Shelved and forgotten

There are many interesting and attractive books on display in a library, but maybe it is those that live behind the scenes which tell the more fascinating stories. Those that remain boxed up, hidden in cellars or left on dusty shelves, away from the eyes of the public’s view…..

Ray turned a page of the book he was reading. It was the brand new crime thriller by Peter Jacobsen and it should have been mesmerising him according to the reviews. However, Ray was finding it very difficult to concentrate, his mind only half on the words he was looking at. Thoughts of his own recent problems tormented him, maybe partly being the cause of what happened that day.

The Spring sun was shining in through the tall, mullioned glass windows and the shadow of the large oak tree outside was dancing on the slightly musty carpet in the quiet library of Nether Hayford.

Small but perfectly formed and meticulously catalogued and cared for, the high shelves saw use only from the older inhabitants of the village. Nether Hayford sat peacefully on the crown of a hillock, rumoured to be an ancient burial ground. Far off the beaten tracks, away from the motorway traffic and general thoroughfare, the library saw little usage but Ray liked it that way. The atmosphere was peaceful and almost surreal. Particles of dust floated in the sunlight and silence reigned. Time stood still.

In the silence, Ray could often hear whispers amongst the narrow corridors, in between the high shelves. Whispers of unseen voices from the pages of the faded tomes lining the narrow aisles, straight-backed like soldiers standing to attention. Often he would hear the muffled explosion of a cannon emitting from the History section or maybe it was the revolution scene from ‘Les Miserables’? At other times, he would be entertained by the soft lullaby in a foreign language crooning at him from the Geography books and on very few and far between occasions, he would actually catch snippets of conversations.

“And your defect is a propensity to hate everybody,” said a young lady from the A-D fiction section, to which came the reply:

“And yours, is wilfully to misunderstand them”.

Ray smiled. Fortunately, he had heard the lines many times before over the years, and having read the ending to the book, knew that this particular argument was going to have a happy ending, unlike some of the other arguments he had heard in his time.

Ray had got used to the underlying sounds and thought this was just normal in a place where so much time, imagination and emotional creativity were packed. It was s images and spirits of those written about letting loose into a world they could never be a part of. It didn’t phase him.

That day, as Ray turned the pages of the book, his ear became attuned to a new voice – one he had never heard before. Sounding as if it came from the high-backed reading chairs near the fire exit, he wondered if someone had wandered in without him realising. He heard the sound of a child singing. Not the usual hushed tones, but clear and distinct.

“Ring a ring o roses, a pocket full of posies,” the voice sang sweetly.

Unlike the usual voices, this one continued longer and louder. It got to the point of being above the decibel level allowed by Ray in his peaceful domain. Despite there being nobody else obvious present to be disturbed, Ray cleared his voice and projected his voice the 15 metres necessary to reach to where he guessed the voice to be coming.

“ Could you lower your voice please?” he asked politely but sternly.

The singing stopped as if shocked and Ray felt pleased the job was done. He settled back to his thoughts for a few seconds until the singing began again, this time more persistent and obviously louder, as if blatantly ignoring his request.

"Atishoo, Atishoo, we all fall down."

Ray looked up, brow furrowed in the beginning of extreme annoyance. Never had he had to confront any of the villagers for flouting the laws of silence. His elderly clientele were very happy to find a haven of solitude on their arrival.. Inner frustration at his own problems made his fuse a lot shorter than it normally was and now he had somebody defying the universal laws of the librarian’s code of conduct. From his seat by the window, he inspected the aisles he could see. Expecting to see nothing and nobody, he jumped slightly when he detected a glimpse of a small figure in a white pinafore. It seemed to be hiding behind the stack of shelves nearest him. He could not see the face but he was consciously aware of being watched.

“Ring a ring o roses,” the little voice began again, almost taunting him to respond.

This time though, the voice was joined by another, singing alongside. Ray could not see the owner of the new voice but it came from the opposite side of the library. Frustration began to mount and this time, Ray decided to get up and approach the noise makers face to face. He would put a stop to this tomfoolery. He walked down the aisle, clearing his throat to announce his next order, only to find the space vacated. Rustling and the sound of footsteps behind him, convinced Ray that he was now dealing with some annoying children, out to disrupt the order of his day. At the same time, he admitted to feeling an ominous sense, a presence he had not felt before.

He turned to find a child standing at his back, closer than he would have expected. She had long ginger hair and a very pale face. Her lips were drawn in a sly smile and her eyes were an amber colour, almost matching the tone of her hair. She wore the dress of a Victorian child and her mood was sombre and defiant. Ray could sense an argument coming.

“I’m sorry little girl, but I did ask you to be quiet. It seems you don’t wish to obey, “ he tried again with all the authority he could muster.

“I won’t,” the girl replied, standing her ground. She took a step closer which took Ray by surprise and he instinctively moved backwards, only to feel hands upon his back.

Turning, he discovered the hands belonged to a boy, almost the double of the little girl, now behind him. Apart from the sex, they could have been twins.

“Who are you to make us be quiet?” he demanded.

“I’m sorry, but this is a library and everybody knows the rule is to be quiet,” Ray tried to explain. He felt that although he knew he was speaking to children, they were very much the adults in the room. His frustration was mounting and anger mixed with a small amount of fear caused him to perspire. He felt trapped and wondered what his next move would be. Or theirs?

“All rules are made to be broken.” Again, the same sly smile from the little boy this time.

“Look children, I’m sure this is all very much a game to you, but it’s time that you left. I’m sure you would much rather be playing outside in the sunshine, wouldn’t you?” Ray asked, trying to edge his way around the boy in order to herd them towards the front door.

“We’re not going anywhere,” the children said in unison. “You are. Time’s up Ray. Nobody tells us what to do. This is our place, not yours.”

Somewhere far away on a dusty shelf, forgotten by many, lies a long row of books. It is maybe these that tell the most fascinating stories. The titles are simple. ‘The mother’, ‘The bully’, ‘The mayor’, ‘The policeman’. The latest of the titles reads simply ‘The Librarian’.