He read through it a couple of times. An open mind. The phrase felt out of place, a cliché, almost cute. How long was it since an open mind had been of use to anyone?

About as long as it was since he’d been in a library, he told himself as he took the poster down and got back in the Mondeo. And how many years ago was that? He tried to answer the question, but soon realized it was the wrong one.

Not years.

Decades.

Cleckheaton Library was a square, low-slung building from the early twentieth century. In addition to its impressively broad brass-framed doors and the four classical pillars that stood in front of them, there was a well-kept lawn, plus raised flowerbeds on both sides of the approach. The effect was like that of a plain, stocky person who’d made considerable efforts to be attractive, with a nice hat and coat, a pleasing smile… but who had failed, nobly.

He pulled open one of the heavy doors and was greeted by laughter. Three men of retired age were taking off their anoraks, rubbing their hands and nudging each other. It looked more like a lively night at the bingo than a place of learning. A moment later they’d disappeared into the main part of the library.

Finding himself alone in the entrance, Joe began reading through the many posters on display: Mummy Pilates, No Strings Attached Ukulele Group, Kirklees Dementia Hub, Scrabble Club, Get Down and Buggy Pushchair Walkers’ Group, War-gaming Club… It was like a parallel universe in which every possible excuse for seeking out human company had become a reality. The nearest he’d ever got to joining a community group was a monthly neighbourhood soiree in France. He’d hated going, whereas Jackie had loved it. The only way he could make it through an entire evening was to drink until he was half-asleep, closing himself off from the bullshit posturing of his French hosts. Meanwhile, Jackie whooped it up, oblivious to the nuances of her neighbours’ tedious conversation. Then she’d fallen in love with one of them, as Joe dozed in the corner.

He used his phone to take a picture of each poster, then moved onto a second notice board on the other side of the entrance area: Creative Writing Circle, Inviting You to a Baby Shower (advice and support for expectant new parents), Living with Bereavement, Building with Lego, Seated Tai Chi, Indoor Curling… How could you play curling indoors? It sounded as bizarre and improbable as Race Nite, an activity done without the main element, like darts without the dartboard. Some sort of in-joke, perhaps.

A young man appeared, easing himself between Joe and the notice board.

‘Excuse me,’ he said without looking round, as he tore down a large poster, screwed it up, and dropped it into a waste-paper bin in the corner.