June looked from Stanley to Mrs.B. “I could put out calls to the Knit and Natter group to see if some of them could come?”
Mrs.B shook her head. “That’s still not going to be enough. We need to fill this library if it’s going to make a news story.”
At that moment, the library door creaked open. They all looked toward it hopefully, but the only person to walk in was Vera, scowling. “There’s a minibus just turned up,” she said. “They’ve parked in the disabled spot. Can you believe it?”
“It must be more journalists,” June said, looking outside as the driver’s door opened and a silver-haired woman wearing a Barbour jacket and tartan skirt climbed down. A stream of women was coming out of the minibus, helping one another disembark. June went to the door to meet them. “Can I help you?”
“Mary Cooper-Marks.” The Barbour lady stepped forward and gave June a firm handshake. “We saw you on the news last night.”
“I’m sorry, who are you?”
“We’re from the Dornley Women’s Institute. Our library got closed down a few years ago. Bloody tragedy. So when we saw your protest, we thought we’d come along and lend a hand.”
The women had finished filing off the bus now. There must have been at least fifteen of them, and the majority looked well past retirement age.
“You’ve come to help us?” Stanley asked.
“Is that all right?” one of the WI ladies said. “We all quite fancied the idea of joining a pensioners’ protest. Much nicer than the rowdy ones you normally see on the news.”
“This is amazing,” June said. “You’re all amazing. Thank you!”
“Look, love, can we come in or not?” one of the journalists said. “I need to get back to London by lunchtime.”
“Yes, of course you can. Please come in, all of you.”
June spent the morning running around the library, helping the journalists and fetching cups of tea for the protesters. Some of thesprightlier WI ladies were marching around the shelves, waving homemade placards and chanting, “Save Chalcot Library.” Others were sitting in small groups talking with locals about the library. June noticed that Mrs.B and Mary Cooper-Marks spent much of the morning huddled in a corner together, deep in conversation. At ten o’clock another minibus turned up, this one full of residents from Cherry Tree Retirement Home who had seen the news piece too.
“I used to come here with my children fifty years ago,” said an elderly gentleman, helping himself to one of the sandwiches that Chantal and Stanley were busy making. “It’s a crying shame to see places like this get shut down.”
“We get a mobile library in our village now,” said one of the WI women. “The librarian is a sweet lad, but it’s just not the same.”
“I miss seeing the children playing in the library,” said her friend.
“Shall we have a sing-along?” asked one lady from the retirement home, who June had been told was ninety-four. “Does anyone know any Vera Lynn?”
As the protesters burst into song, June saw Leila walking through the front door. She headed over to her.
“Thanks so much for the cakes yesterday,” June said. “They were a huge success.”
“Can I take a new book?”
“Of course.”
They walked over to the cookery section and began scanning the shelf together.
“What about this Nigella Lawson one?” June said, pulling outHow to Eat. “My mum always loved her recipes.”
Leila took the book and studied the cover. Over her shoulder, June saw Vera approaching, a frown on her face.
“Waste of time,” she said in a low voice as she walked past.
June felt a flush of anger. “What did you say, Vera?”
The old woman paused and spoke more loudly. “I said it’s a waste of time.” She pointed at Leila holding the recipe book.
“Vera, we do not tolerate any kind of discrimination in this library. I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to—”
“You don’t want Nigella for baking,” Vera said, cutting June off. “She’s good with savories but she won’t get you anywhere with cakes.” She reached up to a shelf and pulled down an old, battered book. “This is what you want. A good old-fashioned recipe book, none of this celebrity chef nonsense.”
