Chapter Twenty
Things Back Home
The struggle was easy enough to ignore. She’d settled it while the rest of Clove Lore slept.
Last night, at the silent book club, she’d let the serotonin take over, watching Harri when he was pretending to have forgotten all about the thing in the library.
The call from Paisley was the reminder she’d needed to listen to her amygdala. That was the part of her brain that knew best. It carried the memories of all the times she’d been hurt, burned, scared and scarred. It was the part that learned from mistakes, that created inhibitions. It was the part that was going to stop her destroying her friendship with Harri. It was currently telling her to stop being horny and start being hardworking.
She’d not hung around at the end of her event, disappearing upstairs and into bed behind her bolted door before the last of them had left. She’d witnessed Harri sloping back inside the bookshop after what had felt like ages pacing in the courtyard, his phone clamped to his ear.
He’d returned looking ashen and guilt wracked. She knew him well enough to read his expressions. He’d tried to catch her eye but she avoided him.
Had he confessed everything to Paisley, about their library madness? Had she scolded him? Threatened that this really was the last straw? Whatever they’d said to one another, Harri’s guilty look was enough to confirm things were far from over back home.
This morning she’d excused herself from the bookshop and Harri, who had dark circles under his eyes like he had barely slept, had watched her, more than a little bewildered, as she poured the breakfast coffee he’d made her into a takeaway cup, piled on warm layers, and looked out the door into the Monday morning winter glare.
‘You coming back any time soon?’ Harri asked, dispirited. Annie had no idea of the pains he’d taken to craft the perfect Hawaiian espresso – made with eye-wateringly rare and expensive Mount Loa beans, topped with the lightest slow-whipped, Korean-inspired dalgona creme. She couldn’t know how his heart dropped at the sound of it being sloshed into a cardboard carry cup.
‘I have some stuff to do,’ she said. ‘Can you hold the fort by yourself?’
‘Course.’ He’d shrugged like it was nothing. ‘We should talk, though, about last night… and the night before that, and…’
‘Can’t stop,’ she’d said, breezing out the door.
Out on the slope, however, with her bag over her shoulder, she realised she didn’t quite know where she was going and for a moment it didn’t matter so much because the white cloud cover was broken through here and there, revealing glimpses of watery blue sky and a hazy sun.
In the little front gardens that lined the slope, bare branches covered in spring buds dripped with morning dew and Annie spotted her first daffodils of the year, tiny yellow trumpeters heralding the coming spring.
She didn’t have time to stop and stare however, as a bright blur of pink and red was coming down the slope towards her. All smiles and chatter, Austen and Patti seemed to carry springtime with them just as much as the early garden blooms.
‘Hey!’ Annie called, and they waved back.
‘Going sightseeing today?’ asked Patti when they drew nearer.
‘Actually, I have some work stuff to do. But I can’t concentrate in the bookshop.’
She ignored the brief amused glance that passed between the two women. A glance that said they suspected why she couldn’t concentrate. Was the whole village whispering about her and Harri? They’d read it so wrong if they were.
‘Is there a library round here?’ asked Annie, trying to maintain her poise.
‘Nope,’ said Austen. ‘The council closed the library out on the main road years ago.’
‘Aww, no!’ Annie recoiled. Another one bites the dust.
‘Yep,’ added Patti sagely. ‘It’s a Starbucks now.’
‘So what does a person do for wi-fi and when they need a place to work? That isn’t an expensive coffee shop, I mean?’
With a glance of communication, Austen and Patti reached a wordless agreement.
‘Come to ours?’ they said at the same time.
Meanwhile, at the bookshop, Harri was settling William in for the day. Or rather he was watching on as William made himself at home re-ordering the ‘Languages’ shelf.
‘The Varronianus ought to be here with the Etyma Latina , keeping David Crystal on English here, next to Chomsky on language acquisition. You see? It’s simple Dewey Decimal four hundred, you know? And what is this doing here?’ He pulled a Wilfred Thesiger from the shelf. ‘Photography section, surely? And this Galloping Gourmet cookbook is clearly lost.’
