‘I was in the library earlier. I thought you might like to borrow these.’
‘It’s against library regulations to lend out a book you’ve borrowed to someone else,’ the girl replied, despite being unable to hide the quiver of hope in her voice.
‘Well, I won’t tell if you don’t.’ I lowered my eyebrows conspiratorially. ‘I don’t think that’s an actual rule; I think Irene made it up along with most of the other ones.’
The door opened another centimetre, but not quite far enough to poke a hardback Tolkien through the gap.
‘Trust me, I work in libraries, I know what I’m talking about.’
She grimaced. ‘I don’t want to make her mad. She might ban me again.’
I thought for a moment. ‘Can you wait here for two minutes?’
The girl wrinkled her forehead, scanning the road behind me.
‘How about I see you in the garden?’
She nodded, before closing the door.
In the end, it was nearly ten minutes before I stepped over the two rows of flower beds to the side of the garden where she waited, hovering just outside her back door. As I approached, I couldn’t help noticing that her jeans revealed a good three inches of skinny ankle, and both her faded green T-shirt and mousy hair were in dire need of a wash.
‘Here.’ I offered her the three books now in my hands. ‘These are my copies. The only rules about borrowing them is that you have to love them as much as I do.’
She hesitated, hands twitching. ‘You can’t lend me these.’
‘Of course I can! I only checked the other ones out to annoy Irene.’
‘You don’t know me.’ She looked at me sideways.
Right. Don’t accept gifts from strangers.
‘Okay. Well, we could have a drink and a piece of cake and discuss our favourite character so far, and then maybe you’ll feel like you know me well enough?’
That hardly constituted a DBS check, but I did have one of those, and this was a literary emergency, after all.
The girl rolled her eyes, the corners of her mouth tweaking up in the suggestion of a smile. ‘I’m not worried about that. I know how to be safe around adults. I mean, you don’t know me.’
I rolled my eyes back at her. ‘I know you’re a book lover. As far as I’m concerned that makes you the best type of person, and I am willing to take the risk that you’re trustworthy.’
She took another moment to consider, before finally accepting the books.
‘I also know that your name is…’ I paused while I pulled out the card and squinted at the name before holding it out to her. ‘Diamanté Butterfly Brown. That’s a pretty name.’
She grimaced. ‘If you’re a My Little Pony.’
‘Um…’
‘My actual name is Joan.’
‘Oh, okay.’
‘I’m changing it legally as soon as I’m sixteen.’
‘Well, lovely to meet you, Joan. I’m Olivia Anne Tennyson, but my actual name is Ollie. Are you interested in that drink? I’ve got a packet of Magnums in the freezer.’
‘Err…’ Joan’s gaze darted to me before fixing on the grass between us. ‘That’s… um…’ She squeezed the books tighter to her chest and I realised what was causing her discomfort.
‘Of course, I’m being completely thoughtless!’ I made a shooing notion with my hands. ‘Get back to the Ringwraiths and Frodo!’
A few minutes later, I left a glass of lemonade and a Magnum beside her blanket before settling back on my own patch of the lawn with a brand new thriller.
Later that evening, once I’d eaten a chickpea salad (Mum hated chickpeas) and was doing some follow-up admin from Trev’s first session, there was a loud banging on my door.
I knew it wasn’t Steph, because she wouldn’t turn up without letting me know. A spike of anxiety lodged itself beneath my breastbone. Surely Mum hadn’t somehow found out where I lived?
Tiptoeing to the front door, I slowly eased it open, feeling a whoosh of relief when I saw someone much younger than Mum. The anxiety muscled its way back in again when, opening the door wider, I got a better view of the woman’s body language.
She stood there in cut-off jeans and a pink vest top, arms folded, flip-flop tapping the pavement as she chewed the side of her mouth.
‘Hello?’ I asked, immediately clearing my throat to try to clear the rasp.
She reached out one hand, yanking into view what turned out to be Joan. I noted the resemblance, then. This woman’s hair was several shades darker than Joan’s, but she had the same grey-green eyes, and a mouth slightly too big for her face. She was small and wiry and wound up like an angry wasp.
‘This one says you gave her some books,’ she snapped, in a much stronger accent than Joan’s.
‘I said she lent me them,’ Joan said through gritted teeth, her eyes on the ground.
‘I thought it seemed a bit suspicious, a complete stranger giving three massive books like that to some kid.’
Oh crap.
Was she going to accuse me of something awful?
‘Wouldn’t be the first time she’s nicked something, so I thought we’d best come and check if your interpretation of events matches hers.’
Oh! Okay…
‘I’m not the type of mum who lets her child get away with that kind of behaviour.’ Joan’s mum folded her arms and glared at me. ‘Just want to be clear so no accusations can be made at a later date.’
‘No!’ I said, loud enough to make Joan jump. ‘No, I mean. She’s right. I did lend her the books. I was working at the library and the manager, Irene Jenkins—’
Joan’s mum sneered. ‘That old bat! I might have known she’d have something to do with it.’
‘Right. Yes, well, she wouldn’t let Joan check out the library copies, so I lent her mine.’
The woman’s eyes narrowed.
I swallowed hard, and pressed on regardless…
‘I mean, I’ve been meaning to pop round and say hello since I moved in last weekend. I don’t know anyone in Bigley yet – apart from Irene – and, well, I appreciate I should have asked you first. But they’re amazing books, and Joan was right at one of the most exciting parts, where, well… have you read The Lord of the Rings?’
She jerked her chin. ‘I’ve seen the films.’
‘Right. Great! I love the films, too. Anyway, I hope that’s okay?’
‘She even checked out the library books too, just to wind up Irene,’ Joan added.
Her mum raised one eyebrow. ‘Okay. But for the record, my daughter’s name is Diamanté Butterfly. Please don’t forget that.’
Joan hunched her shoulders, mouth pursed angrily.
‘Mine’s Ollie,’ I said, as the woman started to usher her back around.
‘And hers is Annoying Dumbhead Liar,’ Joan, or Diamanté, muttered, just loud enough for me to hear.
At that, her mum stopped dead, three steps from my front door. She dropped into a squat and looked her daughter right in the eye. I’d have probably wet my pants facing that expression from only a few inches away. ‘What was that?’
Joan shuffled her scruffy trainers back and forth a couple of times. ‘Sorry, Mum.’