‘People make wrong assumptions. We’re not all drug users either.’ Maggie stood up and felt the pain of arthritis blossom in her knee. A bit of weed would have helped to ease that.

‘I bet you did demos and stuff.’ He was leaning forward.

Maggie tried to look nonchalant. ‘I might have led a few peaceful protests…’

‘Cool,’ said Tom, his head bobbing to an unheard rhythm of respect.

‘Bared my breasts at Greenham Common.’ Tom broke eye contact.

Maggie was sitting in her usual chair. Her book was on one chair arm and a blanket over the other for when she couldn’t be bothered to light a fire. It wasn’t particularly cold but she preferred to heat individual rooms she used rather than put the central heating on and heat a whole house. There was something about the fire that made the room more homely. Perhaps it was the soft glow it added to the walls or the gentle crackle of the wood; she wasn’t sure but having a fire on often made her feel like she had company.

Maggie leaned down to the side of her chair and picked up a notepad and pen and placed them on the table between her and Tom. ‘Here’s the list I started for saving the library but we need to build on it.’

Making the list had brought home to Maggie how much the library meant to her. She could remember going there as a child, all bundled up in winter clothes and having to blow on her fingers to warm them before she could turn the pages. It had been a regular weekly outing – as sacrosanct as going to church. She had spent many hours doing homework within its walls and stolen the odd kiss in the map section as a teenager. There were fewer nooks and crannies for that now they favoured the more open-plan design.

She remembered missing the familiarity of the Compton Mallow library when she’d left home, finding solace in other libraries to feed her reading habit, which had never waned. It had been like coming home when she had moved back to the area and stepped inside. The people had changed but the building had been reassuringly familiar. In recent years it had been her escape from loneliness. Her weekly opportunity to connect with others. Her lifeline. The thought of it closing was almost inconceivable.

Tom picked up the pen and began writing on the front of the notepad. ‘That’s my mobile number. I’m not great at keeping it charged but if you ever get stuck again – like with the tyre – call me and I’ll get the bus over.’