The library book we kept renewing

An original fictional sample story.

Every third Thursday, the library sent a reminder about the same book. It was a story about a badger who could not find his hat. We had owned our copy of the story, temporarily, for long enough that I could recite it while looking for a parking space.

My daughter carried it between my flat and her father's house in a purple backpack. Other things had duplicates now: toothbrushes, pyjamas, the soft rabbit with the unusually stern expression. The book did not. She wanted this copy, with its bent corner and the tiny pencil mark beneath the badger's kitchen table.

At first, I kept suggesting that we buy one. It seemed like the obvious solution, and I was hungry for obvious solutions. She shook her head each time. “Then it wouldn't be the library's,” she said. I understood the words without understanding the explanation. On renewal evenings, I entered the number printed inside its cover and felt oddly grateful when the little green confirmation appeared.

One Thursday, someone else had requested it. I read the message twice before telling her. We were sitting on the landing because she liked to put her shoes on there. Her face changed, but she did not cry. She rubbed her thumb over the pencil mark and asked whether the next person would be careful.

“We can hope so,” I said. I wanted to promise more. Instead, I helped her put the book into the bag. We walked to the library through a fine, unnecessary rain. At the returns desk, she explained to the librarian that the badger found his hat in the end, but that people needed to keep reading to discover where.

The librarian thanked her for the useful information. Then she asked if we would like to reserve the book again. My daughter looked surprised. Apparently, in all my practical explanations, I had forgotten to say that returning something did not mean never seeing it again.

We chose a different book, about a fox and a very small cake. On the way home, she stopped beside the bakery window and asked whether we could tell Dad about the reservation. I gave her my phone, and she dictated a message with the seriousness of someone organising international travel.

That evening, the fox took longer to read because neither of us knew what happened next. She leaned against me, listening closely. When we finished, she put the new book beside the purple backpack, ready for Friday. There was room for it.

Illustrative photograph for an original fictional story. Photo: Sven Brandsma / Unsplash.