Ali Smith - Public Library and Other Stories

Her daughter Helen Clyne interrupted to say that the important thing about the notion of a public library now is that it’s the one place you can just turn up to, a free space, a democratic space where anyone can go and be there with other people, and you don’t need money —

a clean, well-lighted place, Kate said —

whose underlying municipal truth is that it isn’t a shop, Helen said. And you can just go. It’s somewhere you can just be. People of all ages all round you. It doesn’t have to be educational. It doesn’t matter who you are or what you’re doing. Young or old. Rich or homeless. It doesn’t matter. You can just go there.

So it’s not about books any more? I said. Or it’s about more than books?

It maybe always was, Helen said.

In that books have always been about people? I said.

Well, of course. But there was a culture that encouraged us, and now it doesn’t exist, Kate said. I bought very few books when the girls were young. We went to the library. And nobody bought books when I was young either. I went to the library.

It was what we did, Helen said. It was a habit, a ritual. You borrowed it, you read it, you brought it back and chose something else, and someone else read whatever you read after and before you. It was communal. That’s what public library means: something communal.

So she’d taken the book and she’d thrown it across the room and when it hit the wall then fell to the floor with its pages open it nearly broke, which was one of the worst things you could do, maybe a worse thing even than saying a blasphemous curse, no, than saying a blasphemous curse in a church, or near a church, to break a book.

And she was a strong lass and she had a good throw on her, as good a throw as a boy any day, easily as good as thon holiday boy she’d shoved into the river. For he might be at school down south but that didn’t mean no folk knew Latin north of Edinburgh, did it, they had the Latin up here as well, not that he even knew what he claimed to anyway. Aut insanit homo, aut versus facit she’d said and he’d looked at her blank-like, the so-called boy scholar who’d never heard of Horace, who said pater and mater to rhyme with alli gator , with the mater and the pater vacat ioning in Nairn shire, so taken with the area , and then he’d said the thing about highland girls and looked at her to let her know he’d a liking, the cheek of it. For he might have a father a famous surgeon but that meant nothing when you’d no need of a surgeon, aye, and no need of a father either, or a mother. And were all Edinburgh boys that feart to hang off the parapet of a bridge by their arms? He was too feart even to try, him and his sister afraid to climb even a tree, and a girl afraid of a tree was one thing, but a boy? Oh no, his clothes he said and his sister with her painted face and her talk of boyfriends , standing doing a dance, everybody’s doing it back at home, don’t you know it, Olive, really truly don’t you up here och dear me that’s too too , then she started doing it, a mad thing with her shoulders and her legs, right there in the long grass at the river, the midges jazzing up and down in a cloud above the sister’s head, and then the brother joined in, he knew the steps too, he shimmied up the riverbank away from the sister, took her own arm as if to make her do it too and then — Well, then he’d found himself in the river, and his good clothes too.

Then she’d run for home, blasphem-o blasphem-as blasphem-at, over and over under her breath to the sound of her own feet hitting the path past the ruined church, blasphem-amus, blasphem-atus, blasphem-ant, it wasn’t grammatical or real Latin like but it made a fine sound. She was laughing some, though she was shocked a bit at herself for doing it, in her head she could see the shock on the face of the boy from the cold of the water when he scrambled to his feet on the slippy stones, the water had darkened his good trews and his jacket too all up the side of himself he’d fallen on.

But it was when she was blasphemating up the High Street she saw the father of the man who was her father. He had his back to her, he was looking in the windows of the butcher’s. And when she got back to the house her Aunt was out and her mother she could hear shifting about upstairs like a piece of misery as usual, and something, a badness, had come over her right then and she’d hated them all (except her Aunt, she’d never hate her Aunt) and she’d gone to the shelf where the books were kept and she’d taken the first one off the shelf her hand had come to and she’d thrown it.

And the book had broken right open and that’s when she’d seen there was a music inside it, one nobody knew about, one you could never have guessed at, that was part of the way that the book had been made.

They were Fraser books. They’d sent them, the Frasers. There were books, and good new clothes too came to the house sometimes, and one day last month — it wasn’t a birthday, it was well past her birthday, but Aunt said it would be meant for her sixteenth — there was even a watch, Aunt said a real gold one and put it away upstairs in its velvet in its hard box still in the shop wrapping from Aberdeen, for they knew otherwise it’d end in the river or buried in sand on the beach, sand choking its dainty face and nobody finding it for who knows how many summers or winters, if ever.

St Agnes Eve! Ah, bitter chill it was. The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold. The hare limp’d trembling through the frozen grass. That was the poem Keats had written, about her birthdate, 20 January, four long months ago her birthday, and one thing certain, time meant something more than the face of a wee gold watch, aye they could send a watch fine, even one that’d obviously cost a fair bit, but if they saw her in the street they’d look right through her, her father too. Since she was a quite wee girl he’d been back and as close as Flemington right up the road, so close a bird would hardly notice it, hardly have to use its wings if it crossed the sky from here to there.

But he may as well still be in Australia with the sheep for all the difference his coming back made to his daughter, in fact she wished he were, so there’d be no danger of seeing him, no chance of him and his not-seeing her, in a street so close to home. She wished him thousands of miles away from here, truthfully she wished him on Algol, the bad most evil star in the sky, and her mother too, they could go and live there just the two of them and happily never exchange a word to each other for as long as they lived and nobody else would have to care. They could just go, the both, and take all their unsaying with them. For if a flower grew near them, even just the air that came from them would wither that flower.

But did that mean she would wither things too?

Did a badness pass from them to her?

Would it ruin the feel of the mouth of the hill pony on the palm of her hand when she went the hike by herself and gave it the apple she had for her lunch, the bluntness of the mouth, the breath of it, the whiskers round the mouth she could feel, the warm wet and the slaver on her hand that she wiped on her skirt and got into the trouble about?

And the nest shaped like a dome, something that the bird just made without needing to know, without reading in a book how to make, and made it so solid and hung it so firm in the thinnest of the branches over the river?

There was the word gorgeous, and there was the word north, and there was a sound that went between the words that she liked. Could you wither a word?