The Little Village Library

by Helen Rolfe

Genres: Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

It takes a village...

Cloverdale is known for its winding roads, undulating hills and colourful cottages, and more recently, its Library of Things. Need a ladder, a hedge trimmer or a waffle-maker? You can borrow it from the Library of Things.

Single dad Adam is doing a good job of raising his daughter, Zoe, whilst burying his past and moving forwards. When he joins the Library of Things and agrees to run a mending workshop, new friendships start to blossom.

Jennifer is a volunteer at the Library of Things. When her younger sister Isla moves back to Cloverdale after their mother dies, Jennifer finds herself wondering whether Isla is hiding something.

And when Adam's daughter Zoe makes a startling discovery, it's time for the people at the Library of Things to pull together and help one family with its biggest challenge of all.

This is an audio book with community at its heart. It's about the kindness we can find when we least expect it and the bonds we can form when we're not even looking.

Release date: February 6, 2020

Publisher: Orion Publishing Group

Print pages: 384

Sample

Prologue

I never thought I’d get this far. I never thought I’d be able to share what happened to me. I thought if I buried it deep enough it would all go away . . . that I could run from the pain.

I move a little to the left so that the winter sun bouncing off one of the cars parked outside doesn’t pierce my eyes and make this any harder, although not being able to see the faces looking up at me expectantly could be a help – as could a very strong drink, or a hefty dose of courage. I don’t actually need the lectern. I don’t have notes; what I’m going to say will come from deep inside of me.

A gamut of emotions hit me as I place my diary on the lectern and rest my hands on top of it. The physical prop is going some way to steady my nerves, but for so long I’ve been frightened. I’ve been embarrassed about what happened; anxious people would discover the truth and think of me differently. For years I have lived with this secret, too scared to do anything about it. Sometimes I’ve been angry with myself for letting it get so out of hand and not putting a stop to it sooner, but the self-loathing has to stop. I never asked for any of it to happen to me. I didn’t deserve it.

There are five rows of chairs with some thirty, possibly forty, faces looking right at me. Some look sceptical, and some look apprehensive as though they’re not going to like what I have to say. Others who are here already know my pain and are anxious for me. All I hope is that what I’m about to say will reach at least one of these people who might be facing the same dilemmas as I once did and help them to know they’re not alone. I hope that what I have to share lets them know it’s OK to admit there’s a problem . . . that it’s OK to take action to change your own life . . . OK to face the cold hard facts.

A latecomer catches me off guard as they sneak into the last remaining seat. Funny how it only takes a tiny thing to make me want to run. But I’ve been running away long enough and as the room falls into a hushed silence and my heart begins to pound, my mouth turns dry. It’s time. It’s time for me to share my story.

Because, behind closed doors, only you can really know the truth.

1

Adam

‘This place is so cool.’ Zac – nine years old and as inquisitive as most boys of his age – flipped through the comics in the stand at the front of Cloverdale Library before he lost interest and dashed up and down the orderly aisles in search of more meaty material.

‘I don’t know why we have to come in here,’ Zoe huffed. Adam’s fourteen-year-old daughter wasn’t as low maintenance as Zac. The teen hormones had kicked in and he knew he had a battle on his hands to manage the minefield of changes about to come his way. Plenty already had, and Adam knew he could handle more. He had his kids, and nothing was going to get in the way of him giving them the life they deserved.

‘Make the effort, Zoe,’ he told her, ‘it’s not that bad. Who knows . . . if you actually look, you might find something you’d like to read.’

‘Doubt it.’

A chubby woman dressed in a long, floaty yellow cotton dress came bustling over. ‘If you’re looking for teen fiction, we have plenty to choose from.’ The woman led Zoe over to the shelves against the wall and Adam hoped she’d have better luck convincing Zoe there might be something here for her. Anything he said these days was wrong.

He followed Zac, who’d found a David Walliams book and the full set of Harry Potters he already had at home. But Adam’s eye was drawn to some bright yellow doors across the car park out the back of the library. They were bi-folds, concertinaed open at one end; someone was milling about inside.

‘That’s the Library of Shared Things,’ the woman who’d taken Zoe to the teenage section told him. ‘It’s a new initiative for Cloverdale, opening any day now.’

