Library Lobotomy

A Friday in October 1971. The Cannock Grammar School library is a symphony in oak: herringbone parquet floors; monolithic bookshelves; broad study tables.
"Mairte. If this school wuz a body, the lib'ry'd be..."
Kev pauses, and scratches his sideburns.
"...The BRAIRN. Are. The brairn."
We should be racing to complete an essay: "Discuss the rôle of libraries in local communities". But the view of The Wrekin, of Bloxwich flats, the silent-movie of the staff-room smokers, twenty yards away through two single-glazed aluminium frames in the building opposite, a farting contest between three of the 5B lads in the far corner, and this week's editions of Punch, Paris Match and Hi-Fi Weekly conspire to distract...
Photo courtesy CGSFPA website. For a flurry of fifties photos, from our more senior 1zaac'affilates click HERE.

...A Tuesday in October 1961. Low Street, Cheslyn Hay. Grandad Jack is walking down the steps out of the shining, oak-green livery. Gold letters proclaim Staffordshire County Council Mobile Library Service. The last word seems to glow more brightly than the others. He has two "Cowbye Books" under his arm. He walks over towards me, and the Bedford diesel engine rumbles into life...

...A Saturday in October 1967. The new Village Library, which the planners have placed in the prime community location at the top of Queen Street is resplendent with its flat roof, green carpet and panoramic windows. From their vantage point at the top of the village, the sentinel picture-windows look out, like curious oblong eyes, to Castle Ring, on the horizon seven miles distant. I am savouring the quiet, breathing in the scent of Pledge furniture polish and paper. I should be doing my French homework, but the Observer's Book of Aircraft will have to be read first. The Number 17 arrives, and performs its hourly turnaround on the triangle of tarmac in front of The Collier's Arms. The driver and conductor saunter into the Smoke Room.
A teaspoon tinkles in the library kitchen.

...It is a 1981 spring October Thursday evening in Perth. From the third floor of The Alexander Library, I look to the sun. It is setting, laconically and from right to left, over the University campus and out towards City Beach. The air-con whispers, and recirculates a faint scent of chilled city-centre eucalyptus.
The busker in the square below sings impromptu lines about repentance. There is one other person in the reference section. It is Barry Humphries.

...October 1991. Saturday morning in Sainte-Cécile. I stamp a Tintin book for one of the littlies whose mum is browsing the local history section. The leaves of the village-centre limetrees are just beginning to turn to gold. Ferdinand, the council clerk, puts on the coffee percolator. His fonctionnaire bladder being programmed always to empty during work-time, and before he departs from the Mairie at midday, he enters the non-sound-proofed WC which is just next to my desk. So, ignoring the "Silence svp" sign, I turn up the volume on the France Inter news bulletin.

...October 2001. Domingo. I am reading today's edition of La Rioja. El Mundo lies with its headline staring at the ancient ceiling timber trusses of La Biblioteca de Logroño. The 2 pm readers are contemplating tapas in the Calle del Laurel. Olive oil and garlic drift from the heart of the city through the open window. As the exodus gets underway, the floors creak loudly in a Spanish attempt at Silencio.

...October 2011. Monday morning. Cheslyn Hay. "The library will soon be moving to the village hall. We do not yet know the date" says the sign. Under the flat roof, the staff are measuring shelves, whispering something about Christmas. I sit, for the last time, in the sparkling picture window warmth on the south side. The kindly librarian pulls the curtain so that I can see the monitor to type this.

I look across the room and along the neat, dustless bookshelves. To the north, in the middle of the urban swathe, sit the square buildings three miles away which were, until the late seventies, Cannock Grammar School. The school's library windows in B-Block are distinct, even from here. And empty. A dark pinetree line on the horizon is Castle Ring. Pye Green Tower is an inverted exclamation mark against the single white cloud from Rugeley power station. A Dublin to Birmingham Ryanair Boeing 737 throttles back both engines and curves slowly into its approach in the perfect blue.
My gaze returns to the immediate outside world. The sign outside the Collier's Arms invites to: "Enter as strangers; leave as friends". Someone has over-written in chalk "Pie-Eyed" on the last two words.
A gathering of lunch-time patrons is smoking in an inward-looking circle in front of the entrance. A framed certificate behind the bar proclaims the establishment's status as a "Community Pub"...
I find two books in the local history section. Through the mobile 'phone headset of the chap behind, a just-perceptible Joni Mitchell sings ...

Click on record sleeve to play...

The computer screen reports the 75th anniversary of the first lobotomy. Kev's 1971 analogy, and his pronunciation of the word "brairn" echo across the years.

A teaspoon tinkles...