut it in half.
‘I now declare our telephone box library open,’ she said loudly. ‘And rather than droning on, I’d like to say just a few words of thanks. First of all, to Lucy. She’s been an absolute gem, and I’m sure that everyone will agree she’s been a wonderful addition to the village. So I’m delighted to say that she’s decided to stay with us permanently.’
Lucy looked at her feet, almost afraid to see what the reactions from the people she cared about would be. It took a split second for Bunty’s words to sink in, and then both Mel and Freya gave a whoop of delight. Lucy looked over at them. Mel was doing a vigorous fist-pump and Freya was beaming from ear to ear. She couldn’t see Sam – she craned her neck discreetly, trying to spot him.
‘Watching everyone pull together to turn the telephone box from an eyesore into a place where the community can gather and share something that means so much – the love of books – means a great deal to me, especially at a time when we’re losing libraries all over the country,’ Bunty continued.
Helen shot Lucy a look of alarm. The local reporter’s ears pricked up as he scented an angle for his story.
‘While free libraries like this are a wonderful boon to little villages like ours,’ she carried on, ‘it is a terrible shame that we are losing them in towns like Bletchingham. They are not just a place to borrow books, but a hub of the community, and somewhere people can get together and meet.’
‘Hear, hear,’ said a man in a flat cap and a long overcoat.
‘I’d like to end this little speech by saying thank you to Freya here . . .’
Mel gave Freya a shove forwar
d so that she was visible to everyone in the crowd, absolutely scarlet with teenage embarrassment. Bunty reached out her hand, and Freya took it and stood beside her, smiling shyly.
‘She was the person who had the idea in the first place, and I think we can all agree that it’s been a very good one.’
There was a cheer, and the photographer insisted on including Lucy and Freya in the pictures, taking several snaps of them with Bunty, standing beside the local worthies.
‘What Bunty said earlier – are you staying staying?’ Freya asked Lucy.
‘Yes, she is.’ Bunty beamed. ‘Not only do we get to keep Lucy permanently, but I get to put Margaret’s nose out of joint. She was absolutely desperate to get the cottage let out for holidaymakers.’
‘Dad will be pleased.’ Freya gave Lucy an arch look. Lucy ignored it.
‘You might not be. I’m going to be teaching you history next term.’
‘You what?’ Her eyes widened in surprise.
Lucy nodded, smiling.
Over the lunch in town, when Bunty had invited her to stay in the cottage for as long as she wanted, she’d talked about what she was hoping to do. As if the universe was working in her favour, a quick internet search had shown that the local school was looking for a history supply teacher to cover maternity leave for the following two terms.
‘Does that mean I have to call you Miss instead of Lucy?’
‘At school, it does, yes.’
‘I can cope with that if you’ll help me with my history homework.’ Freya grinned.
‘What about you? We haven’t had a chance to talk about it much. Are you glad to have your mum back in your life?’ Lucy looked at Freya. Her long eyelashes were sparkling with tiny flakes of snow. She nodded.
‘Yes. Well, she’s never going to be a mum sort of mum, but at least she’s not just a mystery any more.’
‘Are you going to be seeing her regularly?’
She nodded. ‘No stress. I don’t want to feel like I’m being forced into some sort of new family thing, but she seems to understand that. Right now, we’re just doing days out. Maybe I’ll stay over sometime, but not until I want to. She and Dad had a chat with me about it.’
The Telephone Box Library Page 29