‘What’s a library of shared things?’

‘Oh, it’s wonderful. Jennifer – she’s the woman in charge . . . I must introduce you – well, she has set it up and negotiated suppliers to provide lots of different products from bread makers – I already have my eye on that – to pasta machines, a lawn mower, garden rakes, a badminton set . . .’ She thought hard. ‘I can’t remember too many more off the top of my head, but locals can borrow items for a few pounds each, use them for as long as we need, and then give them back. You know, I almost bought a bread maker last month, but when Jennifer told me I could borrow one and test it out, I thought, why not? Knowing me, I’ll get bored of it soon enough anyway and then be in trouble with my husband for wasting money.’ Her laughter was enough to make Zoe pull a face from behind the book she was actually making some effort to look at.

‘I’m Elaine,’ the woman went on, at last taking a breath from her spiel. ‘And you are?’

‘I’m Adam.’ He held out a hand. ‘And this is my daughter Zoe. My son Zac is around here somewhere.’ He knew he had to make an effort. It was why they’d come to Cloverdale. They’d moved to London from Australia, but life in the big city wasn’t what he’d had in mind. The anonymity was good, but the kids deserved a bit of space, and he could never afford to buy there, at least not if he wanted to get a home for all three of them where they weren’t living on top of each other. And so when he’d started looking at villages closer to his work with good schools, affordable housing and which would take away his strenuous daily commute by train, he’d leapt at the chance to buy in Cloverdale. And now, here they were.

‘Oh, what a lovely accent, Adam. Where are you from?’

‘England.’

‘No, that’s a New Zealand accent if ever I heard one.’

‘It’s Australian, and it’s only a slight twang. I was born in this country.’ Come on, kids, he thought to himself, make your selections, and let’s get out of here.

‘So what brings you back? Family?’

‘Something like that.’ Thankfully Zac timed it perfectly and piped up, asking to join the library.

Elaine reeled off everything they’d need to bring with them as proof of address and to head off any further questions he said he’d come back another time.

‘Well, it was good to meet you,’ Elaine called after him.

He raised a hand in return and left, glad of the summer breeze outside and to escape her look of interest. A local busybody was all he needed.

Adam was shattered. He’d been in Cloverdale for twenty-four hours, the cottage was a tip with boxes everywhere, the kids had been fighting and the carpet in Zac’s room had taken a soaking when Zac spilt a full glass of Ribena over it after knocking it off the windowsill. He’d rushed out to buy cleaning supplies, scrubbed at the carpet and left it to dry. He’d dragged Zac’s mattress into Zoe’s bedroom, much to her intense displeasure, and now he had the joy of lying here on the sofa listening to them bicker. He didn’t understand why they couldn’t face one more night with each other; they’d been sharing a bedroom at the home they’d rented in London for the last three years. But then they’d been kids of eleven and six when they’d left Australia, and both had clung together. Now Zoe was a teen he should’ve known it wouldn’t last.

When he tripped over a box in the hallway he swore through gritted teeth, and, using his foot, shoved it out of the way, then the next box and the next, kicking each one to vent the frustration and resentment at everything that had gone on in this family.

When he was done he took a moment in the kitchen to gather himself, calm down, take deep breaths, before he went upstairs to sort out the kids.

He must’ve trodden so quietly in his tired state that his soft footsteps didn’t alert either of them, and, before he opened the door to what was Zoe’s bedroom now, he stopped and listened. He smiled; they were playing a game where one knocked on the wall to tap out a tune from a TV series and the other one had to guess. He listened to two rounds of it – Zoe had done the Neighbours theme tune, which Zac guessed straight away; Zac did Star Wars and Zoe had no idea but berated him for choosing something too boyish that she didn’t have a hope of guessing. He was about to go in and say goodnight when he heard the next topic of conversation.

‘Zoe, do you think this is our home now?’

‘Of course it is, Dumbo; Dad bought it.’

‘Don’t call me Dumbo.’

‘Sorry.’

