The King's Library

When I was a teenager studying for my A-levels, I went to my favourite library. It was known as Charlton House library and loomed in a grand way at the end of the village. With elegant wrought-iron black gates, through which I imagined a large carriage and its occupant, a powdered nose looked out at the peasants scything the lawns.

Looking up close to the carved masonry and stained glass windows, it was clear to me that it was something special before it was an ordinary village library, tea rooms and meeting rooms.

During the years of living locally near the Royal Library, I had taken tours of each of the rooms. Each had a high ceiling and windows that bathed seventy people in glorious summer afternoon light. Sadly, hideous modern plastic ones replaced the original glass chandeliers.

So one morning, before continuing my research in the reference library upstairs, I asked about the heritage of my favourite library.

"Good morning, do you have books on the history of this library please?" I asked the elderly silver-haired lady, whom I easily considered my grandmother's age.

"What would you like to know dear? I have seen you in the reference library every Saturday for a while, beavering away."

"I wondered why this grand building does not look like a traditional library, but part of something more special. Was it?"

"This used to be the hunting lodge for King Henry the eighth, and where the bowling green tea room is, there were stables. Come back up to the reference library and look out, and you'll see a fine prospect. Some original stained glass remains over in that part of the gallery."

"Why is it called a gallery?" I asked, trying not to be a nuisance, and failing.

"There were paintings up there, and King Henry would sleep where we now hold our knitting circle on a Tuesday." Chuckled the patient older lady with an amiable smile. "I will find an old map for you, hang on a minute. It is only a photograph, as the original is stored away, but every area of the buildings is marked."

Off she went up into the reference section, and I didn't see her again that day. After ten minutes or so of waiting at the librarian's desk, I continued my essay.

The next day I returned, and a middle-aged woman with a brown neat bun and ugly sensible shoes looked at me as I went upstairs to the reference library section.

She followed me and waited for me to get out my sociology books and folder. "No eating up here.

"No problem."

"No drinking either, there's the coffee shop next door if you want a drink," snapped the sour-mouthed middle-aged woman.  She glared at me, expecting me to be rude and talk back so she could ask me to leave.

"Thanks, but I am fine."

I wanted her to go away so I could continue writing my draft essay.

It was Sunday today, and the library shut at five, but I had to leave at four-thirty as dinner was at five.

"Excuse me, but is the nice lady librarian here yesterday still here today?"

"The library didn't have a librarian yesterday, as I was on a course," the brown-haired librarian turned on her heels and went back downstairs to her desk. Brisque in her tone and mannerisms to show me that she did not intend to help my young happy self.

How odd, I muttered and wrote the draft of my essay.

 I took out a square of cut-up sandwich from my pocket and enjoyed the fresh ham mum had put in the fridge for me the evening before. The sharp pickle crunched and burst onto my tongue. I wanted to eat crisps with my ham and pickle sandwich, but knew that would put me in trouble and I had to stay. After finishing my draft sociology essay, I took a pleasure stroll around the gallery. It was part of the top floor of the library and was a square walkway where all the rare reference books were kept.

The gallery on one side had an open planned section in which three tables, each with four chairs on the dark polished wooden floor, waited to be inhabited. Looking across the gallery, I saw the floor below. The gallery reminded me of the spectators area of a large London court I had seen in a Miss Marple programme one Sunday after dinner. Of course, the layout below consisted of cases of books and chairs, not the judge in his peruke.

Walking around the square gallery along the length of the library to the narrow set of display tables, I found the map of Carlton House. I took a piece of paper and copied every detail. Then, using my drawn map, I went for an hour's walk to investigate the opulence of the once regal building. When I arrived at the entrance gate, I turned around to absorb the size of the hunting lodge. In my opinion, it is far too big to have as a shed for your horses and your fresh hanging game. But then I am not the King of England. White masonry trimmed leaded windows set in red brick were repeated in style for three floors. On each of the two Christopher Wren domes, there were flagpoles to show when royalty was at home. Fluted chimneys thrust towards the sky. What a magnificent estate.

