1. An Anniversary

It was a gloriously sunny day, the sky a cloudless blue, the breeze warm, the sort of day that called for pottering in the garden, or picnicking by the river.

This meant that Alfie McAlister was on his own in Bunburry’s community library, with not a borrower in sight. Even Miss Radford-Jones, who housed the library on the ground floor of her extensive mansion, had summoned Mr Harper to take her out in the silver Ford Mondeo for a visit to the new garden centre.

Gwendolyn the librarian was out giving a talk to a Women’s Institute group in a neighbouring village. The young goth, personally appointed by Miss Radford-Jones, had initially been terrified by the very sight of books. But she had blossomed so much in the post that she was now in great demand in schools and community groups as a champion of the importance of reading.

Alfie was glad of the peace and quiet. He had been strong-armed into making a speech and the mere prospect was giving him a headache. Perhaps scribbling some notes would help. He smoothed out a piece of paper on the desk in front of him and took out his pen.

He had been vaguely aware that more than real ale was brewing in the village, but hadn’t paid attention – there was always something going on. Until the phone call from Marge Redwood.

“You’re honoured,” said the elderly lady without preamble. “It turns out that you’ve been chosen to make one of the speeches.”

“I have?” he said. “Who by, exactly?”

“The committee, of course.”

“Any particular committee?”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Alfie, stop playing dumb. THE committee.”

“Marge, I honestly have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“The quincentenary, of course.”

“Quincentenary? That’s something to do with five hundred, isn’t it?”

Following a very lengthy shocked pause, Alfie was informed that this year was Bunburry’s five hundredth anniversary, the village dating from 1523.

“And,” said Marge heavily, “the committee thought you would be good at giving the perspective of an outsider.”

“An outsider?” Alfie protested. “I’ve been living here for over four years!”

“And you still don’t seem to know much about the place,” sniffed Marge. “You didn’t even know it was the quincentenary. Sounds to me as though you’re exactly the right choice.”

Now, as he stared at the blank sheet of paper in front of him in the library, Alfie had no idea what he could or should say in the speech. He had come to Bunburry almost by accident. His Aunt Augusta, whom he barely remembered, had left him Windermere Cottage in her will. And he moved there from London purely in search of sanctuary after his beloved Vivian died.

But now he considered Bunburry his home. The modern London flat overlooking the Thames was simply a pied-à-terre for his occasional visits to the capital.

He was, to all intents and purposes, living the dream, in a picturesque village in one of the most beautiful parts of the country. Except that, quite apart from his anxiety about the speech, he was still thoroughly disconcerted after being kissed, on separate occasions, by each of the Hollis sisters. The kiss from Laura had been unexpected and unwelcome, and he now did his best to dodge her, difficult in a small village. When they couldn’t avoid one another in the street, they pretended they were rushing past on urgent business, taking refuge in brief comments about the weather.

“Thank goodness the rain’s kept off.”

“I know, so lucky.”

Or:

“Quite a downpour this morning.”

“Wasn’t it just? Still, the gardens could do with it.”

But embarrassing though that was, it was less so than the memory of the kiss from Emma. No, he really didn’t want to think about that. Purposefully, he picked up his pen and held it over the sheet of paper, as though it might start writing the speech without any effort on his part.

When nothing happened, he rose and began pacing up and down the book-lined room. And he suddenly realised that the solution was literally staring him in the face. Gwendolyn, always keen to expand what the library could offer, had recently set up a self-help section, the books marked by turquoise stickers on the spine. Success. A book on the art of speech making. He checked it out and, glancing at his watch, saw it was just before closing time. And at that moment, Gwendolyn walked in.

Since she had been giving a talk, she was wearing her special outfit of a flounced calf-length black dress with fishnet tights, black lace-up boots and fingerless black lace gloves, as opposed to her everyday outfit of a flounced calf-length skirt with a purple bodice, fishnet tights, black lace-up boots and fingerless black lace gloves.