She must be tired if she was apologising, Adam thought. Mostly Zoe tolerated Zac but occasionally she mothered him and looked out for her little brother, and it was lovely to witness. He wondered whether this latest move would trigger so many emotions in Zac that he started to wet the bed again like he had when they first left Australia. Hardly surprising after the shock departure, and it had continued on and off for the last three years. At one point Adam had tried to get Zac to wear night-time pull-ups again, but Zac had screamed and yelled and refused; he didn’t want to be a baby. And so Adam had faced night after night of washing sheets, and the duvet when it got wrapped around his little body and bore the brunt. Zac hadn’t wet the bed in almost three months and Adam crossed his fingers that tonight wouldn’t be a setback.

‘No talking in your sleep,’ Zac instructed and Adam had to smile. He loved hovering and eavesdropping on them. They talked like kids when there was nobody else around, no one to judge them, and they didn’t have to put on a front.

‘I don’t talk in my sleep!’

‘You do too!’

‘Be quiet, Zac. I’m tired.’ Zoe hadn’t escaped the emotional turmoil either. She hadn’t wet the bed but she’d had nightmares when they first left Australia. She’d wake up crying out. He’d raced in more than once and hugged her tight, rocking her to sleep each time. Thankfully Zoe had quickly fallen back to sleep after each time it happened, hadn’t asked many questions, and the nightmares had eventually stopped. Or maybe they hadn’t. Perhaps Zoe still had dreams, and she just didn’t tell him about them anymore.

‘Zoe . . .’

‘Zac, go to sleep.’

‘Zo-Zo . . .’

‘Don’t ever call me that!’ Oh dear, Adam had tried to use her childhood name once too and got a similar response. Poor Zac. He was probably hyped up from all the excitement of the move and wanted to settle his mind down in the only way he knew how, by talking to his sister. Adam felt sure Zoe sometimes forgot he was only nine. But then she was only fourteen, not too much older for what they’d had to handle so far.

‘Why doesn’t Mum want us, Zoe?’

‘Zac, I don’t know.’ Her voice wobbled but Adam could tell she was trying to stay brave for her brother.

‘Doesn’t she love us anymore?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You don’t know anything!’

‘Goodnight, Zac.’

But Zac didn’t answer. And somehow Adam suspected he might be changing bed sheets again tonight.

A week later and the sunshine streaming into the windows of Lilliput Cottage woke Adam from the heaviest sleep he’d had since they’d moved in. Moving house was hard, but buying this place, finally having a sense of permanency or at least the prospect of it, must’ve helped. And Zoe hadn’t woken up screaming once, and Zac’s bedding and mattress had been dry every morning. They were settling in just fine. And he knew he owed it to them to try to do the same.

For the last few days he’d taken time off work and got the kids organised. Their days had been jam-packed. There’d been school uniform to buy, equipment – everything from pencils and pens to protractors, calculators and new pencil cases – and they’d done some reconnaissance about the best ways to get to school by car and on foot. The kids had made some friends too. They’d all gone back to join the library where Zoe had got chatting with another girl, Ava, and immediately formed a tight friendship, and Zac had met a boy called Archie in the playground. It turned out that Archie’s mum was Jennifer, the woman in charge of the Library of Shared Things, and in the park it had taken her all of a second to enlist his help with starting the venture up.

He’d been in to the outbuilding to show-off his DIY skills by assembling a few hutch wall units to store the items on, and he’d helped haul a desk inside as the boys played ball in the car park. Later today it was the opening ceremony and he’d volunteered his help after Jennifer’s persuasion, because it was about time he started to become a part of the community here in Cloverdale and make a life for himself. And taking himself for a lonely pint up at the pub really didn’t count.

In London Adam had enjoyed the fact that nobody asked questions; they went about their lives and never expected the Parker family to explain themselves. He’d always known a village would run completely differently, but as long as people here kept their noses out of his business then everything would be fine. He’d give Elaine a wide berth for a while as he knew the questions were bubbling away beneath the surface and she was bound to ask them sooner or later.

And that couldn’t happen. Because he never wanted anyone here to find out what he’d done.

2

Jennifer

Jennifer unlocked the first yellow door and, with the sun out in full force and not a rain cloud in sight, she folded back the concertina sections until they were against the far wall. As part of the remodelling of these outbuildings – once a row of four derelict and unused garages lining the rear of the car park behind Cloverdale’s main library and handful of shops – high windows had been installed all round to generate the extra light that flooded in now.

