Books, covers, and the bodies we live in.

You can’t judge a book by its cover. Neither can you judge a person by the materials they read. Just because a man comes to the library and borrows a book called, Sex Positions for Over Forty, doesn’t mean he has celebrated a recent birthday or that he's grown tired of being a missionary.

On the contrary, he might be borrowing it for a friend, who is doing a nude painting class. The friend might be in a wheelchair and unable to come to the library. Or maybe he’s always wanted to borrow that book, but has been too embarrassed, because he’s actually in it. Or maybe he’s doing it for a dare, one of those pre-buck’s night things.

You don’t know. You really don’t, appearances are deceiving.

This was brought home to me on a recent beach holiday. I took a pile of books, as is my custom and after joyously and obsessively revelling in the sumptuous detail of Hilary Mantel’s Wolf Hall, I needed a breather. I pulled a non-fiction book from my bag. I sat by a lovely inlet, in my little Port Fairy chair, reading and taking notes, when Andrew turned to me, face white, his lips trembling.

‘Liz? Is there something you haven’t told me?’

‘No,’ I turned, staring at him blankly.

‘But … your book?’

I turned the book over. It had a bright pink cover a library barcode and the title: Your Guide to Bowel Cancer.

‘Oh,' I said understanding. ‘It’s not for me. I’m writing a short story from the perspective of someone with bowel cancer.’

‘But no one knows,’ he said. ‘They’re all walking past, looking at you thinking, poor woman, someone in her family has cancer. Maybe even that woman has cancer? The poor brave thing.’

Well, he had a point. I could see how my reading choice might be misleading. But we should never judge a book by its cover. Nor a reader by the book they are reading. Further to that, I would like to add, we should never judge a person, by their outward appearance.

I learned this most recently at the library. We have a customer who, for this blog, I shall call The Wharfie. I will describe him as wearing a blue wife-beater and a navy flannel work shirt. He isn’t really called The Wharfie. Neither does he look like one. But please bear with me, I can't breach confidentiality. But I must characterise, for the purposes of telling.

The Wharfie comes to the library regularly. But if he ever worked on a wharf, I’d be extremely surprised. He is slight, scrawny even. His face ravaged by alcohol, tobacco and the passage of years. These are not assumptions, I can smell the tobacco. I know he slips out of the library doors, periodically, for a drink. What life has dealt him, I can hardly imagine. But I suspect it hasn’t been easy for The Wharfie.

One of the best parts of my job is serving folks like the Wharfie. Don’t ask me why, but I get a kind of warmth from it. I like knowing there is a cosy well lit place in the world where anyone can come, no matter how badly life has treated them. That they can spend all day there (and trust me plenty do), and so long as they don’t abuse the staff, or throw chairs, they can borrow DVD’s, or books, or simply read newspapers and magazines.

As a Christian, I sometimes wonder why our churches aren't more like this.

The other day, The Wharfie, came to the information desk, and thrust a scrap of paper at me. On it were written three medical looking phrases.

‘Doctor says I have to take these,’ he said. ‘I want to know what they’re gonna do to me.’

Well, it was a fair request. Although, I suspected prescribed drugs were the least of The Wharfie’s worries. But it wasn’t my place to speculate, merely to find the information. Unfortunately, it was also one of those afternoons when everyone wanted to join the library. Added to which, the phone hadn’t stopped ringing and now school was out. There were kids everywhere. I had a line like a giraffe’s neck arching from my desk.

‘I can look it up,’ I said. ‘But it might take time. Have you got a minute?’

‘No worries, The Wharfie said.

When he came back later, I had the MIMS open on my desk, but I hadn’t had a chance to look for his drugs.

‘I’m not busy,’ he said. ‘I’ll read something else, for a while.’

By the time he returned, I’d found the drugs in the MIMS. All I had to do was photocopy them. But I couldn’t understand a word of the descriptions. I doubted The Wharfie would, either. I showed him the descriptions. ‘These aren’t much good to you,’ I said. ‘I’ll look in one of our databases.’

‘Take your time,’ he said. ‘I’ll come back in a minute.’

‘You’re very patient,’ I nodded gratefully.

