I’d spoken to Trev on the phone, and recognised him immediately by how he nervously stepped into the library, eyeing the room as though it might detect an imposter. It wasn’t the books he needed to be wary of, but their fearsome guardian, Irene Jenkins, library manager at large.
She’d been initially snooty about the prospect of me meeting with ‘illiterates’ in her precious library. I’d pointed out that the whole purpose of a library was to encourage people to read, and she snapped back something about how her library was for those who appreciated and respected literature; it wasn’t a hang-out for school drop-outs. A quick chat with one of the directors for Notts libraries, who’d presented ReadUp with an award only the previous year, soon reminded her that this was not, in fact, her library but a public building, and we were welcome to further the literacy skills of local residents whenever the library was open.
‘Ms Tennyson, I believe your person is here.’ Irene Jenkins sniffed, glaring over the top of her bifocals.
In the hope of avoiding any interaction between Trev and Irene, I’d already rushed over to meet him, hoping my friendliest smile would deflect her waves of distaste at Trev’s tatty tracksuit topped off with a bald head covered in a skull tattoo.
‘Trev!’ I chirped as he stiffly shook my hand. ‘So great to meet you in person! I’ve got us a spot over here, where we can chat without being disturbed.’ I gave Irene a firm smile, and she wrinkled her long nose to reassure me that she’d be keeping well away from the riff-raff.
We spent the next hour doing some simple assessments to find the best place to start. The vast majority of new readers found even contacting us a huge hurdle, and before I could help with anything else, I often had to help them overcome a lifetime of shame, fear and low-to-no self-esteem.
Trev’s was a familiar story. I fetched us both a mug of over-stewed tea from the machine, and he tentatively began to describe how he’d fallen behind at school due to what he described as a ‘mad’ home-life. Once he’d missed the basics, there was never the chance to catch up, and he’d covered up being so ‘stupid’ by messing about and getting into trouble. He hung his head in shame when he confessed that he’d spent decades in and out of prison, and for a long time he couldn’t see any way to break the cycle, even if he’d wanted to.
‘So, what’s changed now, Trev?’ I asked. ‘I know it’s not easy facing up to something like this, let alone asking for help. What pushed you to call our number?’
He ducked his head. ‘Well, I know it’s hard to believe, but I met someone.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yeah. Who’d a thought it at my age!’ Trev was fifty-one, but he looked nearer to seventy. ‘We met at the pub quiz. I can’t write the answers down, but I know enough not to embarrass meself. Anyway, we got to talking, and I thought, Bloody hell, Trev, she’s a proper lady, this one, she deserves better than a deadbeat like you. So, me brother gave me the number for this. I’ll probably never see her again, but I want to be ready so next time I click with someone, I can at least send her a text without spelling mistakes.’
Which was such a lovely reason, I had to scoot back over to the hot drinks machine to hide my watery eyes.
Trev left once the hour was up, earnestly clutching his new workbook, and I started packing up my bag, becoming aware of Irene, sturdy shoes planted two feet apart, hands on hips, berating someone just out of sight in the adult fiction section.
‘The library is closing in ten minutes; you must return your book now and be on your way.’
‘Please let me stay for the ten minutes!’ a child’s voice replied, carrying a faint Liverpool twang. ‘The Ringwraiths have found Frodo and I have to know what happens! I’ll just read for another eight minutes, then put it away. Six! Five, even!’
‘The library is not designed for children’ – Irene shuddered as though the very thought disgusted her – ‘to be loitering about, blocking people’s way and preventing me from closing on time.’
‘There’s hardly anyone else here!’
I had a quick scan of the library. There was only the three of us, which wasn’t surprising given the warmth of Irene’s welcome.
She made a show of checking her watch. ‘Nine minutes. Come along.’
‘You can’t do this!’ the child begged. ‘All I’m asking for is the chance to read three more pages. Otherwise I’ll have to wait the whole weekend to find out what happens.’
Irene bristled. ‘If you want to find out what happens then you must check the book out. That’s how a library works.’
‘Fine! Please can I check out this book?’ The child sounded unnecessarily angry, given that this was surely a reasonable solution.
Irene clonked back to the reception desk. ‘No, you may not.’ She glared. ‘That is an adult book, and as we’ve discussed many times before, you have a children’s library card. Three minutes until the library is closing. Unless you want to have your children’s library card confiscated, please return your book to the correct location on the shelf and leave the premises.’
‘What about her?’ The child, who I could now see was a girl, stomped out from behind the bookshelf and pointed at me. ‘You aren’t ordering her to leave. This library is completely ageist and discriminatory and anti-children!’
‘I’m sure Ms Tennyson has no intention of abusing the library rules and regulations.’
The girl gave a defiant toss of her ponytail, slamming the copy of The Fellowship of the Ring on the counter, her library card quickly joining it. As she flounced out the door, she yelled, ‘You can confiscate my stupid children’s card all you want! I’ve already read every single book in the children’s section – twice!’
It was the hair toss that caused me to recognise her. I made a quick decision, and pointed to the clock on the wall behind Irene. ‘Your watch must be fast. That says five minutes until closing time.’
As she automatically turned to look, I swiped the library card from the counter, slipping it into my pocket. ‘I’m going to check out a couple of books before I go.’
I went straight to the fiction section and hurriedly grabbed two novels. Ignoring Irene vibrating with suppressed rage, I swiped my card in the self-service machine and used it to check out the books, alongside the one that the girl had left behind. I gave a cheery wave as I left, doing my utmost not to flinch when she slammed the door behind me.
The bike propped up against the cottage wall explained why I’d not managed to catch up with my neighbour, despite hurrying through the May sunshine all the way back to Hatherstone Lane. I ignored the pull of an ice-cool drink in the shade of next-door’s cherry tree, and knocked on next-door-but-one’s door.
After a long wait, and another, firmer, couple of knocks, the door swung half an inch open and a suspicious eye peered through the gap.
‘Hi!’ I smiled brightly. ‘I’m Ollie. I’ve just moved into End Cottage.’
The door closed a couple of millimetres.
I quickly lifted up the books and thrust them at the crack.