The project to launch the Library of Shared Things was something for Jennifer to throw her energy into. After the ordeal she’d put everyone through eight years ago, she’d settled back into her role as a stay-at-home mum of three children. But lately, she’d become desperate for a lifeline, and last year, while visiting a friend near Crystal Palace, she’d found one. Her friend had spilt wine on the carpet, dragged Jennifer around the corner to an actual library, and within those doors she’d discovered the Library of Things. The founder, Rebecca, had just finished a presentation to others who might be interested in adopting the concept in their local community, and, while her friend borrowed a carpet steamer, Jennifer booked herself on the next tour, and the idea had been born.

She’d left the Library of Things not only a little bit merry after her wine but enthralled by the idea that she could offer something similar to Cloverdale. Two weeks later and she had more information; she also had the determination that this was going to work. Because what Cloverdale really needed was to regain that sense of community her mum had always raved about. Somewhere along the line, with modernisation and busy lives, it had been lost and Jennifer longed to bring it back to the village with its expansive green, the duck pond surrounded by the white picket fence, its wood-beamed pub and chocolate-box houses in a mishmash of sizes and colours. There was a small bakery, a post office she’d hate to see disappear, and a playground on part of the green. And it was home.

After her second meeting with Rebecca, Jennifer approached the owners of Buddleia Farm. On the outskirts of Cloverdale, it was a sprawling, beautiful place with a walled garden, fountains, lush trees and a splendid lake bordered by oak trees. The farm had been in the same family for generations and the family were well known for their philanthropic work, supporting a number of major charities. And so Jennifer had seen an opportunity, got them on board, liaised with the local council, and it had been all systems go.

Now, behind the bright yellow doors, the Library of Shared Things was about to become one hundred per cent real with the opening ceremony outside beneath the sunshine a chance for locals to see what it was all about.

Items filled the hutches against the walls, with everything from a lawn mower and hedge trimmer to a wallpaper stripper, a nail gun and a tea urn. Most items were brand new, secured on heavy discounts or given to them by generous retail outlets after she approached them and told them all about the venture. A few items had drifted in from locals in Cloverdale, some wanted, others not so much. When she’d begun to tell people this was what she had planned and why she was painting the doors of the outbuilding in preparation, she’d had donations of old lampshades, board games and jigsaws with missing pieces, a broken projector and a food processor that was so old it was dangerous to use. Jennifer had no intention of putting anyone’s safety at risk and had had to politely decline some items due to their unsuitability. What had come in useful was the brand-new sewing machine donated by Belinda, local and a fellow mum at the kids’ school. She was a dressmaker by trade and had got one at a bargain price. Local carpenter, Wesley, had brought in a power drill he’d got for Christmas from his dad – he’d bought the exact same one for himself and hadn’t had the heart to tell his dad who was so chuffed at his choice – and Danny who ran the pub along with Melody had donated a set of loppers after seeing them on sale at a hardware shop, needing them only once himself. He’d told Jennifer there was no point him keeping them; he wouldn’t need to cut back the tree in the beer garden for at least another year, and when the time came, he was happy to part with a small sum to borrow them again.

‘Good afternoon.’ Adam was first to appear at the doors as she unlocked the remaining sections and began to fold them all back to reveal the Library of Shared Things in all its glory.

‘Here, let me.’ He took over the task like a true gentleman.

‘Thank you, Adam.’ She looked outside where people were beginning to mill. A vintage ice cream truck was parked up and had already drawn a crowd. Multi-coloured bunting was draped between the posts at either side of the car park and swaying in the breeze, and the barbecue was ready to go. ‘Are you still happy to man the hot dog stall?’ She’d asked him as a way of helping him to become a part of Cloverdale, get to know others, and what perfect way than serving food to the masses? Moving somewhere new was always hard; her son Archie was already good friends with Adam’s Zac, and Jennifer hoped Adam could settle easily and the family would be here to stay.

