Most of us have fond memories of libraries - the excitement of being taken to find a new book as a child, the peace and quiet of perusing the shelves as an adult. But when author Chris Paling started his job as a Library Officer, he saw a side to his library that he wasn't quite prepared for...
Chris Paling
Think you know your library?
Posted on: Fri 03-Feb-17 15:38:05
(43 comments )
Nothing prepares you for your first day as a 'library officer'. Certainly not the media stereotypes, definitely not your fond memories of visits as a child or as a parent. The world has changed. Welcome to the front line of a society in crisis.
On the first day on the job a fight broke out between one of the regular customers – street sleeper 'Brewer' – and a man and his wife who'd popped in on their trip to the UK to see how our libraries compared with theirs. Brewer decided they were talking too loudly, disturbing his newspaper reading. Yes, it was an eye opener to realize that Fiction is the front room of a number of rough sleepers who come in for the warmth and safety. And so long as they don't physically or verbally attack the other customers they're welcome to stay, although sleeping is forbidden.
This is not to suggest the modern library is always a war zone. The majority of customers treat the place, the books and the other users with respect. It's perhaps the only place in the city they can wander into and find relative peace, civilized people to talk to, comfy seats and decent tea or coffee. But there's something about the brief transaction between library officer and customer that binds you together.
I was surprised at how many people, ostensibly visiting to change their books, mainly wanted to talk. For some, it's evidently their only conversation of the day.
I was surprised at how many people, ostensibly visiting to change their books, mainly wanted to talk. For some, it's evidently their only conversation of the day. For some, it's a place they can find somebody to help them find accommodation, a GP, a long lost relative, or the postal address of the Home Secretary.
'The Travelling Man' is another of the regulars: late seventies, he always arrives with a story about his life – of his friendship with the Great Train Robbers' getaway driver, of his childhood in bombed-out London, stowing away on the top of Routemaster buses just to see the city, of the man who came into the Chelsea pub at which he drank and explained he was in for a quick one because he'd just killed his wife and his friends were hoping to get him across the channel.
Last week, a man, early seventies, well dressed, educated, sat down at the main desk and within a few minutes had explained that he had very little time left to live. He nevertheless wanted to maintain his routines for as long as possible.
Some of the customers are angry, some are confused, some in genuine need. Many confound the stereotypes. I recently learned that another of the regulars had fallen on hard times in Liverpool, travelled south looking for work and, for two months, has been living in his car.
As the young come to rely on their parents for childcare more and more, grandparents are in great evidence, most seeming to relish the time they are spending with their grandchildren. Children's is a happy place; a primary-coloured world of harvested smiles.
No two days are the same, but most are a privilege. Libraries are full of stories. Not all of them in books.
Chris' book, Reading allowed (dedicated to his grandson), is published by Little Brown and is available from Amazon.