He smiled, all the lines on his face softening. ‘That’s what my granny always said.’

I found the information he required, and we were alone at the desk. I explained that although, the headings were slightly different, these were indeed the drugs he’d listed.

‘They’re gonna cut me open,’ he said, quietly. ‘You mightn't see me for a while.’

I nodded, feeling a sudden tightening in my throat.

Would someone to visit this man? I wondered. Bring him flowers? Ask how he felt? This battered old man, who had softened at such a small compliment, and despite my professional training, I found myself wondering how someone could travel the years, through all sorts of unimaginable hardship, yet still melt at the memory of his grandmother’s words.

‘Well, good luck,’ I said. ‘I’ll see you when you’re better.’

But I didn’t see him again.

Not for weeks.

I asked the other staff at morning tea. ‘Have you seen The Wharfie, lately?’

No one had.

I began to fear he hadn’t made it. That his membership would simply expire after two years. That we would never know what happened? Whether he was in pain, at the end? Whether he found peace? That’s the thing about being a librarian. You don’t judge a book by its cover. Neither do you judge a borrower by their books. And you never, ever, know when a small glimpse of someone’s life will disarm you, and make you care.

Last Saturday, I went to a picnic in the Botanical Gardens.

I drove home, mulling over a delightful afternoon with family friends. Wondering what we’d have for dinner. Whether Andrew and I would go to a movie? Work in the garden tomorrow? Go to the gym? The library was the furthest thing from my mind.

Until, I saw a familiar figure standing at the bus stop.

The traffic light at the approaching intersection turned red. I leaned on the brake and brought the car to a slow halt. Turning, I peered back at the old man. He wore a blue wife-beater and a flannel work shirt. His face was ravaged by the care of years. But he was alive. And it was The Wharfie. And I found myself grinning stupidly in the traffic queue.

I didn’t wave or toot my horn. He wouldn’t know me outside of work. Besides, I’m the librarian, a sometimes silent witness to other people’s lives.

But I went home feeling light of heart. Knowing he’d be back at the library sometime, next week, or the week after, and I’d smile and ask how he was, and he probably wouldn’t even remember telling me he was going to have surgery – if indeed, he ever did – and life would go on, just as before, and as long as he didn’t shout, or throw chairs, he’d keep coming to the library for the remaining years of his life.

Why I work in the library ...

He was small boy and it had been a big afternoon, one of those afternoons when everyone decides to join the library. I’d had my quota of patrons who are unable to use the library catalogue. Added to which, in between signing up new members, the phone had not stopped ringing. In short, I was ready for my desk shift to end.

But, I still had half an hour to go.

He stood head and shoulder above the Reference Desk. He had a little black, basin haircut and skin the colour of honey. He had been waiting patiently. Here we go, I thought, imagining how the script might run.

Now before I continue, I would like to point out that I don’t generally think, oh no, when I see children at the reference desk. But do bear in mind it had been a long afternoon. And sometimes children, well, here is how it can be:

‘How can I help you? (That’s me by the way with a very big smile)

‘Have you got any Garfield books?’

‘Let’s see.’ (I rise from my chair and walk out from behind the desk). Do you know where to look on the shelves?’

‘Yes (earnest nod, wide eyes). ‘But there aren’t any.’

He’s right. There aren’t any. ‘Come back to the desk,’ I say. ‘We’ll have a look on the catalogue.’

After careful searching, I am able to confirm what the empty shelf has already told me. There are no Garfield Books (mental note – buy more Garfield books). ‘There are none at this branch,’ I say. ‘But I can get you one over from another branch.’

‘No, it’s ok.’

‘It doesn’t cost anything.’

‘No, doesn’t matter.’

Child goes in search of his second favourite book. It isn’t there because he likes the most popular books and ours is the busiest (but not the biggest) branch in the region. Child comes back to desk:

‘How can I help you? (Smile still wide).

‘Have you got any Master Q comics?’

‘Let’s see.’ (I rise from my chair and walk out from behind the desk). 'Do you know how to find a book on the shelves?' (I can’t miss this opportunity for a quick library lesson).

‘Yes (earnest nod, wide eyes). But there aren’t any.’

