The Library

When the rain started to fall, everyone was relieved that the drought was finally over, and that we would be able to fill our swimming pools and wash our cars again. It was only when it had been raining constantly for several days, and the river started to swell ominously, that people began to feel nervous, but kept about their daily business nonetheless. It was in this frame of mind that I gathered up my library books, which were due to be returned, and set off to avoid not so much the fines as the penetrating glare of the dour librarian, a red-cheeked, brittle woman with a deep voice and a man’s name, whose dog slept on a blanket behind the counter while she stamped the volumes, silently clocking the titles.

The river was soon viciously high, roaring like thunder, and on my way down to the library building, which was close to the river, I passed many people going in the opposite direction, making their way uphill, mumbling under their breaths that the safest place to be was in the church, which, like many churches, had been built on the hillside dominating the village. I smiled smugly to myself at their naïveté.

Rather drown in good company than be saved up there on that lonely hillside, I said to myself, so you can imagine my annoyance when I found the outer doors of the library locked and a sodden notice pinned to them proclaiming “Library closed due to exceptional weather conditions”. Honestly! Is nothing sacred? She had probably used up her holiday allowance, and decided this was an ideal opportunity to cash in on some paid idleness. However, I was not going to be put off so easily, for the date had the force of law with her, and if the books I had borrowed were not returned that very day, in spite of the library’s being closed, I would fall foul of that implacable superior stare awaiting late returners, or, perish the thought, damagers, of books. Watch out for greasy finger marks, dog ears, ripped pages - nothing escaped that eagle eye.

It was relatively easy to gain entrance to the premises. The rest of the village was by now half-way up the hill, so no-one saw me slip quietly round the back of the building and stubbornly pry open the flimsy service door, all the while thinking that if I stamped the books I was returning, replaced them on their shelves, took out new ones, and stamped them as borrowed, she may notice the trick, on inspecting the register, but she would be powerless to do anything about it! Then she could look at me whatever way she wanted, I would pretend I had found the library open, with a replacement librarian flown in from the capital by SOS Book Borrowers Anonymous, to break the one woman with a man’s name one day(?) strike.

Once I had my plan, the rest was child’s play. As I leaned down over the counter to grab the date stamp, I noticed that the dog’s blanket was damp. Filthy mutt!

It was not until I had replaced all four of my borrowed books that I realised my feet were wet and noticed the peat-coloured water gently lapping in under the door. The river had not ceased to roar. I had to act quickly. In my haste, I simply grabbed four items at random and stuffed them into my shoulder bag, then set about saving what I could.

Place all the books from the bottom shelves on the tops of the bookcases. A gargantuan feat. My instinct was to save the Encyclopaedias first. I grabbed the dusty volumes in twos, and climbed the stepladder, breathing in an unforgettable mixture of dampness and erudition, depositing the large, heavy tomes atop the flimsier novels, the books of poetry, the cartoon strips, thrillers, love stories, adventure stories, every kind of story you could possibly imagine, that would all have to take their chances with the flood.

When I had finished I was exhausted and the water had reached the top of the last shelves emptied. There was no way of knowing how much further the level would rise. I had all but spent my physical strength. It was time to use my head.

What I needed was height. It occurred to me that if I went outside, the water might be higher than on the inside of the library and strong enough to wash me away. I waded over to the window, my tights soaked and my skirt clinging coldly to my legs. My fears were confirmed. The water was indeed half-way up the outside wall, and seemingly rising or, at least, showing no signs of abating. The roof. In three shakes I had lunged up the wide, solid staircase, clambered through the trap door to the attic and prised myself out through the skylight. Astride the ridge, I clung to the weathervane, rendering it useless. Fat lot of good it had been, anyway. Panic gripped me. I had managed to replace my books, but I had not had the chance to stamp the ones I had chosen to take out.

Would the water ever stop rising?

It did, and after two days of hell on a wet roof, clinging to a metal pole with one hand and turning pages with my mouth, terrified of falling asleep and slip, sliding into the murky mixture, the Fire Brigade rescued me and three cats from our desert island.

“Why didn’t you go up to the church like everyone else?” they asked me, incredulous.

“I didn’t think things would get that bad”, I lied.

My ordeal was not over. Short of an earthquake, how was I going to put back those illicitly borrowed books without arousing suspicion?