Maggie hadn’t enjoyed this week’s book club read. She was getting sick of psychological thrillers that told you you’d never see the big twist coming when invariably she could spot it like a pink striped cow in a field of sheep. She also found some of the stories played on her mind, which wasn’t good for a seventy-two-year-old living on her own. Not that living alone bothered her; it didn’t. She’d been on her own for almost ten years. Maggie liked her own company and her own space but she forced herself to make the trip into the village every week. Without it she would likely not see or speak to anyone unless the postman had something she needed to sign for, in which case those interactions usually consisted of him moaning excessively about the number of potholes on her drive and the permanent damage they had likely done to his coccyx.

The book club discussion came to a natural conclusion and the group started to disperse. Maggie took the copy of The Pickwick Papers, which was the next read. They liked to do a classic every so often, which was good because unlike most of the group Maggie wasn’t widely read and there were many times she felt she should have got around to reading more but once upon a time hers had been a full life – overflowing. Only recently had she found she had to hunt down things to do rather than it coming to her freely.

‘Did you see that boy?’ Betty asked her while pulling on her coat. Her eyebrows heavy with questions.

Maggie had noticed him. ‘He seemed a bit flustered.’ Anyone male and under sixty was a rare sight in the library, or the village come to that.

‘Do you think he was casing the joint?’ asked Betty, leaning in closely.

Maggie hooted a laugh. ‘The joint? It’s a library, Betty. There’s very little here worth stealing. Nobody’s ever late returning their books so there’s not even any pennies in the tin.’

‘Still,’ said Betty, straightening out her hunched spine before returning it to its curved position. ‘You read about these things. Drugs, muggings, murders!’ She seemed to surprise herself with the last suggestion and hastily buttoned up her coat.

‘He looked more scared of us, if you ask me. Terrified, in fact. I doubt he’ll be back.’

Betty appeared relieved. ‘Well, that’s good then. See you next week,’ she added in a cheery tone and left to meet her husband who would be parked dutifully outside in his freshly polished Škoda.