He’s right of course there aren’t any Master Q comics. ‘Come back to the desk,’ I say. ‘We’ll have a look on the catalogue.’

After careful searching, I am able to confirm what the empty shelf has already told me. There are no Master Q Comics (I make a mental note to ask for an extension of youth book budget). ‘There are none at this branch,’ I say. ‘But I can get you one over from another branch.’

‘No, it’s ok.’

‘It doesn’t cost anything.’

‘No, doesn’t matter.’

‘What about Tintin? I saw some of those on the shelf.’

‘It’s okay, I’ll keep looking.’

‘Or Asterix? (I just bought loads of Asterix).

No, thanks. I’ll be fine.’

Child goes in search of his third favourite book. It isn’t there. Child comes back to desk ...

Do you get the picture? The only variable in this, oft repeated, after school enquiry is the name of the book and the size of my smile. Sometimes I am able to scrounge around and find a recently returned book, or, introduce them to our free reservation system, or find a new item to capture their interest.

But sometimes they only want their favourite ... and it simply isn’t there and, if they can’t have their favourite, they don’t want anything else. Sometimes they are only at the library because their Mum doesn’t want to pay for after-school care. Other times, it is because Mum has been told they should be reading more. Quite often, Mum is simply using the internet and they have been told to: ‘Go and find a book.’

They are lonely and tired and a little bit bored and, unfortunately, I can’t help them.

Anyway, I still had half and hour to go – and he was a very small child.

‘How can I help you?’ I asked, cheerfully.

‘Where are the books on origami?’

‘Origami, hmm, let’s have a look.’

I do a quick keyword search because (and this may surprise you). I don’t know the Dewey Decimal System off by heart. My tiredness has evaporated, at this point because I might be able to help this kid. He has been waiting patiently, after all, and he appears to have a genuine information need (that’s library speak by the way) and just in case haven’t realised, we take information needs very seriously. They are sacred.

What? I hear you say, how can a request for origami books be sacred? You have a point. But do bear in mind that I work in a public library. An information need is a human need. It requires the patron to share something of themself with me: a burgeoning interest, an illness or struggle, a recent bereavement.

If you still don’t believe me, search the NSW white pages with me for a son who hasn’t been heard from in seven years. Look into the eyes of a man whose wife has just been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease, feel the enthusiasm of a recently retired woman for ribbon embroidery. Respond to the desperation of a student who has lost his copy of the play he is studying. An information need is sacred, a soul thing, and so is an interest in origami.

My hasty scan of the catalogue establishes the call number. It is 736.982 by the way. But rather than look through the many records, trying to establish exactly what we do and don’t have, I headed straight for the shelves. I like to do this with kids. They don’t want lists of titles and locations. They don’t want a scrap of paper with a Dewey number or a finger pointed in the general direction. They want a book in their hand.

I had noted that there were a number of items in the on the shelf, but none of them are junior books. This didn’t worry me unduly. I had not viewed every record. Added to which I had noticed there was a recently returned junior item on the trolley.

There were a number of books in the Folio section and more in the Non Fiction. More than his small hands could carry. He squatted down to look over the illustrations. I hovered anxiously over him. The diagrams looked pretty complex but, then again, you are talking to someone that after raising four children, can barely manage to fold a cloth nappy.

‘They look a bit difficult,’ I said.

No answer: he was too busy flicking through an array of mythological figures, animals, fruit, trees and flowers, all done in origami.

‘There's a kids’ book on the trolley,’ I said, to the back of his head. ‘I’ll go and get it.’

The kids’ book was perfect. Easy to follow diagrams, age appropriate language and step by step instructions. Even I could have made some of its simpler models. I smiled as I held it out to him, feeling absurdly like a fairy-god librarian in sensible T-bar shoes.

‘Thanks,’ he said, falling on it with a grin.

He was only a small boy with a black basin haircut and skin the colour of honey and an interest in origami. But when I finished my desk shift, twenty-five minutes later, he was still there, on the floor in the middle of the aisle with the books spread out around him. For a moment, I stood there and watched. He didn’t look up. He didn’t notice me. But I went to my tea break light of step and with a glow like halogen within.

That’s why I work in the library.