This story appeared in the recent edition of Boroondara Magazine. A few people were even kind enough to say they enjoyed it so, I thought, maybe I should put it up online. I mean, not everyone is lucky enough to work for City of Boroondara.
Dw i'n gobeithio eich bod chi'n mwynhau y stori, hefyd - I hope that you enjoy the story too.
***
It was a Sunday afternoon,
just like any other Sunday afternoon at Balwyn Library. Return Chute
overflowing. The Internet playing up. Kids wanting help with projects. People
photocopying, reserving books, playing chess, and browsing the magazines.
We
also had a man cleaning the table with his sock.
‘I’m
an artist.’ He held out a pencil sketch he’d copied from one of our folios.
‘Yes,
it’s lovely,’ I said. ‘But you really can’t—.'
‘—Naughty,’ he rocked back
and forth, clutching the paper to his chest. ‘I went over the edges. But I’ll
clean it up.’
I
looked down at the pencil square outlined on the table. ‘It’s fine. Please, don’t
worry. The cleaners’ll do it later.’
‘No,’
he shook his head. ‘My mess. I have to
fix it.’
I took
a deep breath, noting the rhythmic sway of his body. The deep lines of anxiety creasing his mouth. Where to begin? I could explain that taking your socks of in
the library was inappropriate. As was wetting them and cleaning a library table.
But reason doesn’t always work when a person is unwell and, if this man did
have a mental illness, trying to make him stop could be far more disturbing to
him, and others, than a bit of sock-water on the table. Besides, I could always
come back later with Ajax and a sponge.
I
chose the latter course, pushing my trolley down into the sciences, passing
books on solar systems and science experiments—sound,
light, heat, and magnetism—followed
by a string of unfathomable chemistries, until I reached the six hundreds.
Health. I stopped, checking my notes.
The
catalogue indicated two books, Advanced
Breast Cancer, and Coping with
chemotherapy.
‘Just
diagnosed,’ the elderly man had said on the phone. ‘We’ve been married thirty-six
years,’ he paused, clearing his throat. ‘The Chemo should give her a few more
months.’
I
found the Advanced Breast Cancer
book. But the other title wasn’t on the shelf. I checked the trolleys. Not
there either. I sighed. For some reason, recently returned items often fell
into a black hole. I’d have to organise an inter-branch transfer.
Back
at the reference desk, my colleague, Jonathan, was a man under siege. Five or
six people waited in line while a man in a tweed cap explained he wanted ‘manly
books, about men, doing manly things.’
Smothering
a smile, I slipped into my seat. After a series of nods and gestures, the line
divided and a slight, elderly woman stepped forward. Her hand shook as she slid
a scrap of paper across the desk. On it, she’d written four carefully chosen words.
May I borrow book.
Right,
I thought. This could be tricky. I glanced back along the line. No folded arms.
Or hard thin lips. Good, we had time.
‘You
can,’ I said, nodding. ‘But you’ll need a library card.’
She
leaned forward, her dark eyes intent. Then with an impatient click of her
tongue, she shook her head.
‘Card,’
I held one up, ‘to borrow.’
Ah. Yes.
A wreath of smiles. She knew about those.
‘Have
you got ID?’
‘ID?’
She repeated the unfamiliar word.
‘Passport?’
Yes,
yes. She fumbled about in her handbag, eventually producing a burgundy passport
with a familiar gold crest and the words, Peoples
Republic of China emblazoned across the front.
This
wasn’t an uncommon situation. Libraries are often the first port of call for international
students. How they know about us, I’ve never worked out. Personally, I suspect someone
in customs give them the nod. ‘Get straight down to the library,’ the unsmiling, uniformed
official says. ‘They’ve got books in Chinese, and English as a Second Language
materials.’
So they
come in the boldness of youth, bearing passports and rental agreements, to join
in the library in their polite classroom English, and to marvel at the wealth
of available resources.
But
this woman wasn’t a student. She looked well into her seventies. Was she on holiday?
No, I didn’t think so. More like a new permanent resident. Something in the
straightness of her bearing told me this was an act of quiet desperation. Yet, for
all its difference, her need was as simple as the man who’d wanted manly books.
Something
in her own language.
I
typed her name and birthdate into the system. The passport was a start, but not
enough. I needed a current address for a membership, preferably on an official
document. But how to explain these requirements?
‘Your address?’
I tried the most obvious question. ‘Your house? Where do you live?’
A
crease formed on her brow. Perspiration beaded her lip. This could take ages. I
glanced back along the line.
I love
the public. They fight over the computers, evade library fines, cut pictures out
of the magazines, and complain regularly. But other times, they get it just
right. This afternoon was one of them. As I scanned the row of waiting faces,
there wasn’t a single raised eyebrow. Or scowl of impatience. Only a quiet
recognition of courage. They were on our side.
‘Phone
number?’ I held an imaginary handset to my ear.
Oh, yes,
definitely, relief flooded her features. She opened her purse and pulled out a business
card.
‘My son,’
she said, pointing to a name and address. ‘With him, I live.’
I
looked at the business card. It was dog-eared and generic, not by any stretch
of the imagination an official document, and I certainly shouldn’t have taken
it as proof of address. But I joined the woman on the strength of that card,
and let her start borrowing.
But it
was only later, after I had sponged the sock-man’s table and organised an
inter-branch transfer for the man whose wife had breast cancer, that I realised
she’d left that scrap of paper on my desk. It was nothing much, only a crumpled
sticky note. But I slipped it into my pocket, thinking of desperation, courage, and the whole messy business of serving the public, summarised in those four
carefully chosen words.
3 comments:
I love this story. It reminds me of some of the lovely elderly customers I had when I was a bank teller in Canada. They couldn't speak English, but somehow we managed, with a bit of good will from each other and the customers.
I thought I'd better mention that I think you have a typo in the last line...."an" should be "and" I think. It pulled me out of the flow of the story, which is why I'm letting you know.
'May I borrow book'. That is lovely.
Thanks Liz, it's a great piece.
This is a gorgeous piece, Liz. I love the way this woman reached out and the way her fellow borrowers, and you especially, exhibited such patience and understanding. A tricky situation beautifully handled all around and a wonderful story to share.
Hope to read more soon.
Chris
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