Broken Places (3 page)

‘Who the hell do you think you
are
, mate? I booked this sodding computer for ten o’clock and now you’re saying it’s not free.’

Eric deliberately adopted a calm and pleasant tone. The guy was leaning across the counter, one fist clenched aggressively. If he didn’t defuse the
situation
, and defuse it pretty fast, that fist might well make contact with his face. ‘I’m sorry, sir, but it’s now ten-fifteen and we only hold the computers for ten minutes.’

‘Listen, chum, I booked the bloody thing for half an hour, so it’s mine by rights till half-past ten.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Eric repeated, in the same conciliatory manner. ‘If you’re late, we have to release the slot to someone else. It’s library policy. But, look, why don’t I make you another booking, for later on today?’

‘Because I don’t happen to have all fucking day to swan around doing damn-all. I told you – I want it now.’

‘I’m afraid that isn’t possible. In fact, the earliest slot I can give you, sir, is – let’s see – half-past three.’

The fist veered towards his jaw. 999, he thought, glancing frantically around for Trevor, who at six-foot-two and built like a bull, might disarm the man at a stroke. But before he could call for help, the man –
miraculously
– backed off, pushing his way past the queue of people behind him with a torrent of abuse.

Eric realized he was sweating – and with reason. On two occasions he
had
been hit, once seriously enough to land him in A & E. Well, he thought, composing himself, at least he didn’t work in Iraq. There, the National Library was subject to constant bomb-blasts, and staff-
kidnappings
were the order of the day. He suddenly saw himself cowering in a stinking cell, bound and gagged and blindfolded – and about to die of fear.

‘I’m looking for this book….’

The next person in the queue was, he realized with relief, not a hulking prison-guard, come to march him to the torture-chamber, but an elderly woman too frail to hurt a flea.

‘Yes?’ he said, encouragingly. ‘Could you give me the name of it?’

She shook her head. ‘That’s the trouble. I can’t remember names.’

‘Well, do you know who wrote it?’

‘I think it began with a …’ Her voice tailed off and her eyes took on a glazed look.

He waited patiently. Who knew what she was suffering – loneliness, confusion, dementia, bereavement?

‘It was red,’ she said, in a sudden rush of words. ‘A big red book, with a yellow bird on the cover.’

He ran through his mental repertoire. Although familiar with most of the stock, he couldn’t recall such a volume. ‘Was it fiction or non-fiction?’

It was obvious from her baffled frown that she didn’t know the
difference
.

‘Well,’ he tried to explain, ‘more of a story, with characters, or a book that told you how to identify birds?’

‘A story – for my grandchildren.’

‘Ah, I think you need the children’s library. I’m just going up there myself.’ However busy he might be, he had to have a word with Stella, to beg her help at lunchtime.

Once Harriet had relieved him at the desk, he took the stairs at a snail’s pace, so the old lady could keep up with him, then left her in Kath’s hands. Despite her youth, Kath was proving a real asset, although Harriet had complained, of course, about employing kids who should be still at playschool. But he, too, had started as a library assistant, at the age of just sixteen, so he felt a bond with Kath; still recalled the sense of being confused and overawed by all one had to learn.

The colourful shelves and frieze of children’s drawings pinned in rows above them reminded him of being younger still; the pride he’d felt when his own pictures were displayed. The library had been his childhood refuge – in fact, almost a sort of prep school – and he’d continued to use it through his teens, not just as crammer and college, but as an escape from noise and bullying and the whole round of petty punishments. Without it, he’d be nothing now, or maybe – worse – a criminal or dope-head. Admittedly, reaching his favourite haven had often been a problem, since
he’d had to rely on busy, non-bookish adults, with a thousand more
important
things to do. But, once there, he felt secure and – more important still – could be instantly transported to other, better worlds, simply by opening the pages of a book.

Stella’s voice returned him to the present. She was just finishing her ‘Rhyme-Time’ session – clearly one with a marine theme, since she had set up a stretch of ocean (a blue tarpaulin), a beach (a yellow rug), and brought in various ‘fishy’ toys, including a green-plush crocodile, with a cavernous scarlet mouth.

