Shh… Confessions from the library

What images spring to mind when you think about libraries (if you ever do)? Shelf upon shelf of musty books - loose pages and old bookmarks drifting languidly to the ground as you browse the coffee-stained contents? Bulky filing cabinets that ominously threaten crush injuries, as their rickety drawers are slid open and index cards rummaged? Perhaps vigilant, careworn mothers, trying to do “the right thing” by immersing their toddlers in literature, while desperately hoping to escape before the next meltdown disturbs the smothering silence?

For me, it was different.

To me, they were home.

The first library I worked at was in a small town that had sprouted up like the banana trees in the plantations that surround it. I’d moved there several months earlier with my then-husband and young daughter, who had just started school and left me with more time in the day than I’d had for as long as I could remember.

The library was the first place I sought when exploring our new environment. Before we’d even unpacked, I was off. Decent supermarket – check. Nice library – check. We could live here. I’ve always felt at peace surrounded by books, and the formalised tranquility I had come to expect from libraries gave a sense of predictability to the unfamiliar. After all, a library is pretty much a library – size and rough layout aside, they’re united by the same orderly spirit. This one has its quirks, being built in a converted squash centre (and once you’ve had the courts pointed out to you, they can’t be unseen), but its reassuring composure was, in essence, as anticipated.

Imagine my elation when I wandered into the library after dropping my child off for the first time, wondering how on earth to fill the next 5 hours until school pickup, and was informed that a position had recently become available. It felt like fate. I sat straight down at one of the computers, making the most of the free hour I was entitled to as a “local”, and wrote my application on the spot.

The interview that followed was dicey. I had no actual experience (other than 20 or so years as a bibliophile) and no idea how to answer most of their questions, which were strange and vaguely accusatory - “Tell us something you did wrong at a previous job”. I stammered my way through it and left feeling a bit stupid, then didn’t hear back for several weeks and assumed my obscure ramblings had not captivated them either.

The town had some social challenges and a conscientious police force so, driving the husband’s grubby Hilux, I found myself sitting at the side of the road for breath-testing with surprising regularity. On one such occasion, a friendly officer’s attitude deteriorated rapidly when he asked whether I’d had any drinks that day. I responded in the negative, my daughter (always a stickler for accuracy) loudly informed him that I had consumed many, and I was deep in an explanation of the cups of coffee, juice, and water I had imbibed in since waking, when my phone rang. The confused policeman stepped aside to check my license, so I answered and was informed that the job was mine. Talking to a new employer and suspicious officer-of-the-law simultaneously may not have furthered their impression of me, but regardless, I found myself waltzing into the library that afternoon with a new and delightful sense of propriety.

As I browsed the shelves with a freshly critical eye, I felt arms wrap tightly around me from behind.

“I’m so glad it was you,” a voice breathed in my ear.

Ah yes – my new boss. Bless her heart, Helen was a hugger. Bless my heart, I am not – but, as I grew to know and love her, I accepted it with stiff awkwardness and the knowledge that this was an essential part of her generous and compassionate soul.

The following Monday, I presented for my first official day as a “library officer” (not bearing the necessary qualification to call myself a librarian). As a person who flees from change like a clownfish darting into its anemone, I’d spent the weekend twitching with nerves, but comforting myself with the knowledge that libraries were peaceful and predictable places. Nothing outlandish would happen. I would scan books in and out, pop them back onto their shelves in the right places, and provide assistance to any members of the community who were yet to discover the joys of the Dewey decimal system. I walked through the doors like I was entering the safety of my own home.

The illusion of serenity was shattered within 122 minutes.

