After Jack died, no one saw Kathryn for a year.

And there she was in the library, a widow at twenty-six, showing me a whole shelf of gardening books, with several solely dedicated to roses.

‘Are you a member?’

I didn’t know what she meant. I thought I could just stroll in and borrow a book.

‘No. But I’d like to be.’

She showed me the forms. I filled in each section, taking care not to let my letters spill over the printed lines. She watched me as I signed my name with what I hoped was a flourish. I pushed the forms over to her for examination, and she ran a finger along the lines, checking each one. ‘Howard Hall,’ she read out. ‘Totleigh Way, Calcot.’ She looked up. ‘That’s near me.’

I went there as often as I could after that, sometimes taking the bus on a Thursday after work, as they stayed open until seven that night.

She did something special when she answered the phone. She said, ‘Good evening,’ before she’d even started. Not just ‘Hello’, or plain ‘Darvington Library’, as I’d heard the others do. With Kathryn it was a three-part structure. ‘Good Evening. Darvington Library. How may I help?’ Her voice sliding up and down. And she always reached for a pad and pencil as soon as she picked up the receiver. She knew she might have to make a note, and she didn’t want to keep anyone waiting while she searched for the appropriate equipment.

I noticed the way she’d dampen her forefinger with her tongue before she flipped through the membership files. And the way she closed the filing cabinet drawer with her hip, twisting her body and slamming it into place.

On my fourth Thursday evening I promised myself I would speak, phone or no phone, filing or no filing. I’d go right up to the desk and ask her something. Interrupt, if necessary. I’d say anything I could think of. All I had to do was open my mouth and let the words come out.

I spent the journey there looking at my reflection in the bus window. The fields smeared past. My nose looked big and red, pockmarked at the sides, the nostrils flaring slightly as I breathed. I licked a finger and smoothed it over an eyebrow, as I’d seen someone do in a film.

When I walked into the library it was so quiet and warm that it was almost like the place was sealed against the outside world. The strip lights hummed. Somewhere a child shouted for his mother and was immediately hushed. I walked to the counter, my shoes heavy on the wooden floor. My trousers were too hot; the nylon was rough against my kneecaps.

She wasn’t on the phone. Or by the filing cabinet. Behind the desk, an older woman in a cardigan sat reading a book, and didn’t look up as I went by.

Just wait until she comes, I told myself.