The Lost Ticket, page 29
As she pushed the trolley toward the front of the room, June saw her boss marching toward her, a copy of Mrs. Dalloway poking out of her handbag.
“I need to see you in my office. Now.”
Marjorie Spencer was the library manager, a title she wore pinned to her blouse like a war medal. She claimed to only read highbrow literary novels, but June knew she’d renewed Fifty Shades of Grey at least three times.
June followed her boss into the office. It was actually a stock cupboard–cum–staff room, but Marjorie had put in a desk years ago and had even hung a name plaque on the door. There was no space for any other chairs, so June perched on a stack of printer paper.
“This is strictly entre nous, but I’ve just had a call from the council,” Marjorie said, fiddling with the string of pearls around her neck. “They want me to go in on Monday for an urgent meeting. In the boardroom.” She paused to check that June was suitably impressed with this information. “You’ll have to manage on your own while I’m gone.”
“Okay, that’s fine.”
“It’s too short notice to cancel Rhyme Time, so I’ll need you to take it for me too.”
June felt her chest tightening. “Actually, I’m sorry, I forgot, but Alan has a—”
“No buts. Besides, it will be good practice for you—once I retire at Christmas, my replacement may want you to take over the sessions anyway.”
June’s stomach dropped at the thought. “Marjorie, you know I can’t—”
“For goodness’ sake, June, it’s children’s nursery rhymes, not Songs of Praise.”
June opened her mouth to argue, but Marjorie had turned to her computer in a manner that said Do Not Disturb.
June left the office, trying to ignore the tightening in her chest. It was almost five o’clock, so she began the closing-down routine. As she tidied up the abandoned books and newspapers, she pictured all the expectant faces at Rhyme Time, the children and parents watching her impatiently, waiting for her to speak. June let out an involuntary shudder and dropped a pile of newspapers on the floor.
“Do you need a hand, my dear?” Stanley Phelps was sitting in his chair, watching her.
“Thanks, but I’m fine,” she said, picking up the scattered pages. “It’s five o’clock now. I’m afraid it’s time to go home.”
“May I request your assistance first? ‘Organize liaison to prevent this.’ Nine letters, first letter i.”
June thought for a moment, breaking the clue down in her mind like he’d taught her. “Could it be ‘isolation’?”
“Brava!”
Stanley Phelps, who enjoyed historical fiction set in the Second World War, had come to the library almost every day since June started working there ten years ago. He wore a tweed jacket and spoke like a character from a P. G. Wodehouse novel, and she pictured him living in faded grandeur, sleeping in silk pajamas and eating kippers for breakfast. The Telegraph crossword was one of his daily rituals.
“Now, before I leave, I have a little something for you.” Stanley reached into a crumpled old bag and pulled out a small bunch of wilting flowers held together by a piece of string. “Happy birthday, June.”
“Oh, Stanley, you didn’t have to,” June said, feeling herself blush. She never discussed her private life with anyone at the library, but years ago Stanley had somehow discovered her birthday, and he’d never once forgotten it since.
“Are you doing anything special tonight?” he said.
“I’m just seeing some old friends.”
“Well, I hope you have fun. You deserve a grand celebration.”
“Thank you,” June said, staring down at the flowers so she didn’t have to look him in the eye.
* * *
• • •
AT five thirty, June stepped outside into the warm early-summer evening. She locked the heavy library door and made her way down the Parade, past the village shop, the pub with Union Jack bunting fluttering over the door, the old bakery where she and her mum had bought jam doughnuts every Saturday. A couple of library patrons were standing outside the post office, and June nodded a silent hello as she turned down the hill, past the village green and the Golden Dragon takeaway, and left into the Willowmead estate. Built in the 1960s, it was a rabbit warren of identical semidetached houses with boxy gardens and wheelie bins sitting in front driveways. It was here that June had lived since she was four years old, in a house with a green front door and faded red curtains.
“I’m home!”
June took off her cardigan, left her shoes on the rack, ready for Monday morning, and went through into the lounge. One of the picture frames was crooked and June straightened it, frowning at the frizzy-haired, braces-wearing teenager staring back at her. Thankfully the braces were long gone, although she was still stuck with that crazy mass of brown curls, now tamed every day in a tight bun. With the picture back as it should be, June crossed the living room to the large bookcase that filled the left-hand wall, crammed with neat rows of spines. Adichie, C.; Alcott, L. M.; Angelou, M. She found the one she wanted and carried it through to the kitchen, where she put a frozen lasagna in the microwave and poured herself a glass of wine.
There was no sign of life, the house still, apart from the faint noise of a TV from next door. June picked up this morning’s post: a flyer about bin collections and a copy of the Dunningshire Gazette. She checked inside the paper in case any birthday cards had got caught up inside, but there was nothing. A small sigh escaped June’s mouth and she took a gulp of wine.
The microwave pinged, making her jump. She fetched the lasagna and spooned it onto a plate, adding a few slices of cucumber as a garnish. Sitting down, she picked up her book. It was battered and worn from years of reading, the words Pride and Prejudice on the front cover barely legible now. Carefully, she opened it to read the inscription: 18th June 2005. To my darling Junebug. Happiest of twelfth birthdays. You are never alone when you have a good book. All my love, Mum xx
June ate a mouthful of food, turned to the first page, and began to read.
Photo by Andy Kocen
Freya Sampson works in television as a creator and executive producer. Her credits include two documentary series for the BBC about the British royal family and a number of factual and entertainment series. She studied history at Cambridge University and in 2018 was short-listed for the Exeter Novel Prize. She lives in London with her husband, two young children, and an antisocial cat.
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Freya Sampson, The Lost Ticket
