The Very Extraordinary Book Club

Have you ever visited a library at night?

Libraries are as quiet as churches even during the gentle hum of daylight when its visitors dare not speak above a whisper, but as the sun sets and the doors lock at the end of the working day, the place takes on a whole new essence of mystery and gravitas. Books of different sizes and colours, all stacked and classified neatly on the appropriate shelves, seem to draw up the silence like a net. Each book tells its own unique story from the musty, yellowing pages of the older volumes to the ones with slick fashionable covers and the ink barely dry from the printing press.

Voiceless yet full of words.

Silent yet containing whole cities, populations and worlds.

A thick, clotted stillness was wedged in the air of the library that evening, interrupted only by the gentle, constant tick, tick, tick of the imitation grandfather clock next to the luminous green fire exit sign. Not even the grumble of the air conditioning or the whir of overused PCs in the corner broke the deep, pervasive hush. The windows were dark with the blinds drawn, but the streetlights from outside cast a pattern of horizonal white lines on the cheap, durable carpet as it seeped through the slats.

A copy of Tess of the D’Urbervilles was casually strewn on the reception desk. A bookmark was slotted in about halfway through the pages and the cover depicted a forlorn-looking girl with large, melancholy eyes. It was the only book which appeared out of place in the otherwise meticulous order maintained by Mrs Yakuba, the head librarian.

The peace was shattered by a voice of mechanical bronze as the clock started to chime and slowly and sombrely emitted twelve strokes, announcing the hour of midnight and the arrival of the new day. The twelfth stroke seemed to hang in the air releasing a high-pitched frequency as the energy of the library seemed to change. Almost in response to the stroke of midnight, there was a shuffling sound in the corner of the children’s section as a young, dark man with almond eyes emerged from the darkness. He straightened the turban on his head with one hand whilst flicking the switch of the reading lamp with the other.

Ali Baba was always the first to arrive for the Midnight Book Club, and so he stood waiting patiently for the others. Perhaps it might seem strange to have a book club at midnight, but actually a library couldn’t be a more convenient location. Ali was used to things not always making sense, and so he just accepted his membership in the Midnight Book Club as a matter of course and did not question the existentialism of it all. Despite his youthful, handsome appearance he was actually one of the oldest residents of the library and was the guardian of many long-forgotten and ancient secrets. If he had been asked about the Midnight Book Club, he might have tried to explain it in philosophical terms.

In Ali’s belief each book represented an onus of toil and care. There’s an energy about books, not only the creative impetus from the author in making an idea into a tangible, formative thing, but also the energy of the readers in interpreting and perceiving the information and stories presented to them. Stories may be told a thousand and a thousand times over throughout generations. Whole worlds and galaxies could be constructed from books. Where does all this cognitive energy go? Ali wasn’t sure he knew but he did know that books were special things, and that words and knowledge were more valuable than all the treasure in Arabia.

Paul Sheldon was the next to arrive. Everyone liked Paul – he had a witty and modern sense of humour. He was also an excellent writer which more than qualified him for membership in the Midnight Book Club. Nevertheless, there were a lot of talented writers occupying the library. It was one of those unusual demographics – it seemed that writers often liked to write about other writers. Write what you know, seemed to be the popular maxim. This being the case the library population weighed heavily on the side of published and aspiring authors. Some more pretentious than others. Paul was alright though.

Paul wheeled himself, over to where Ali was standing in the spotlight of the reading lamp, his wheelchair leaving grooves in the carpet floor which Mrs Yakuba would think nothing of when she hoovered and dusted the tables before opening the library for business tomorrow morning.

‘How’s it going Ali?’ Paul asked.

‘Excellent,’ Ali replied. He annunciated each syllable precisely as one often does when English is not their first language. ‘Enjoy the book?’

Paul shrugged and swivelled expertly on one of his wheels, making extra space for the other two members who had yet to arrive. ‘Not really my cup of tea to be honest – very British and full of class conflict and social judgement. And a bit depressing.’

Ali grinned showing a row of perfect white teeth, which looked even more luminous against his dark complexion, the outlined of which merged into the gloom.

‘I detested it,’ he announced clearly. ‘Absolutely no diversity – but then I didn’t expect it.’ He looked around as the tap of footsteps sounded from behind the shelf next to them and a white, stony face peered around the corner.

‘Mrs Danvers – what did you think?’ Paul asked.

Mrs Danvers sat down in the desk chair next to them. The woman rarely smiled, even when delighted, and so it was impossible for the other two to tell if the scowl was because she hated the book or if it was just her natural expression. 

‘Should we not wait for our esteemed leader?’ she asked.

‘She’ll be late,’ Ali said his mouth twitching up at the sides.