“I came to check that you had locked up properly,” she said.

“I was just about to,” he said. “Lock up properly,” he added, with a slight emphasis on properly. “How did the talk to the Women’s Institute go?”

“All right, I suppose,” she said gloomily, which he took to mean that it had been a roaring success.

She ferreted in her large black handbag, which was festooned with chains and embossed with a skull.

“They gave me a present,” she said, producing a thick pamphlet. “They made it. It has guides to their favourite walks, and poems inspired by the views. And jam recipes. I think we should start a new section with books of local interest. We could put this in it, alongside Oscar’s book.”

Oscar de Linnet, Alfie’s closest friend, who lived in London, was frequently asked by Gwendolyn to send books which would be of particular interest to the library’s borrowers. A package had recently arrived containing a large leather-bound volume which Oscar had discovered by chance in a second-hand bookshop. It was a history of the area around Bunburry and Rimingford, written by a Victorian gentleman who had had it privately published.

“A new section?” said Alfie. “I think we’ve run out of colours of stickers.”

But Gwendolyn wasn’t listening. She was scanning the shelves.

“It’s not there,” she said.

“What’s not there?”

“Oscar’s book. Did someone take it out today?”

“No, nobody’s been in. Too sunny. You’re the first person I’ve seen.” He thought back. “The historical society got very excited about it, but that was ages ago. I’m sure they returned it.”

“Yes, they did,” she said impatiently, checking the records. “There. Look – nobody else has borrowed it since then. So, it could have disappeared any time in the last fortnight.” She looked at him accusingly. “We need to keep a closer eye on things.”

The library now had a vast selection of books, largely thanks to Oscar. It would be impossible to have a visual inspection. That was the point of the borrow and return system.

“Someone may have been looking at it and accidentally put it back on the wrong shelf,” he said. “It should be easy to spot. It’s much bigger than most of the other books.”

They each took one side of the room, methodically looking down and along the shelves. The book was nowhere to be seen.

“It definitely seems to have gone walkabout,” said Alfie.

“Books don’t just walk out on their own,” said Gwendolyn acidly. “They don’t have legs.”

“I’m sure it will be back soon,” Alfie soothed. “Someone may have borrowed it and just forgotten to check it out.”

Gwendolyn’s expression suggested that none of her borrowers would be so forgetful.

“Or someone’s checked it out and we haven’t logged it correctly,” said Gwendolyn. Her expression suggested that if she discovered which of her volunteers had been so careless, they would be struck off the rota.

“Please don’t tell Oscar,” she begged. “I couldn’t bear him to think we were being careless with his books, when he’s been so generous.”

“He won’t hear a word from me,” Alfie promised. He picked up his jacket and the book on speechmaking, ready to leave.

“That book you’ve got,” said Gwendolyn severely. “I didn’t see you check it out.”

It was Oscar who had remarked that the librarian had morphed from “Gwendolyn the Timid Goth” to “Gwendolyn the Intimidating Goth.”

“I already have,” said Alfie. “Properly.” He showed her the records book to prove it, and she gave him a wave of dismissal.

The day was still sunny and warm, so he took a walk along the river to the bench by Frank’s Bridge, which had been Aunt Augusta’s favourite place to read. He opened the book which eagerly promised to help him communicate effectively. Was that why things had gone wrong with Laura and Emma, because he wasn’t communicating effectively?

“Hey there, stranger,” came a voice behind him. An American accent.

“Betty.” He turned. Her long fair hair gleamed in the sunshine, and she looked even more fit and lithe than when he had seen her last. Perhaps that was only to be expected now that she was living with Haridasa, the yoga teacher.

She grinned down at him. “Following the family tradition of reading racy novels by the river? I never dared ask Gussie for book recommendations.”

It had been quite a shock to discover that Aunt Augusta hadn’t exactly been the demure elderly spinster he had imagined.

He grinned back at Betty. “Chance would be a fine thing.” He held up the volume...