A New Size in Library Management
by Ruairi MacInnes
part 1
Arthur was on his to way to work when he became aware of the gypsy woman with large earrings and long dark hair in plaits who was wearing a colourfully embroidered white smock and who was standing outside the tube station as commuters streamed by her.
She had taped a sign to the wall of stone tiles around the tube station exit. The sign said: ‘Palm reading. Fortunes told.’
‘Fortune telling? Nothing more than fraud. Those gypsies should be locked up and the key thrown away. Parasites on society. No better than cockroaches, if you ask me,’ muttered Arthur to himself and he marched past her.
When he got to the library where he was deputy head librarian, he stomped into the building and, once he was in his cramped office, he slammed his briefcase onto the desk.
However, other library staff didn’t do so much as even glance at him because they knew what he was like and how the slightest questioning of his authority or criticism of his behaviour could cause him to bear a grudge that endured forever after. And his grudges could make staff members feel like they were working in hell.
That morning, Arthur was in a particularly foul mood because, firstly, it was Monday and, although he enjoyed his administrative work, he despised the people he worked with; thus it was always a great displeasure for him to re-encounter them after the respite of the weekend.
Secondly, new regulations had been introduced to clamp down on excess chitter-chatter in the library. Although Arthur was proud of the fact that he himself had drafted these new regulations, he was frustrated by the seeming inability of the general public to comply with his eminently reasonable guidelines.
Why could they not accept a rational instruction to confine themselves to no more than one minute’s worth of utterances per hour? If something was genuinely important, surely its essence could be conveyed within that time frame?
He had resolved that today he would make an example of a wrongdoer. It would benefit the society of borrowers as a whole if they were compelled to understand that rules existed to be obeyed. Rules were rules.
As lunchtime approached, Arthur realised he had been waiting close to four hours for someone to produce some antisocial noise. Impatiently, he began to drum his fingers on his desk while he surveyed his kingdom.
His office was situated directly behind the lending desk so the whole library lay within Arthur’s eyeshot and earshot. Nothing escaped him.
The library was peaceful, but he wasn’t going to waste his whole day waiting for someone to step out of line. Arthur concluded that he had to be proactive and to formulate a plan.
Usually there was someone annoying him as they chatted about non-library-related topics in a high and whining voice or a low and gravelly, guttural voice or, worst of all, a sing-song, yodelling sort of voice which sounded to Arthur as if the speaker had taken leave of their senses.
And then he noticed the perfect victim for his plan. The old guy who came in regularly to read through the thesaurus, page by page, as if it was an exciting novel. ‘Why would anyone do that?’ Arthur wondered in irritation. The elderly man had just put in an appearance and, as he always did, was reading through The Guardian before embarking on a bout of thesaurus perusal.
Arthur licked his lips in anticipation, knowing that the victim could not foresee the fate that awaited him. Arthur had become familiar with all the idiosyncrasies and routines of the library regulars.
Mr Synonym or Mr S, both being names by which Arthur labelled the thesaurus reader, wore hearing aids. However, Mr S was in fact never a breaker of the library guidance on noise, as Mr S always removed his hearing aids at the start of a reading session after which he never conversed with anyone.
On each visit he stored these hearing aids in two small plastic boxes which, in turn, he placed in the lower right pocket of his herringbone-patterned tweed coat. Arthur decided to wait a minute or two before enacting the plan.
Through the high-level windows, clouds could be seen lazily drifting past the sun.
Arthur crept discreetly across the library and stationed himself just behind Mr S. He was reassured to see that the man had his head bowed over the thesaurus and was immersed in its study.
Arthur quietly crouched down and inserted his hand into the lower right pocket of Mr S’s coat. Both boxes were there. Smiling, Arthur lifted out one box and then the other, breathing as shallowly as possible to prevent any possible signalling of his clandestine activities.
As Arthur plodded back to his office, he decided to treat himself to a reward for all his work. At lunchtime he would buy himself a stack of nosh from a nearby Greggs bakery.
Bad for the ticker but, as Arthur told himself, you only live once.
After lunch, Arthur was kicking back in his office, letting his food digest, slurping a cup of tea and delegating duties by text and email when he noticed a flurry of activity in the library.
He peered over his half-moon specs and saw that Mr S was, for the first time ever, engaged in a flurry of manic activity. He was searching in all his coat pockets then he stood up and patted his trouser pockets.
He pulled his coat off the chair and shook it several times. He glanced at the neighbouring tables, after which he crouched down and looked beneath his own table. Mr S stood back up and walked once around the table, peering down at the carpet.
Finally, he turned around to examine the nearest set of bookshelves behind him, running his fingers along the shelves and moving some of the larger books apart to see if anything was lodged between them.
When all these efforts had yielded no trace of the hearing aid boxes that he was so evidently searching for, he headed purposefully towards the lending desk to which Arthur had relocated himself and where he was residing in a swivel chair of throne-like proportions, gleefully waiting for the victim to walk further into the trap and for phase two of the plan to commence.
Mr S stood looking at Arthur. Only the desk separated them. A moment of stand-off.