As if on cue, a flamboyant-looking bonnet appeared two shelves down and bobbed up and down as the hat made its way through the aisle. The hat turned the corner at pace, revealing its owner as long-limbed, adolescent girl with dishevelled dark hair and a pair of intelligent grey eyes.

‘Sorry I’m late’ Jo March said, sweeping her muslin skirts out of the way to sit down next to Mrs Danvers. ‘This stupid bonnet. It gets in the way and slows me down. Did I miss anything?’

‘Not at all,’ Ali said. He nodded at the young lady as she caught her breath. ‘We were waiting for you. Mrs Danvers was going to kindly tell us what she thought about the book.

They all turned to look at Mrs Danvers, whose face and apparel seemed devoid of colour resembling a black and white photograph. Ali was still unsure what he thought about this woman. In some ways she was as subservient and meek as you’d expect a housekeeper to be, but at other times lightening was apt to flash in her eyes as unexpectedly as a thunderstorm in June. Her surly appearance came across as sinister, but she also seemed to Ali as though she was a woman of strong opinions who could be capable of great love.

However, this was not the occasion on which Mrs Danvers was to reveal any covert sentimentality.

‘Irritating,’ was all she said.

‘Really?’ Jo raised an eyebrow. ‘Any particular reason why?’ She picked up the book from where it had been abandoned on the reception desk, careful not to remove the bookmark from its spot.

‘I just found the lead character a bit wet,’ Mrs Danvers said. ‘She just let other people push her around. I have no respect for a girl like that.’

‘Even when she stabbed Alec?’

Mrs Danvers shrugged. ‘That bit wasn’t so bad. He had it coming. But really why did she have to be so honest all the time? There was no need to be so self-righteous.’

‘And what did the rest of you think of Tess?’ Jo asked.

Jo had taken it upon herself to chair the monthly Midnight Book Club meetings and took her position very seriously for, as all the other inhabitants of the library knew, she was intending to become a writer herself. No one had the heart to mention to Jo the obvious fact, that she was in fact a character in a book and therefore would never amount to anything more than a figment of someone’s imagination. She was fixed exactly as the author had written her and there was no way she would develop until the sequel. It was a source of great annoyance to Jo that the library did not stock a copy of Volume 2: Good Wives on the stacks, but the book just didn’t seem to be anywhere near as popular as the first volume. So, Jo was forever stuck, arguing with her sisters and spending her days reading to her aunt.

Paul and Ali looked at each other guiltily. They knew the book had been Jo’s choice and were hesitant to be too honest. Despite her kind eyes, Jo had a temper too.

‘Well,’ Paul began. ‘It’s just not my sort of thing. Plus it was a bit depressing. First her horse dies… bad luck and all. And then things go from bad to worse… assault, stillbirth, poor choice of husband and then the end. And they call me the Misery writer. Jeez.’

‘I understand the points it makes about social class, but as always there was very little diversity,’ Ali said. The rest of the club nodded in agreement. Ali was perfectly correct in his statement. Tess of the D’Urbervilles may have been published over a century but publishing, and hence libraries, were unfortunately grossly underrepresented.

‘I agree,’ Jo said. ‘I found the ending and the misfortune very moving. However, the plot was based on too many coincidences which seem to push the boundaries of belief.’

At Jo’s words, the other three members breathed a sigh of relief in the knowledge they were all in agreement for once. Terrible rows had broken out in past meetings as each member stubbornly stuck to their opinions, all of which had been moulded in the variable contexts of their literary backgrounds. 

‘Well, it is an imaginative work,’ Paul said. ‘So an element of coincidence is needed to keep the story moving. It comes with the territory of being a figment of imagination.’

‘Are we just figments of imagination though?’ Ali Baba asked. ‘Surely we’re more than that. My life has been translated into over 6000 languages – that’s nearly every major language in the world. Not to mention film rights.’

Ali’s usual bright and cheerful demeanour flickered with annoyance. There was an awkward pause. Everyone knew how furious he’d been to hear that Sinbad the Sailor was being voiced by Brad Pitt in the latest Arabian Nights adaptation. Ali Baba, himself, as per usual had been overlooked. Aladdin and Sinbad were always lording it over him.

‘It’s only animated,’ Paul said gently, acknowledging the unspoken indignation of his friend. ‘It’s just his voice. It doesn’t mean anything.’

‘But does it though? Surely our appearance lies in the consciousness of the reader. I mean look at you Paul. When you first joined this book club you were just an average looking guy – no offence or anything, but as soon as the Misery film was released you lost weight overnight and gained a Hollywood smile courtesy of James Caan.’

‘The sum of our perceptions make up reality’ Mrs Danvers said. ‘And how can we be sure that what we perceive anyway?’

