“It does perfectly well for my needs.”
“How long have you lived out here?”
“Twelve years. Before that I was at a spot on the other side of the village, but I got moved on from there.”
“I had no idea, Stanley. Does anyone else know you live here?”
“One or two, but I prefer to keep it private.”
June remembered their conversation about his being homeless in the past; it had never occurred to her that he might still be. Shelooked around again. Despite its small size, the trailer wasn’t cluttered: no pictures or souvenirs, no mementos of a life lived.
“I wish you’d told me.”
“Told you what?”
“Well, you know... that you’re homeless.”
“I’m not homeless,” he said, and there was a sharp edge in his voice. “Just because I choose to live here doesn’t mean I need your pity.”
“I wasn’t pitying you,” June said, although she knew she wasn’t convincing either of them. “It must just be hard living all the way out here.”
“It’s not that remote—it’s less than a two-mile walk into the village along the river. And soon I’ll be getting some damned new neighbors.” He pointed over his shoulder at the trees behind the trailer. “A new housing development is going up on the other side of this copse. Eighty flats and houses they’re building. The developers have been making my life hell.”
“But what do you do for electricity and water?”
“I get fresh water from that stream, which I boil up, and I have a gas canister for the cooker and heater. These do me for lights.” He pointed at two small camping lanterns on the table. “Plus, there’s the lovely clean facilities at the library, which I make liberal use of.” He winked at June as he said this, and she found herself smiling in return.
“That’s why you’re always the first to arrive.”
“Yet another reason why we must protect the library, my dear.”
“But don’t the council have a duty to provide you with somewhere to live?”
“What, and be put in some flat on the twentieth floor of a towerblock?” Stanley shuddered. “No, thank you very much. I’d rather live out here.”
“What if something happened to you?”
“I’ve been looking after myself perfectly well for years. And whilst this might not be the Savoy, at least I’m free from prying eyes.”
He didn’t say it unkindly, but June felt a flush of shame. “I’m so sorry, Stanley. I shouldn’t have followed you. I was worried about you, that’s all.”
“I know you were, and I thank you for being such a good friend. But if you don’t mind, I’m rather tired, and I’d like to get some rest now.”
“Of course.” June backed toward the door and paused. “Are you sure you’ll be all right?”
“I’ll be fine. Although it will be rather quiet after the last few days with you rabble in the library.”
June hesitated. “You can always come and stay with me for a bit, you know. I have a spare room.”
“Thank you, June, but this is my home.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
June slept deeply that night, the exhaustion of the past few days finally catching up with her. When she woke she lay with her eyes closed, listening out for the voices of her fellow protesters, before she remembered that the occupation was over and she was back at home. She sat up, taking in the familiar sights of her childhood bedroom: her favorite books on the bookcase, the quilt that her mum had made for her spread over the bed, her old teddy bear watching from the windowsill. June got up, pulled on her dressing gown, and went downstairs. Alan Bennett was sitting by the front door and gave a listless meow when he saw her.
“Morning. Did you miss me?”
He turned and stalked into the kitchen, and June followed. The room was silent apart from the rhythmic ticking of the clock. Had it always been this quiet in the house? June flicked on the old radio in the corner of the kitchen. A pop song blared out, too loud, and she turned it off again. She glanced at the clock: ten a.m. It was abank holiday weekend, so the library wouldn’t be open again until Tuesday morning. That meant seventy-two hours before she’d see anyone again; seventy-two hours of reading and peace and quiet, on her own.