‘I sure am. And I’m paying Zac and Archie a tenner each to be my assistants; they can put the sausages in rolls, hand out serviettes, manage the queue between them while I cook. Zoe and Ava – for a price, of course – will handle the money and wipe down the tables.’

When Adam called for Zac and Archie to come and help him take out the rolls, the sausages and all the other paraphernalia, Jennifer tidied the desk for the umpteenth time, brushing at little specks of dust, and then, with a deep breath, ventured outside. This was it, the project she’d worked so hard on, and now it was time to introduce it to the rest of Cloverdale and prove how good it would be for everyone.

Jennifer addressed the crowd on a makeshift podium – a small set of kitchen steps – and started at the beginning. She told them all about the first library of things she’d seen, how it had worked, what her vision was for this village. She kept it brief – she knew people wanted to come inside and take a look for themselves – and with the sausages already beginning to sizzle away on the barbecue and the aroma snaking its way around the car park, kids were fidgety and anxious to get in the queue and not miss out.

‘Well, this is marvellous.’ Local man Bill was the first to go inside the Library of Shared Things as Jennifer led the way, the first to pick up an item. He’d gone for the leaf blower, which had been a birthday gift for Jennifer’s dad, brand new three years ago. Her dad had died soon after and the leaf blower had never been used. Before now it might have made Jennifer sad to offer it to anyone else, but her dad would’ve lent it out in a heartbeat. He was like that, always willing to think of others and be a part of the village. ‘And now what do I do with it?’ Bill asked, already checking the poster Jennifer had put up on a wall behind the desk, listing their items and the prices.

As part of the talk Jennifer had explained briefly how the library worked and had done her best to point at the hutch shelves as she talked her audience through the system, but she knew for a while that it would be a learn-as-you-go process. ‘You’ve picked the leaf blower, so rest it against the wall and I’ll show you what we do on the computer. You can use the website from home to reserve an item, or you can come in here and I’ll do it for you.’ She asked how many days he wanted it, they made the booking and he took it off home, assuring her he’d be back for a sausage before they all sold out.

Elaine borrowed the bread maker she’d earmarked already, almost tripping over her own feet to get to it when she saw local mum, Ruth, lingering near the item. Fiona from the corner shop borrowed the badminton set, and newly-wed Erin paid to have the waffle maker for three days. Adam was going to take the steam cleaner when he left so he could give his son’s carpet another go with a proper tool this time; he’d scrubbed at it, but it had left a clean patch on an otherwise dirty carpet.

Adam had the kids doing a great job with the barbecue when Jennifer looked over. Luckily he’d rounded up helpers today at Jennifer’s request. Her younger sister Isla had originally said she’d help, but, as usual, Isla thought about one person and one person only. Herself. She’d already sent two texts this morning, apologising that she was covering a yoga class eleven miles away for a teacher who’d come down with a tummy bug, explaining it was impractical to get to Jennifer in time given her reliance on public transport.

Whatever. Jennifer wasn’t going to let her sister’s unreliability ruin anything, not today. The Library of Shared Things was launching successfully with or without Isla’s help, and she supposed her sister was helping someone else today. It was just that the someone else wasn’t her own flesh and blood.

She refused to let her sister’s shortcomings get her down, shook off the frustration, and instead smiled over to where Adam was outside making his volunteers laugh. He had the girls eating out of his hand, the boys joking about.

Everything was coming together. Her idea really was going to work.

A fortnight later and the Library of Shared Things had already become not only a place where people came to borrow items but also somewhere to share snippets of their lives and find companionship. It was exactly what Jennifer had intended.

‘Good morning, Jennifer.’ Recently widowed, Bill had leapt on board with this new venture well before the yellow paint on the doors had even dried. He was on the local council and she suspected he’d put his weight behind pushing the planning permission through so this place could begin operating quickly.

‘What do you have there?’ She nodded to the large box he’d already set down on the table she used to check returns before they were slotted away into their allocated sections of the wall hutches.

‘Ronnie’s sewing machine.’

‘Are you coming along to the sewing workshop?’ At Cloverdale’s Library of Shared Things, Jennifer wanted to run workshops for locals to learn or improve new skills, to bring them together in a different way. And already she had a couple of ideas on the timetable, starting with the sewing skills workshop tonight.

