By Debbie Rainer

Have you got time to listen? I can see you’ve got a cuppa on the go. Just need to get it off my chest. It’s hard to believe this afternoon will be my last shift.

Mind you, I’ll probably come back and volunteer. Books always need tidying and putting back on the shelves; they’re forever piling up, waiting to be sorted. Not like when I started out over forty years ago. In those days we had a head librarian and two assistants. That’s how I started out, you know, as an assistant. Just out of school I was, loved books, always hanging around the library. I’ve been a borrower ever since I was ‘knee-high to a grasshopper’, as my grandad used to say.

It’s funny when you think back over the years. We started off small, but in the late eighties a bit more money was flashed around and the council added an extension. We kitted it out for the littl’un, story time on Thursdays, bright curtains covered in a kaleidoscope of butterflies. Made ’em myself. Always handy with a needle. There was a bit left over for cushions, plus other stuff. I got quite creative.

Then there were the people. You remember some more than others, don’t you? Ambling in regular as clockwork, old Bert would plonk himself down in the corner and read the papers. We’d make him a coffee and pass the time of day, ‘What is the world coming to?’, that sort of thing. There was always a headline he’d pick up on and we’d chew the chaff. Then there was Miss Buckthorpe. Plump woman. Bad perm. Head of the little primary for, oh, I don’t know, twenty years? My own ’uns went there, good little school in those days. Gone downhill since they built the new estate, mind. Anyway, Miss Buckthorpe loved a bit of Barbara Cartland, so we’d set ’em aside. Then she discovered Jilly Cooper. Oh, I remember how she’d sidle up to the counter with Rivals tucked under her cardi. Borrowed that a good few times if my memory serves me right. And don’t get me started on the vicar! Jack Reacher was bad enough but then he moved onto Midsomer Murders. Heavens above! We did think about speaking to the bishop, but data protection and all that, you know?

One of my favourite families were the Fulbrooks. So many children in such a short time! I can see them now, rampaging around. Those boys, spinning the carousels, talking too loud, having a laugh. You couldn’t help but smile. Their poor mother! Four kids under the age of ten, three boys and then little Elise. Scruffy little devils. Mum did her best, and when in school uniform they looked pretty much like every other kid in the village, though the little one had to wear her brothers’ hand-me-downs and looked a bit odd in grey trousers with patched knees. I always felt especially sorry for her in the summer holidays, wearing shorts that had been washed and worn through three lots before, topped by faded Sonic or Bart T-shirts frayed at the edges. Bit like how I felt when the library got too busy. Frayed at the edges, that is.

Well, that little girl sticks in my memory more than anything. Always had her nose in a book. Even from the tiniest years that one was mad, I mean absolutely mad, about butterflies. She borrowed The Very Hungry Caterpillar more times than anyone. I’d watch her sit down on one of the cushions and stick her finger through the holes in the pages as she turned them over. We had a kind of agreement, me and little Elise. ‘Can you find me some more flutterby books, miss?’ That’s how it started. Best part of the job is when the kiddies get the bug. Little bookworms, I love to see ’em take off. I’m going to miss all that.

Do you need a top-up? Another digestive? Quite sure? Where was I? Oh yes, butterfly books for Elise. I’d set them aside, not just the children’s ones. When she was a bit older it was The Observer Book of Butterflies that went back and forth and she’d show me her favourite ‘flutterby’. Swallowtail, if my memory serves me correctly. Black and yellow thing, page 167. We’d get quite a few of them on the buddleia outside the front door – it’s called a butterfly bush for a reason. That blessed buddleia! Always needed cutting back. Bit like library expenses.

Anyway, the main reason that little girl sticks in my memory is that we were told to withdraw books from the shelves when they got a bit tatty and that Observer book had definitely seen better days. But I couldn’t get rid of it. So I stuck it under the counter and had a think. Could I pass it to Elise without upsetting the old battle-axe of a head librarian we had at the time?

I came up with a plan that fitted with something else I’d been working on. There’d been a bit of that butterfly fabric left over, you see, and did I tell you I’m a dab hand with the needle? I did? Sorry, I’m repeating myself, happens a lot these days. Back then I had a magazine subscription – Prima, it was – and it came in a cellophane bag with a sewing pattern. As soon as I saw their little sundress design, I knew it was perfect. So, I made a dress. An Elise-size dress. All strappy and swirling, a proper pretty little dress. I found a bit of tissue paper and wrapped it up with that old Observer book tucked inside.

Do you remember we used to organise a Secret Santa for the children? Every year borrowers donated wrapped gifts and bought a ticket. If it ended in zero or five, they collected the matching parcel five days before Christmas Eve. Well, I fixed it. Tricked the system, I mean. The Fulbrooks always looked wistful whenever their mother steered ’em past the parcels piled up next to our giant teddy dressed as Santa. I made sure I had something for the boys, of course – pick ’n’ mix and old comics – and when they came in just before the school holiday, I announced we’d had a special delivery from Father Christmas.

‘He left these for you,’ I said. ‘One each. They don’t go in the tombola because they’ve got your names on ’em.’ Mum looked suspicious, but what could she do? Trust me, they couldn’t tear the paper off quick enough! Yes, that’s my favourite memory. The look on that little girl’s face when she opened her parcel.

Well, tonight’s the last time I’ll be locking the library door. I’ll say a few words when I hand over the key to young Natalie. We’re having a bit of a do, you know. The Parish Council chairman is coming along to make a speech – I must stay awake – and I reckon the vicar, that new head teacher and a few others will pop by. Why don’t you come? It’ll save you cooking. They’ve got sandwich platters – Marks & Spencer, I’m chuffed about that – and a bit of fizz. I expect some villagers will turn up, too. The families don’t change much over the years – some stay for decades, just like me, you and the Fulbrooks. Though little Elise escaped; she went to uni. Her mum says she doesn’t come back often.

*

Oh, you’re too late for the buffet, did I get the time mixed up? Sorry, I’ll make it up to you, I promise. There’s probably a drop of booze somewhere. Let me have a look. There you go. We’ve got time for a quick natter while the others clear up.

Guess what: Elise came to my leaving do! All the way up from Devon! Remember her? The little girl who loved butterflies? Came with her own kiddies – two boys and a little girl in a pushchair. Beautifully dressed, all of them. She’s gone up in the world, a famous author nowadays! Perhaps we could get her to do a book talk one evening? With cheese and wine? Oh, there I go. It’s not my job any longer. Sorry, can you pass my handbag? Just need to find a tissue, my eyes are filling up again. That’s better.

Where was I? Well, Elise the Writer took me aside and gave me a pretty bag filled with posh chocolates, really kind of her. See it over there? But do you know what really got me? In her tote bag, carefully wrapped, was that dress I made all those years ago. She’s kept it all this time! Her little girl will fit in it soon! Then she gave me an old photo.

Look. It’s little Elise the Reader. Spinning around in her butterfly sundress, a swallowtail at the tip of her finger.

Do you need one of my tissues? Here.

About the Author

Based near Windsor, UK, Debbie is developing her creative non-fiction and fiction writing at a stage of life that creates time and opportunity to do so. Her short story, ‘Zest for Life’, appears in the January 2026 first edition of Lemon Pip magazine, hot on the heels of ‘Diabo’s Tachinomiya’ in the Thin Skin Anniversary issue published at the end of 2025. Debbie was long listed for the 2026 Bournemouth Short Story Award, and ‘Well Groomed’ was published in the 3rd edition of The Bournemouth Journal in May 2026. Two other short stories have just been shortlisted by Curtis Brown and Globe Soup.

Find her website here.