I have fallen in love a thousand times in my lifetime. All of which have been with books.
--- Unknown
THE current anxiety concerning the demise of libraries serves only to quicken my own passion for them. Some years ago I began writing a series of essays looking back on significant events of my childhood. The ongoing debate reminded me of how I, aged six, first became a library member. I thought I’d take the opportunity to share the story here.
Books have been a part of my life ever since I can remember, even before I could read for myself. Trips to the library were a major thrill, but never occurred often enough. The fortnight or four weeks between books having to be returned or renewed seemed like an eternity to this four or five year old.
If I remember rightly there was a library reasonably close to where we lived at the time and I would usually go with my mother. I would draw out the stay for as long as possible, just wanting to soak up the smells and the hushed cathedral-like atmosphere of this shrine to books, long after having chosen my reading matter. I’d sit on the wooden steps that were the seating in the children’s area, pretending to be totally engrossed in the books I was holding.
Occasionally I would wander into the adult section to watch the grown ups deep in concentration, heads bowed, reading the backs or inside covers of books. The shelves in the adult part reached from floor to ceiling and people would stretch out their necks at strange angles to try and read the titles on the highest shelves. They seemed full of reverence. Could they be praying to the God of books? Was there even such a being? My mother never spoke about what she did or thought about whilst making her selection, so I had my suspicions. Still, I was grateful to the adults for whatever it was they said to the God of books, since the world and my life would have been a much poorer place without these beautiful items of paper and cardboard, or in some cases, paper and leather.
Sometimes when my mother came to find me and I felt I hadn’t had enough time in the library or the next fortnight just seemed too long away, I would tell her that I thought one of her books was ‘broken’ or had a page missing and that she should probably go and see if she could find another copy. Actually, although I use the word ‘sometimes’, it would be more accurate to say ‘once’. The first time I tried to use that trick she hadn’t yet comprehended that in spite of my young years I was perfectly capable of being devious. On the second occasion I tried to cajole her into prolonging our stay she looked confused, but then I saw the light in her eyes of a sense of déjà vu and she dragged me off to the issue desk.
My books were always borrowed on my mother’s library tickets and I was pretty annoyed at not having my own. I loved those colourful little triangles of strong card stapled together which held the tiny bit of paper that sat in an equally small pocket inside the book whilst it was not on loan. There were different coloured cards for each of the various categories. Blue for English adult fiction, green for foreign fiction, red for non-fiction and brown for children’s books. The thing was, you had to be six years old before you were entitled to your own tickets.
Very occasionally my father would take me to the City Library. A massive building with marbled exterior and tiny flecks of gold in the stone work reflecting in the sunshine like twinkling stars. The interior was just as imposing. Vast halls with high ceilings and marble floors filled with tall mahogany shelves held books in many languages, on every imaginable subject. All were lined up neatly with their spines to the viewer. The atmosphere here was that of an English gentleman’s club. Huge leather arm chairs, in which a small child could get completely swallowed up, were arranged around low tables. In the centre of each table stood a heavy ashtray carved from tiger eye, jade, or black agate gemstone. Whatever has happened to that library in the meantime, one thing I am certain of is that those imposing ashtrays will have been removed a long time ago.
The children’s section was slightly less intimidating, but just as impressive. The shelves were still mahogany, but probably under five foot in height. It had he same wooden steps to sit on as in the smaller library nearer home, but an even wider, more confusing selection of books (at least for a four to five year old).
Then one day I turned six. At long, long last I was eligible to have my very own library tickets. I still remember that hugely significant event. It was a Saturday when my father and I drove to the City Library. In those days you couldn’t just go up to the desk, ask for a library ticket and a few minutes later be holding it in your hand. No no. The rather complicated process involved filling in a form detailing name, date of birth, home address, telephone number. There was also a lengthy undertaking that had to be signed, promising that library users would respect and care for the books they borrowed without defacing them in any way.
After requesting an application form my father sank down deep into one of the leather arm chairs, took a pen from his pocket and began filling it out whilst I paced impatiently nearby. Today I was far too excited to go and look at any books. I had to make sure my father really did complete the form and return it to the issue desk. The document was duly placed in a big leather folder and put underneath the counter. The library assistant told Dad my tickets would be ready in a fortnight. Two whole weeks. It was incomprehensible to me that it could take that long to staple a couple of triangular shapes of card together and write my name on them. Time and space lay in an empty void before me. I crossed each day off on the calendar.
Naturally I wanted to be present when the tickets were collected, but my father said he was too busy to take me on a Saturday, and anyway, it would have meant waiting even longer than a fortnight before I’d be able to hold those highly desired objects in my hand. I couldn’t wait to be able to look at them for as long as I wanted. I imagined myself turning them over and over, brushing my fingers over the minute lettering on the back, even though I couldn’t yet read what it said, and admiring my name written in neat script on the front.
At last the day arrived when it was late opening at the City Library and Dad made a special journey there after work to pick up the tickets for me. I hovered by the front door until he came home, refusing to go to bed until he arrived. Normally bed time was long before my father returned from work, but today was an important day and so an exception was made.
I heard his key in the lock. High on excitement I practically pushed my father back out the door he had just come through as I flung myself at him. A look of puzzlement crossed his face as I demanded he should hand over the precious items I had waited so long for. He slapped his hand hard against his forehead. The smack resounded around the room as he tried to look desperate, claiming he’d been so busy at the office that tonight’s errand had completely slipped his mind. But I was a big girl now, so I could easily wait until the weekend, couldn’t I? I bravely fought back the tears of disappointment as I nodded. Looking over my head to speak to my mother his hand went into the inside pocket of his jacket. Out came two fine brown library tickets.
“Hey, look what I’ve just found”, he grinned.
Those library tickets went to bed with me that night. I expect Teddy might have been a tiny bit jealous. Afterwards they always had pride of place on my bedside cabinet when they weren’t in use. It won’t have been very often. Mostly they will have been held by one or other of the libraries while I had the books.
© Carola Huttmann, August 2004
06/10/10
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