‘I don’t want to sound mean-spirited but it’s not really my thing. I thought I’d bring the sewing machine by though, to help.’

‘You’re very kind. Just remember, you’re never too old to learn a new skill. You could use Ronnie’s machine yourself. Others are bringing their own if they have one.’

‘Ronnie would turn in her grave if she knew I was using her sewing machine,’ he chuckled. ‘I think I’ll give it a miss. But I do need to sign up to the beginners’ drill session. I’ve gone and bought myself some fancy drill and can’t make head nor tail of the instructions.’

With the computer on, Jennifer found the online calendar, the workshop in two days’ time, and booked Bill onto it. ‘Adam Parker’s running this one.’ They didn’t charge much for workshops, but a small contribution from attendees would go towards upkeep in the library – cleaning fluids, spare parts when items broke, maintaining the small kitchenette out the back.

‘I don’t know what to make of that family.’

‘The Parkers? They’re nice.’

‘I’m sure they are, but they seem a bit cagey.’

‘In what way?’

‘Well, we don’t know anything about them. Is Adam divorced? Separated? Widowed? Gay?’

‘Bill, I don’t think we should gossip about them.’

‘You’re quite right, of course. But I’ve seen him in the pub a couple of times, sitting right in the corner, avoiding eye contact with anyone and looking as though he’s got the weight of the world on his shoulders.’

‘I’m trying to get him involved as much as I can. Maybe he’ll come out of his shell a bit when he gets to know more people in the village.’

‘I guess so. And he seems like a good man; he’ll do a good job with the drill workshop. We won’t let him hide away from us forever.’

She laughed. ‘No, I guess we won’t.’

‘You’re a sweetheart, you know that? What you’ve done, introducing this Library of Shared Things? It’s been an outlet a lot of people needed, including me.’

Jennifer reached out and gave his hand a squeeze. ‘I’m so glad.’

‘I wasn’t bad at DIY myself, once upon a time,’ he said, momentarily snapping out of anything bordering on emotional. ‘But Ronnie’s clutter put paid to that.’

Bill’s wife had been a hoarder in the truest sense of the word, and, when she’d died, Bill had nearly killed himself clearing that place out on his own. After Ronnie had passed away, Jennifer had noticed a new skip outside his house three days in a row, each time only Bill doing the journey with an armful of things between the front door and the dumping ground, and she’d struck up a conversation. She’d thought he might be redecorating but he’d soon confided the pain he’d been through over the last four years with nobody but his wife to talk to, no kids to help, nobody to hear his problems or hers. Bill had been almost as enthusiastic about Jennifer’s new community project as she’d been herself, and had donated several new, boxed items to the library – a set of screwdrivers, a sandwich maker, a collection of novelty cake tins – which Ronnie had bought, kept and never used – and Jennifer knew his focus on something different had helped to lift him out of some dark days.

‘You’re most welcome to come along to the sewing workshop, if you change your mind,’ Jennifer told him now. ‘Belinda is running the show but if you don’t make it tonight, there’ll be other opportunities in the coming weeks.’

‘Maybe next time then.’ His brow creased. ‘I could use some new curtains. Maybe it’s time to put up the new ones that sat in a packet for years.’

Jennifer sat against the desk. This was what people came here for, to offload, to share as much as to borrow. ‘Did you keep many of your wife’s things?’

‘You saw the skips outside the house. But there were a few items I didn’t let go to waste and the curtains – brand new and in their packet – well, they’re mighty fine. Velvet, extra long, the right width for the sitting room window.’

‘Then the sewing basics workshop would be ideal for you.’

He winked. ‘I might take you up on it eventually.’ And maybe he would.

‘Kids back at school yet?’ Bill pulled on his tweed cap ready to go.

‘Two more days. I’ll miss them when they go back, especially Archie who’s young enough to still cuddle his mum.’ She suspected time was running out for that particular luxury. He was nine, the twins Amelia and Katie had already turned sixteen. Everything was beginning to change.

‘They grow up too fast, don’t they?’ He tipped his cap to bid her goodbye.

‘Think about the sewing workshop,’ she called afte. . .