I Used to be a Lonely Old Woman...

The triple-height glass doors swing outwards long before I reach the top of the stone steps, accentuating the grandiose quality of the building.

            ‘Remember Harri,’ my niece whispers in that extra-loud stage speech that only actors and the very young can pull off, ‘you have to be very quiet in here.’

            I raise my eyebrows at her mother, neither of us sure where she’s got this idea from. This will be their first library trip and I think they will be in for a surprise.

            Accrington library opened in 1908 and its huge marble floors, oak shelving and high atrium, graced by a beautiful stained glass window from the artist Gustav Hiller (1865–1946) are testament to its glorious past. A sweeping staircase draws the viewer’s eyes up, appearing to float gracefully above the readers having been keyed into the wall and needing no visible supports. Looking round though, one cannot help wondering what a time-travelling Edwardian would think of the place now.

            To my left is the non-fiction section, sadly rather sparse in shelving but (perhaps) mediated by the vast banks of internet-ready computers all occupied by youths in hoodies surfing social and gaming websites. A group of teenagers play noisily up and down the stairs – their voices echoing in the vaulted ceiling. I remember that it is summer holidays and it’s raining heavily.      

The children’s section is in the middle of the main fiction section, instantly recognisable from the obligatory engine-shaped bookcase, low tables with drawing equipment and a well-worn chequered rug in what used-to-be bright colours. I imagine that this is intended to make reading accessible to children and remember the forlorn crate of dog-eared children’s books with two small, hard school chairs to which I was subjected on childhood library trips.

My nieces are excited at the prospect of up to 20 books each but only for as long as it takes them to spot the strangely dressed lady with a real-life parrot on her shoulder. Actually, it’s a Black-headed Caique.

The woman is wearing a woollen hat pulled close to her face (it’s hand-knitted though unlikely to be called anything other than weird by the younger generation); from it tendrils of grey wispy hair escape. Silhouetted you’d be hard-pressed to determine her gender, clad as she is in long formless jumper over flecked black slacks and serviceable boots. Close up, however, one is struck by the softness of her skin and the sincere blue of her eyes. A cheroot dangles casually from her lips as she talks, occasionally she removes it, twirls it in her fingers before bobbing it back.

‘I used to be a lonely old lady,’ she says, placing the Caique on a chair back and encouraging my nieces to stroke it, ‘but not anymore. I say everyone who is single should buy a parrot – you’ll never be alone again.’

I realise as we chat that this is the first time I have spoken to a cheroot dangler in my life.