For the first two hours, I was inducted into the glorious secrets of the library. Helen, the ever organised and unflappable, gave the grand tour of her literary kingdom. I was introduced to my new coworkers – Freya, who I at first found a little daunting, and Simone. I later learned that Freya had nurtured some prior resentment due to my overly defensive response to a computer glitch that dared to suggest I had failed to return some loans on time (I would never. Actually, I lie – I do it all the time - but was innocent on that occasion). Once her understandable wariness of me wore off, I found that Freya was one of the most open-hearted women I have had the honour of journeying with. She felt intensely, loved deeply, and adopted “adult orphans” into her family left, right, and centre. Simone was more reserved and highly perceptive, with a dark, cynical, and frequently dirty sense of humour. It was her who added to my education by informing me that the word “box” is an Australian euphemism for “vagina” and, since libraries tend to send, receive, and store books in cardboard cartons on the daily, we found many opportunities to prove the adage that while the march of time is inevitable, the process of maturing is entirely a choice.

Once I was fully initiated and had been shown Helen’s masterfully detailed manuals appraising me of the systems, she left me at the front counter with a reassuring squeeze. I sat at the desk and watched my first patron approach through the sliding glass doors. I was poised and ready to smile supportively, recommend an author, and lead her to the relevant section. She approached the desk and made her request.

“Excuse me, is there a public toilet in the building?”

Oh.

I recovered quickly, smiled, and pointed across the adjoining gallery area.

“Absolutely – the toilets are just across the other side of the art – “

It happened.

I drew back in horror as this, quite respectable-looking, middle-aged lady snarled ferociously and lunged forward at my outstretched finger with her teeth bared.

I held my hand protectively against my chest and stared at her, eyes wide and unblinking.

Her body language shifted again, and she smiled.

“I’m so sorry,” she apologised. “I was a dog in a previous life”.

 I was still watching her back as she trotted off to the bathroom when the phone rang.

“Good morning, this is the library, how may I help you?” I asked, in my most professional manner.

“David Beckham’s wife,” barked a gruff voice from the other end.

“Um, yes, this is the library.”

“I know who it is – who’s David Beckham’s wife?”

“Sorry – did you need help finding a book?”

“No,” they replied with increasing frustration. They didn’t add, “you stupid girl” out loud, but I know they were thinking it. “I need the answer for the crossword!”

“Oh,” I said faintly. “I’m so sorry. It’s Victoria.”

“Yes, that fits,” they said, and the call ended.

I was gazing at the phone in bemusement when I heard the barely contained giggling from the adjoining office. I stuck my head around the door to find my three new coworkers clutching each other in mirth, tears rolling down their faces.

“We gather you’ve had your first Mabel call,” explained Helen.

And that was pretty much how things panned out.

Libraries may feel restful, but it’s all a façade that disguises the chaos within. These book-laden structures are, in fact, epicentres of activity that provide resources, knowledge, and entertainment for the community, but also refuge for the weak, the worried, and the weary. They are rest stops for travellers (like the gentleman we found largely undressed and washing his armpits over the sink in the toilets), and friendly faces for elderly ladies with minimal social skills and a love of word puzzles. They are a haven for lost children and the homeless, a beacon for elderly people whose utility company suddenly decided that bills must be paid online, and, one notable day, a reluctant sanctuary for a drug dealer evading the police as they cycled around the block looking for him (although I must admit to some frantic waving down of the paddy wagon on that occasion). Library staff are the guardians of books, but also the guardians of the town’s secrets. They help fill out forms, return the prescriptions and precious photos that are used as bookmarks and forgotten, and gently alert parents when their children are looking for books that sound a little too much like “how to guides” on eating disorders or self-harm. They sing nursery rhymes, flap parachutes, build Lego, paint superheroes, explode volcanoes (yes, really – we ran an after-school Science club), stamp the hands of young readers, and hold a sacred trust with their patrons.

When I think about my time at the library, I’m bombarded with images – most of which have nothing to do with books. It’s all a blur of people, each with their own narrative to rival any on the shelves. The romance, tragedy, crime, thrillers and mysteries are brought to life off the pages by the people who honour us with their stories.

Cozy? Always.

Safe? Generally.

Predictable? Not on your Nelly.