‘Ah! We’ve an expert in our midst, Harri,’ quipped Jowan, taking the offending titles to the correct shelves. ‘I always arranged things loosely by theme and some cursory alphabetising, but Borrowers over the years have imposed their own order on parts of the shop. One time, a young lass arranged the general fiction by spine colour.’
William shuddered noticeably.
‘I know, ’twas a dark day for Clove Lore,’ added Jowan with a smile. ‘There’s bound to be a fair amount of cross-pollination on these shelves,’ he went on. ‘Being a living, breathing bookshop, our own little garden of books, and not a neat and tidy library.’
Nevertheless, he took instructions from William for as long as it took the older man to find a book that caught his interest, carry it to the armchair and bury his nose in it.
Harri liked Jowan very much, now that all the matchmaking and betting-book stuff seemed to be forgotten about. He’d made both men espresso con panna at ten, fixing himself one too, even though he had no enthusiasm for it. Even though he really needed the caffeine.
It had been hard to sleep after Paisley’s call. She’d been to Neath to drop in a bag of his books along with some clothes she’d found at the bottom of the laundry basket and washed for him, which was really nice of her. Her visit had clearly got Harri’s dad worked up. She’d said he’d ‘not been best pleased’ when she mentioned his son wasn’t planning on coming back to their flat in Port Talbot, but more than likely moving back to the family home.
‘Just a heads up,’ she’d said, and Harri had sighed and thanked her.
It was a timely reminder that the first week of his holiday had flown by and in five more days he’d be standing at the station deciding what to do next. By then, Annie would be on her flight home.
It had been a jolt, but one he needed. This escape was only a passing dream. Reality was just there, waiting.
His mum mustn’t have broken it to his dad about the break-up. Paisley had ambushed him with it. He’d have been hopping mad, Harri knew. Mad enough for Paisley to call and warn him.
He’d hoped he might receive at least a neutral welcome home from his dad, knowing it wouldn’t be a warm one; but it sounded like he wasn’t going to be welcome at all. The call had been enough to send him shrinking into himself, and when he’d returned to the silent reading group and found Annie hunched over, absorbed in her book, having totally forgotten about him, he’d shrunk further still. She’d disappeared to bed with her book leaving Harri to lock up, giving him time alone to lecture himself on how he’d so easily abandoned his promise to let Annie enjoy her holiday untroubled and in peace. Typical Harri, always letting everyone down , he’d told himself, picturing how his parents must be at home at that very moment arguing about what to do with their disappointing son when he showed up with all his stuff in a few days’ time. He could hear his mum attempting to plead for him, saying how he was just out of a relationship and had nowhere else to go. Harri had fallen asleep at dawn picturing his dad with that firm-set mouth and folded arms calling him ‘hopeless’ and ‘far too old to be so far behind’.
This morning, seeing Annie uncomfortable and desperate to get away from him, he’d vowed to concentrate on the bookselling side of things and less on being a slave to his needy, guilty feelings.
He’d been glad when Jowan arrived bringing William and the boxes they’d won at the auction. Jowan had dragged the boxes right to the door on a little sled like a grizzled Santa Claus delivering Christmas gifts. Aldous had hitched a ride on the sled too and now he was fast asleep by the shop fire.
Jowan hadn’t said anything in advance about planning on helping out today but evidently that’s what was happening. Harri assumed, since William had no place to be, and he was most likely a bit lonely, he’d be sticking around all day as well. The village elders were clearly claiming him for themselves and Harri couldn’t think of a better community to undertake the task.
‘Any news on the sale of the castle?’ Harri asked in a low voice while the antiquarian read peacefully by the fire.
‘There’s a public consultation planned for tomorrow,’ answered Jowan. ‘The Happy Holiday Park seems keen to acquire the land from the Crown. Word coming out of the council offices is that the company has already drawn up plans to develop the site. Eighty-eight static caravans and cabins around a camp hub with indoor heated pool,’ confirmed Jowan gravely. ‘But you didn’t hear that from me, and certainly not from my Mint,’ he added, very much like a man whose wife definitely knew someone on the council and had wheedled the news from them.