‘Now, our last song is “Row Your Boat”. We learned that one last week, so shall we all join in?’

Eric found himself singing along with toddlers, mothers, nannies; even managing a creditable shriek when they reached the verse, ‘If you see a crocodile, don’t forget to scream.’ The contrast with the church-like silence of libraries in the old regime never failed to strike him, in these days of exuberant sing-songs and boisterous events. He continued watching with a twinge of envy as the mothers prepared to take their children home; buttoning coats; retrieving hats and gloves; each mother or each nanny leaving hand-in-hand with a child. Incredible to have someone all to
yourself
, someone you didn’t have to share, someone linked to you by blood-ties.

Once everyone had gone, Stella tidied away the rugs and books and toys. ‘I’m off for my tea-break now, Eric. Any chance you can join me?’

‘Well, only for five minutes. We’re up to our eyes down there.’

Having left Kath to do some shelving, Stella followed him to the staffroom, where he remained standing by the door, too pressured to bother with tea.

‘Stella, could you do me a favour?’

‘Depends. If you want me to dress up in a rah-rah skirt and perform the cancan on top of the returns-desk, then—’

‘No, nothing so exciting. I just wondered if you could heat the lunchtime soup.’

‘I thought Helen usually did it?’

‘She does, but she called in sick first thing. It won’t take long, I promise. The stuff’s all ready, right there on the worktop.’

‘OK.’ Stella flung a teabag into a mug. ‘But I think I ought to warn you that Harriet’s still pissed off about the whole idea of soup.’

‘I know. But then she dislikes the group, full-stop. It just happens to be
working, though, whatever she might think. The numbers are up every week, and hot soup helps to bring the punters in.’

‘Yes, but she’s worried that books will get nicked by what she calls “undesirables”.’

He bristled in annoyance. ‘What Harriet fails to understand is that there’s only a thin line between so-called normal people and those who end up sectioned, or in prison, or on crack-cocaine or whatever. All it needs is enough bad luck, or some unhappy twist of fate. Just because she’s been cushioned all her life, she—’

‘We’ve no evidence for that, Eric. She never gives a thing away. And, actually, I suspect it’s more a fear thing. People with mental-health problems probably make her feel vulnerable or threatened.’

‘I’m sorry, that won’t wash. It’s her job to do away with stigma, not contribute to it.’

‘She’s not likely to change, at her age. Anyway, just bear in mind she’s been complaining to Trevor – she told me so herself.’

‘Well, she would do, wouldn’t she? As the boss, he’s bound to back her up.’ Thank God, he thought,
he
was no longer a manager. He’d detested the whole headache of financial planning, cost-benefit analysis, performance indicators, health and safety issues, dictates from the council – all that endless stuff that kept him away from actual books
and
readers. And, as for sorting out spats between staff, it invariably left him both guilty and
embarrassed
. OK, he’d had to accept demotion and a cut in salary, but being free to do the work he wanted was well worth the disadvantages.

‘The trouble with Harriet’ – he lowered his voice to a whisper, although, in fact, they had the staffroom to themselves – ‘is that she’s so set in her ways, she opposes any innovation, on principle. Everything’s been a threat to her – videos, DVDs, computers, Baby Rhyme-Time, whatever – and you can bet your bottom dollar she’ll be agin the
next
thing, regardless of what it is. And, anyway, she’s so close to retirement, I suspect she simply wants an easy life. She’d probably prefer it we didn’t open the doors at all – kept the books in and the public out!’

‘She does have a point, though, about use of council funds.’

‘The soup’s sponsored – I
told
her. Waitrose foot the bill. And if she has any more complaints about the shopping or the washing-up, it’s me that does both those, as she damned well knows, in fact.’

‘It’s not the soup as such. She says you’re using up resources on lame ducks, who do little for the issue figures, when you should be—’

‘Stella, I don’t need Harriet to tell me what I should or shouldn’t be doing. And they’re
not
lame ducks. We’re attracting people we’ve never reached before.’

‘That’s the trouble, though, as far as she’s concerned. She says we’re meant to be librarians, not social workers or psychiatrists.’