Jo started tapping her feet rhythmically on the carpet and flicking through the copy of Tess so that it creative gentle breeze as the pages were turned. It was a sure sign that she had lost interest. She wasn’t so concerned with existentialism as she was with continuing with the book discussion.

‘So, then the unanimous verdict is that we all hated it?’ Jo asked the group.

‘I’m afraid so,’ said Mrs Danvers.

This time they all seemed to be on the same page even though continents and hundreds of years separated them.

‘Good. Because I have a surprise for you.’ Jo snapped the book shut and smiled mysteriously. She peered into the darkness. ‘You can show yourself now!’

The other three waited in expectation as a tall, handsome girl appeared from the gloom behind the stacks. She was instantly recognisable to the Midnight Book Club from her large, reflective eyes and rosebud lips as the girl on the cover of the book they had just been discussing. She had skin like a porcelain doll’s and wore a red ribbon in her long hair which curled into coils at the tips.

‘I would like to introduce you to Tess.’ Jo announced with triumph.

‘You didn’t like my book?’ Tess cast her eyes downwards in sorrow. ‘Please. Tell me how I can be better.’

Paul gave the others an awkward glance, not wanting to be the first to criticise. Mrs Danvers however did not feel the need to stand on ceremony.

‘Well girl – just for starters I’d recommend not falling asleep if you’re supposed to be driving a horse and cart.’

Tess nodded obediently, but Mrs Danvers was not finished. ‘Don't be too trusting. And really, no one likes a sanctimonious do-gooder. Either marry one guy or the other – and if you have secrets then no one needs to know them. No one likes to hear the truth no matter what they might think. Not really.’

‘We thought there were one or two coincidences in the text which did not authentically reflect real life’ Ali joined in. ‘Could it have been a little more believable?’

Jo nodded. ‘And also cheer up Tess – the book is bleak. It wouldn’t hurt to look on the bright side a little.’

‘It was a little depressing,’ Paul agreed.

Tess listened to the judgement of the Midnight Book Club, and continued to nod meekly, her eyes as deep and sombre as pools of water.

‘Thank you for letting me know,’ she said. ‘You’re right and I will try to be happier. I know I’m not as fun to be around as some of the others here, but I really will be more positive in future.’

‘Glad to have been of service Tess,’ Jo smiled in satisfaction. It had been another insightful and successful evening for the Midnight Book Club.

‘And for next month’s choice, I was thinking about something a bit different,’ Jo said. ‘Perhaps Common Sense by Thomas Paine. It supposedly inspired the American Revolution. What do you think?’

******

Was there something different about the library today? Mrs Yakuba had carried out her daily routine as usual that morning, organising the returned titles into order and handling customer queries. The library was quiet except for the usual background noise of people tapping keyboards and the occasional overly boisterous toddler in the children’s section.

Even so she couldn’t quite shake off the sense that something had changed. Something which she couldn’t quite put her finger on.

With the main chores out of the way, she helped herself to a coffee from the machine and sat at the reception desk. It was usually quiet in the morning although there might be a small flurry of customers at lunch time and again at 3.30pm when the schools finished. She would read her book until then and sit at the reception desk in case anyone wanted to borrow a book.

Mrs Yakuba’s copy of Tess of the D’Urbervilles was exactly where she had left it. The bookmark was in the same place and the cover showed the same lively-looking girl with the long dark hair and red ribbon. She picked it up and started to read.

 Just before lunch, a few more people entered the library and unhurriedly milled along the aisles, picking out books from the shelves before putting them back.

‘Good book?’ one of the customers asked Mrs Yakuba as he thumped a pile of books on the reception desk.

Mrs Yakuba put the book down and stood up to check out the books with the infra-red scanner. She wrinkled her nose indifferently.

‘It’s ok,’ she said, ‘but I wouldn’t recommend it to a customer. Nothing’s really happened yet.’

‘Nothing?’

‘Well, the main character drove to market with her brother, so I was expecting some kind of accident to befall them. Maybe her horse would go lame or something. But no – they made it back without incident. And then she met a man who seemed a bit suspicious – but she was far too sensible to get mixed up with him and so that didn’t come to anything either.’

‘That doesn’t sound very enthralling,’ the visitor agreed.

‘No… and since then the girl has been running happily around the countryside. No unexpected turns, twists or coincidences, or anything.’

‘How very dull. What’s the book called?’ he asked.

‘Tess of the D’Urbervilles.’

‘Never heard of it.’

The hairs of Mrs Yakuba’s skin stood on end and she experienced the vague prickling sensation she’d been trying to ignore all morning – that something wasn’t quite right. But then the feeling passed as quickly as it had arrived and she carried on scanning the books.

‘No, me neither. I’m not even sure why I picked it up.’