‘Sounds quite nice,’ said Harri, thinking how it was exactly the kind of place his parents would have taken him on holiday when he was little, when he’d been the apple of his dad’s eye, his mini me, before he’d become a worry.
Jowan didn’t seem convinced.
‘Was there really nothing left for William?’ asked Harri in a whisper. ‘It’s rotten he’s lost his best friend and his home all in one go. Isn’t he entitled to something?’
‘Well…’ began Jowan, scratching his chin. ‘Mint might have made some enquiries amongst her lawyer pals – and she knows a thing or two about the law herself, having inherited a great big house and a great big debt from her old man. Unfortunately, she’s certain there’s nothing can be done. Them having lived together, them being friends, him being his carer even, doesn’t mean he’s entitled to a cut of anything. Even if he has just lost his home. The whole estate belonged to the Courtenay family, and now they’re gone.’
‘What’ll happen to William?’ whispered Harri.
Jowan inhaled through his teeth like the news wasn’t good. ‘There’s the problem of him being of no fixed abode. He’s technically homeless. We can shelter him as much as we likes, but Social Services are still involved. They’ll find him somewhere permanent to stay.’
‘In Clove Lore?’ Harri asked. That didn’t sound so bad.
Jowan shook his head and leaned closer. ‘You didn’t hear this from me, but rumour has it they’re looking at sheltered accommodation as far afield as Taunton.’
They both looked at William, absorbed in his book.
‘Looks like he’s in his element here,’ said Harri. ‘A bookshop’s the next best thing to his big old library. Can’t he stay here?’
Jowan raised a sandy brow. ‘If this was a novel, probably. But, this is real life an’ that man needs looking after. You saw what happened when he stopped taking his medication and wasn’t feeding himself proper.’
It was all very well for Harri to wish for more for William, but he was leaving in a few days and was hardly in a position to know what was right for him, or to volunteer the village’s permanent residents into roles as his new carers, no matter how well suited they might be for it.
‘It just seems a shame,’ said Harri. ‘How he can’t make his own decisions.’
With a hand on his shoulder to show he agreed, Jowan gave him a conciliatory pat.
‘Come on, let’s unpack those boxes of books you bought for us. I’m sure William can tell us all about them.’
Annie pinched at her screwed eyelids and the screen glared blue. Her morning’s work had at least been worth the eye strain and the anxiety of opening her inbox.
First of all, she’d logged into her emails to find messages from her senior library colleagues. Cassidy had been right. Their plans to get the community on their side were well underway. A meeting had been called at the school for parents, students and the relevant library associations to attend and share their concerns. The school library had been temporarily closed. None of the volunteer parents were authorised to work the systems and the whole thing had ground to a halt so they’d reluctantly reinstated Linda and Kimmy, just as Cassidy had said.
She’d fired off replies straight away, pledging her support, saying sorry for being so quiet. She’d been frightened. The intimidation was real.
If anyone was going to understand, it was her colleagues. Harri had been outraged on her behalf but he couldn’t ever know what it was like to be a woman facing down public humiliation and frightening accusations in a time and place where, all around her, women’s rights were being stripped back by cold, careless conservatives, as though decades of fighting for basic freedoms had meant nothing at all, even when Annie knew that as a white, cis woman with a place to live and a university degree she didn’t suffer the half of it.
Satisfied that her colleagues couldn’t doubt her support, she’d checked the latest news reports about libraries in similar positions to her own, only deeper into the fight. Her heart dropped reading about the librarians whose careers had been curtailed by wildly dangerous allegations. One image accompanying a news story showed a mother on a school yard, their mouth set in a stern line. Their homemade banner shouted librarians, keep your mitts off our kids. Seeing it had made her queasy with indignation and dread.
There were stories of support too. Of librarians who’d taken on the book bans and won, but it had come at a cost to everyone involved, and most especially to the kids at the centre of all this. Kids who, Annie knew, deserved books they could read for free, housed in a safe, well-resourced library that belonged to them, and with a book collection as diverse, wonderful, entertaining and unique as them.
Annie’s jaw was clenched hard when Austen brought her a sandwich and tea at twelve. ‘Snack for the workers,’ she said in her Coronation Street twang, plonking herself on a stool next to Annie at the kitchen bar.