‘The two things go together – reading as therapy. Hell, she must know that by now – with all those “Books on Prescription” schemes and a load of other groups nationally. One of my little lot has actually decided to come off Prozac, and just because of the sessions. And she called them “a shaft of light in a dark cavern”, which I thought was rather poetic.’

Stella dunked a biscuit into her tea. ‘Eric, I’m on your side – you know that. But let’s forget libraries for a sec. We need to talk about the dating thing.’

He hid his face in his hands. ‘Haven’t time,’ he groaned.

‘How about a quick drink after work, then? Are you free this evening?’

‘Yes, unfortunately. No queue of leggy blondes fighting for the privilege of taking me to bed!’

‘Well, all the more reason to put that right. See you in the Dog and Duck at six, OK?’

‘OK, and thanks a million for doing the soup. Just heat it in the microwave, in batches, and bring it in at quarter to one.’

As he left, he glanced back at the staffroom: tatty lino, shabby chairs, no proper storage space. Toilet-rolls were heaped up in one corner; a pile of battered box-files in another. It all came back to lack of funds, of course. With more resources, he could work minor miracles; not with carpeting and cupboards – they were inessentials – but with every ‘undesirable’ and ‘lame duck’ in the borough.

He glanced around the circle of faces, trying to judge their reaction. It was definitely a risk engaging with a poet as difficult as Hopkins, when some of the group hadn’t opened a book since leaving school. But his own
experience
as an undereducated lad had taught him that, even if you didn’t grasp the meaning of the words, the spirit of a poem could still seep into your 
soul. He refused to accept that great literature should be the preserve of a small cultured elite, instead of open to all and sundry.

‘Well,’ he asked, once Alice had read the second verse, stumbling over the challenging last lines. Incredible that she was reading it at all, when, a month ago, she had sat in silence throughout the sessions, literally shaking with nerves. ‘What did you all think of that?’

‘Couldn’t understand a word!’ Graham protested, shaking his bald head.

‘Too downbeat for me,’ Marjorie put in. ‘We need cheering up, not made to feel worse still.’

‘You’ve missed the whole point,’ Barry countered. ‘The bloke who wrote that is trying to cheer himself up, deciding to be kinder to himself. There’s a lesson there for all of us.’

‘I agree,’ said Rita. ‘He’s saying we should have pity on ourselves, and I, for one, approve of that.’

‘But I don’t get the bit about thirst. What he’s on about?’

Eric took the words apart and tried to fit them back together in a simpler, more immediate way. ‘The language is difficult – for me as much as you. I’m not always sure what it means myself, but that’s OK. We’re learning as we go along. Hopkins has been called “obscure”, so we shouldn’t expect to grasp it all immediately.’

‘So why choose an obscure poet?’ Graham demanded, rocking back on his chair.

Eric took his time replying. He’d deliberately avoided self-help books, despite the fact that many of the members were suffering from depression and the like. So-called ‘prescription literature’ only told sufferers more about their pain, whereas poetry could transcend it; endow it with depth and meaning. He had proved that in his own case – although he could hardly explain in this particular setting that Gerard Manley Hopkins had helped him through his divorce. During those grim months, he had often lain
sleepless
, repeating, ‘O, what black hours we have spent this night … I am gall, I am heartburn’, and all the other desolate stuff he’d soon come to know by heart. To read of someone else’s anguish, depicted in astounding words, had been weirdly comforting; made him feel less isolated; less alone with grief.

‘Because Hopkins is deeply passionate,’ he replied, at last, to Graham, ‘and cares about the important things in life. And he’s a true original. His style is so strange, it shakes you up. And if you want to know why poetry rather than prose, well, sometimes just the rhyme and rhythm can induce a sense of calmness.’

‘Yes, I find poems helpful,’ Warren declared. ‘And I like the way they mean something they’re not saying.’

An astute comment, Eric thought, from a guy who claimed never to have read anything except the backs of sauce bottles.

‘The first poem was easier, though,’ Marjorie observed. ‘The one that Graham read.’

‘
Pied Beauty
?

‘Yes, the words were really beautiful. In fact, I’d like to hear it again.’