The Last Library

by Freya Sampson

YOU CAN TELL A lot about a person from the library books they borrow.

learning to write their letters on dusty slates like a scene from Jane Eyre

June knew she’d renewed Fifty Shades of Grey at least three times.

‘For goodness’ sake, June, it’s children’s nursery rhymes, not Songs of Praise

she pictured him living in faded grandeur, sleeping in silk pyjamas and eating kippers for breakfast. The Telegraph crossword was one of his daily rituals.

She found the one she wanted and carried it through to the kitchen, where she put a lasagne ready-meal in the microwave and poured herself a glass of wine.

It was battered and worn from years of reading, the words Pride and Prejudice on the front cover barely legible now.

You are never alone when you have a good book.

Five minutes later, she sat down on the sofa with a thick, dog-eared copy of War and Peace

For her sixth birthday, her mum and Linda had baked her the giant spider and luminous pink pig from Charlotte’s Web, and for her tenth birthday, they’d tried to make Hermione and Hagrid from Harry Potter out of sugar fondant, although it had ended up looking like something out of a horror movie.

the only friends June had spent it with were Elizabeth Bennet and Mr Darcy.

This was one of her favourite parts of the day, before Marjorie and the patrons turned up, when it was just her and seven thousand books for company.

She recognised the look in his eyes every time he walked in, that mixture of anticipation and excitement at the promises held within the shelves. And she understood implicitly what it felt like to be more at home with books than people, to prefer the adventures and travels within their pages to those in real life.

June hadn’t seen Alex Chen since he was a short, plump teenager, reading Game of Thrones books on the school bus.

‘Actually, I always mean to read more widely but I never know where to start.’

She had sleek black hair and bright lipstick that made her look a bit like Mrs Coulter from His Dark Materials. June half-expected a golden monkey to jump onto her shoulder.

She and Gayle had been inseparable at primary school, having bonded at the age of six over a shared love of Mildred Hubble.

Vera Cox had always reminded June of Aunt Sponge from James and the Giant Peach

She had nothing interesting to say, no exciting hobbies or exotic travel to talk about. All she’d done for the past ten years was work in the library and read books.

his hair so blond he looked like Draco Malfoy from Harry Potter.

She read Wolf Hall for an hour but couldn’t concentrate,

June paced the house like a caged animal.

‘Then I remembered what Matilda – I mean, you – had said about getting people to take out as many library books as possible,’ Stanley continued. ‘So that’s what we’ve started asking people to do. I wish you could see it; everyone has borrowed the maximum number on their card.’ He brandished the book in his hand as evidence

‘I’ve never heard of a cat hating someone before.’

I panicked and took out the most random selection. I even came home with a Bridgerton book.’

‘God, look at this,’ Alex said, surveying the scene. ‘It’s like something out of The Great Gatsby, and I don’t mean that in a good way.’

packed with drunken bodies flailing to ‘Come on Eileen’.

‘It’s Draco Malfoy.’

He said they found it by Stanley’s bed. It belongs to the library.’

She was currently reading A Little Life, which was doing nothing for her mood.

a childhood spent in English boarding schools gives one an excellent education in hiding one’s emotions.

I fear that the sleep of death is approaching fast.

Whatever you choose to do with the money, I pray that you start to live your life again, my dear June.

There really was nothing to keep June in Chalcot anymore; but for the first time in her life, that thought didn’t completely terrify her.

‘I always dreamt of going to university and one day becoming a writer, but when Mum died I let that dream die too. But I’ve realised it’s time to stop living in fear and take some risks. So, I’ve enrolled in a part-time degree course for mature students, and I’ve started writing again.’

‘Stanley would have been so proud of you, and your mum.’ ‘Well, make sure you send us a copy of your book when it’s written,’ Mrs B said. ‘I just hope it’s better than the rest of the crap we have here. What a load of rubbish – I’ve a good mind to hand my library card back in protest.’

I need to pick your brain on a book recommendation . . .’