Being a Monday, Radia was at school and her mother, Joy, was working at her little tech-support station in the bedroom she shared with Monty. Patti had gone up to the Big House a while ago to show a prospective bride and groom around the wedding facilities. This had been exactly the headspace Annie needed.
‘Thanks for this,’ said Annie.
‘Ach, it’s just a crisp and cheddar butty an’ a brew,’ Austen replied, squashing her crisps between thick, white, buttered bread slices with a satisfying crunch before taking a big bite.
‘No, I mean this,’ said Annie. ‘Letting me hide out here… Hold on! Crisps and cheese? That’s genius.’
‘I know.’ Austen took a big bite. ‘Has to be salt and vinegar, mind.’ She let Annie enjoy her first taste. ‘Good, right?’
It really was good. Annie hadn’t had time for breakfast in her hurry to get away from the shop this morning and her stomach had been growling as she worked. Harri’s consolation prize coffee had turned cold in the paper cup.
One of Annie’s favourite things about Austen, aside from her generosity and her taste in snacks, was that she didn’t ask prying questions. Anyone else in Clove Lore would want to know why she was hiding out from Harri. Having been a Borrower herself, maybe Austen could appreciate how stressful it was when the whole village tried to insert themselves into the lives of their vacationers.
‘You looked busy,’ Annie said between bites.
All morning Austen had been curled up on the sofa at Annie’s back, with headphones jammed over her ears, taking handwritten notes from a textbook.
‘I’ve got an assessment coming up. Bibliotherapy.’ She took a slurp of tea and caught Annie’s questioning eyes. ‘What’s bibliotherapy, right?’
‘Yeah. Sorry. Haven’t heard of it. It sounds like something I should know about.’
‘You’d love it. I’m doing an online course just to learn the basics, now that I’m running loads of creative writing workshops and things.’
‘You were so good with the kids the other day,’ Annie cut in.
‘Thanks. They’re easier to handle than an adults’ creative writing circle, that’s for sure.’ Austen’s laugh was bright and easy. ‘But your silent reading night was actually more like bibliotherapy than my kids’ poetry session was.’
‘It was?’
‘Yep, reading for wellbeing,’ Austen said.
Annie remembered how much she’d enjoyed sitting by the fire, lost in her novel, surrounded by people who no longer felt like strangers. It had been the first time in months she could read at all, let alone enjoy reading. The blockage, whether it had been to do with Cassidy or the school, had shifted that night and she’d simply enjoyed the feeling of her eyes moving across the lines, absorbing the racy, lavish storytelling. ‘I think I know what you’re saying,’ Annie told her.
‘It’s all about matching the right book to the right person at the right time. It can be therapeutic and healing; transformative even.’
‘In that case, I know exactly what you mean. I used to be…’ Annie stopped herself. ‘I am an assistant librarian in a school. I’ve seen kids who hated reading find their way to exactly the right story for them and, bam ! It’s love!’ She could picture those kids’ faces. She knew that look in their eye when the magic was happening. ‘The right book can be a huge comfort.’
‘Exactly!’ agreed Austen. ‘Books tell you you’re not alone. That’s what this essay assignment’s about; mental health and the solace of reading. Reading, letting our imaginations run wild, rehearsing difficult feelings or working through tough situations from a safe distance, all that stuff happens when we’re reading, and those processes help us turn pain and trauma into creativity and healing. Happiness too. I can’t imagine living without reading. It’s like breathing to me.’
‘Can I read it when you’re done?’ The words had blurted out. Annie forgot she was supposed to be reserved around these folks, but Austen seemed delighted.
‘I would love that! And any feedback you’ve got?’
‘You want to know what I think of it? Really?’
Austen mugged amazement. ‘You’re an actual librarian, aren’t you? Of course I do!’
The tiny ember of determination that her morning’s work had ignited within her burst into a flame now. ‘You’re right,’ said Annie, resolutely. ‘I am an actual librarian.’
She opened her emails again and started to compose a message.
Dear Principal Johnson , it began.