Cleaning the moist grass from my boot heels, I stepped right to get back on the path leading to the library. Inside, I looked up at the ceiling and gasped with delight. White intricate detailing on rich dark royal blue called me back to the original use of Charlton House Estate.

Another look outside the stained glass window overlooking the back gardens, then I would have to go home. After dinner, I would write up my draft essay, ready for submission on Monday.

The creaking steps felt like an old friend to me, while I hummed a favourite song while I turned back into the upper gallery.

The kind amiable old librarian was by the map of Charlton House and greeted me. “Here is the map of the estate I mentioned to you.”

“Thank you, I found it earlier and have returned from exploring the grounds.”

“Yes, they are really lovely this time of year. The blooms are out in the gardens, and the gleam of the sun bounces on the polished library floors.”

“When were you a librarian here?” I asked, trying to be as delicate about her not being staff, as much as possible.

She smiled and welcomed me to the librarian's room for tea. I felt awkward, because that nasty librarian would get this sweet lady into trouble. After a cup of tea in a proper china cup and saucer, I felt sleepy and reluctantly nodded off to sleep.

“Jane, wake up, his highness asks for you.”Reams of fabric from a full-length gown rustled near me as the lady lent over me to wake me up.

Pushing on the arm of the chair to rise, thick skirts of my own swirled around my legs. Okay, this is a nice dream, I guess I thought as I followed the woman back to the main library.

Wide U-shaped chairs gathered around a large lit hearth, and a rich, bearded man smiled at me. "Jane, are you awake? Did the hunt tire you this morning? I warned Martha to take care of your needs."

Because I had just finished looking through Google Photos of King Henry the vii, I knew who I was talking to. "Yes, your Majesty, I'm used to the quiet leisure of the beautiful gardens to draw in. My horse is often for a slow side saddle ride to the foals and back. So no, I am not used to rushing about for a fox or peasant."

He let out a huge laugh and took my hand with a soft kiss. “Jane, I love your humour.”

I curtseyed while having a mischievous glint in my eyes.

“Your Majesty, you asked for the boar to be brought once her grace was awake?”

“Yes Brown, bring it now. I will feast our day’s hunt with my Jane by me.”

The brown-coat older man bowed and returned, with staff struggling to carry huge silver platters of steaming succulent meat. Goodness, I thought all this extravagance for two people?

“Your Majesty, should I take a moving feast for each of the guests in their rooms while they rest?”

“Yes, yes carry on brown.”

His Majesty wanted to sit down and feast with me, his Jane. It felt nice to be wanted, because as a poor busy student, I had no time for men or their flattery usually.

After feeling rather full, His Majesty bid me good night with a wink in his eye, and my Lady took me up to my huge room. A four-poster bed with dark blue and white fabric welcomed me to bed.

Jolting awake, I found the nasty librarian prodding my rib with her bony finger.

 “Who said you could drink from my special periwinkle tea service set or sleep in my cosy chair? How did you get into this locked room? I bet you were coming to steal something, didn't you, young hooligan?” She hissed unpleasant in her tone and manner.

“Stop that right now she is my guest Mavis.” The sweet librarian appeared from behind a heavy dark blue velvet dusty curtain to admonish the grumpy brown-haired woman.

"Head Librarian, I didn't know you were on site." The woman stammered in a fluster tone.

“Clearly, now leave this pretty young Lady alone. She is so pretty, I think she is good enough for the King himself.” She winked at me and smiled.

“I wouldn’t go that far looking at her tatty shoes and pickle on the side of her mouth. Flouting rules left, right and centre, that's what the young do these days.”

“Be quiet.” The kind old lady allowed her spectacles to slide down her nose while raising an eyebrow to Mavis, the grumpy librarian.

“Fine, have your tea party, but do not chip my periwinkle set. It was a very special gift from you more than thirty years ago. Just my luck that on my day of retirement, it will get ruined.”

"All is well, Mavis, go and take a nap in my upstairs room while I talk to Jane Seymour here."