June climbed into the bath and tried to immerse herself in thesynthetic strawberry bubbles. When she was a child this bath had seemed gigantic, but now part of June’s anatomy was always exposed. She tried lying on her side, but that gave her an unappealing view of the brown carpet. What had her mum been thinking when she chose a fecal-colored carpet for a bathroom floor, let alone one that had pink walls and an avocado green bath?
June knew exactly what her mum had been thinking. Beverley Jones had never given the slightest damn about things like interior design or fashion. She had adorned both her house and her daughter in whatever she could pick up from charity shops and jumble sales, an eccentric mishmash of colors, patterns, and eras. Every surface in the house was still covered with the random items Beverley had brought home from the white elephant stall, and while all the girls at June’s school had worn low-slung jeans and cropped T-shirts, she’d worn a strange assortment of clothes that belonged to recently deceased pensioners.
“Who cares what clothes you have on?” her mum would say, if June ever asked for more fashionable items. “It’s not what you wear that matters, Junebug. It’s what you do.”
And Beverley had been true to her word. June remembered one particular instance, when her school had tried to make all the girls wear athletic briefs instead of PE shorts, and her mum had declared that the policy was sexist and formed a one-woman picket line at the school gate.
“I’m a librarian,” Beverley had shouted. “I know every parent here. I’ve helped most of them at some point over the years. So, believe me when I say, if I ask them all to boycott this school, they will.”
Her mum had kept it up for three days, until the head teacher changed the policy. June had been mortified by all the unwantedattention it brought her at school, but also ridiculously proud of her mum.
June looked at Alan Bennett, who was still curled up on the toilet seat. “Mum would have expected me to go to the meeting, wouldn’t she?”
The cat stared back at her, unblinking.
“I do want to go and support them, but Marjorie’s banned me. It’s not my fault.”
Alan narrowed his eyes and yawned.
“Even if I did go, I’d probably just freeze and embarrass myself again. There’s no point, right?”
In response, Alan jumped off the toilet seat, with surprising agility for an elderly cat, and sauntered out of the bathroom with his tail in the air. June watched him go with a sigh, then got out of the bath and returned to Matilda and MissHoney.
CHAPTER NINE
When June opened the library front door at ten o’clock on Monday morning, Stanley was already waiting on the doorstep.
“My goodness, that was quite the meeting you missed on Friday,” he said as he breezed in. “Where were you, my dear?”
June had spent the weekend trying to think of a convincing cover story. “Sorry, my cat got a chicken bone stuck in his throat.”
“Oh dear, I hope he’s okay.”
June started tidying some books so he couldn’t see her face. “He’s fine now, thanks.”
“Well, allow me to fill you in on the meeting. Mrs.Bransworth went head-to-head with another woman for the position of chair; Mrs.B won by one vote, but they very nearly came to blows. I wish you’d been there—it was quite the drama. I was unanimously voted treasurer.” Stanley pulled on his jacket lapels with pride. “You were nominated group secretary in your absence; Mrs.B has the paperwork for you.”
“I’m not sure I can do it, Stanley.”
“Nonsense, it’s very straightforward. Just a bit of minute taking and the like; I can help with that.”
“It’s not that. I don’t think I can be involved with the campaign at all.”
“What do you mean?”
June shrank back under his gaze. “I’m sorry—I’m too busy to be part of FOCL.”
Stanley’s face fell and for a moment he didn’t speak. “I have to say, this surprises me, June. I thought... Well, never mind. You must do whatever you feel is best.”
“I am sorry, Stanley. I—”
“No need to explain.” He gave her a tight smile and June felt a stab of guilt as he walked away.
Ten minutes later, Mrs.Bransworth came in and headed straight for her.
“Where were you on Friday?”
“I’m sorry, my cat—”