‘I’d like to report the loss of my hearing aids.’
Arthur noted that Mr S spoke very softly as if unsure, without the help of hearing aids, how loud to make his voice.
Arthur said nothing. Nothing whatsoever. He smiled faintly in a cold-blooded manner.
Mr S scrutinized Arthur. ‘I’d like to report the loss of my hearing aids. Could you assist me in that, please?’
Arthur could hear every word perfectly clearly, but he cupped his hand against his left ear and with his right hand gestured with an upwards motion for Mr S to raise the volume of his voice.
Mr S looked wary but increased the volume of his voice. Arthur remained silent but this time used both hands to gesture vigorously, indicating that Mr S should speak a lot more loudly.
Mr S frowned. Anger glinted in his eyes. He spoke clearly and confidently as he said
‘My hearing aids have disappeared. Someone has moved them.’
Swivelling his head a couple of times from left to right to imply the words were still inaudible, with a solemn expression on his face, Arthur held up the palm of his right hand towards Mr S’s face to signal ‘stop.’
Mr S was by now clutching the desk with frustration. Arthur raised the forefinger of his left hand to communicate ‘one moment’ and he dismounted from his throne and retreated to his office where he shuffled behind the door and hid, while silently counting the seconds.
After a minute and a half had passed, he heard Mr S’s voice, now louder, sounding stressed in tone.
‘Hello? Are you there? Are you dealing with my problem or what?’
After another thirty seconds or so had elapsed, Arthur sauntered back to the lending desk. He now held a sheet of paper and a pen. On the paper Arthur wrote
‘I cannot hear a single word you are saying. Your voice is completely inaudible.’
Slowly, his heart beating with excitement, Arthur swivelled the piece of paper around and Mr S inclined his head to read it.
Mr S’s fist crashed down on the lending desk, and Arthur jumped back in fear. Mr S shouted, ‘In the name of reason, what are you playing at, mate? Stop winding me up!’
Moving with the speed of an athlete, Arthur skipped away from the desk. The security guard was already strolling round the corner. Arthur said, ‘Shouting in the library. Swearing and intimidation of staff. Get this man off the premises. He’s barred for life.’
Once the security guard had bundled Mr S out of the library, Arthur doubled up with laughter.
The day had turned out well after all. If there was any flak later on in the form of a complaint to the head librarian, Arthur planned to say the cleaner must have accidentally binned the hearing aids.
At the end of the day as he was leaving, Arthur felt something crunch under his foot. He lifted his shoe and saw that he had squashed a cockroach. He muttered to himself, ‘Two pests dealt with.’ And he left work with a spring in his step.
The next morning, as Arthur was coming into work, he saw that the gypsy woman was there again. He was surveying her critically, wondering what kind of hovel she resided in when she noticed him staring at her and she smiled with friendliness. She said, ‘I’ll read your palm, sir? With a discount for a handsome gent like yourself.’
‘I know my future. It’s a comfortable retirement with holidays in Benidorm. Putting my feet up and taking it easy. Unlike you. You’ll be working till you drop.’
Tears glistened in the woman’s eyes, but she kept smiling and said, ‘Have a nice day, sir.’
When he got to the library, he became aware that the attitude of the gypsy woman had put him in a bad mood. Despite his insult, she had maintained her composure and her manners so she had made him feel ineffectual.
That riled him no end. He knew he would have to take his anger out on someone in the library. If he tried to contain his anger indefinitely, he might suffer from a bout of the insomnia which recurred more frequently as the years rolled by.
At lunchtime a woman came into the library with her kid. They sat down at a table near the lending desk, and Arthur was able to overhear their conversation.
‘I know the story you’ve written is super. But the teacher wants everyone to draw a picture as well. So just make the best picture you can. I know you don’t like drawing, but just do your best. Mummy will buy you a bar of chocolate once you’ve finished. Okay?’
The child nodded. The mother took some pieces of paper and a box of crayons out her bag and placed them on the table.
‘Mummy’s going to look for a book. If you need me, I’ll be just be over there...’ She pointed to a corner of the library. ‘And you can draw a nice picture. Okay?’
The child nodded and the woman walked over to another area of the library. Arthur watched the child conscientiously apply himself to the creation of the picture.
Arthur saw that the mother’s encouragement must have worked because the child seemed to relax and even smile occasionally as he earnestly concentrated on the picture, from time to time contemplating the crayons then carefully selecting another colour.
After about ten minutes he sat back in chair, folded his arms and studied the picture. It appeared he had finished the picture because he stood up, looking very happy as he wandered off to find his mother.
Arthur knew he had to act quickly.
He jogged over to the table where the drawing lay.
He ignored the blank sheets of paper and just picked up the drawing and sprinted back to the lending desk and sat down, simultaneously crumpling up the drawing which appeared to show the sun, the sea and a boat.
He dropped the crumpled ball of paper into the bin. He realised he had been lucky to complete his task in time because now he heard the voice of the mother and the child chatting as they returned.
‘I can’t wait to see your picture, dear.’
‘I made a picture of the boat we went on in Tenerife!’
As they approached the table, the boy ran ahead, got to the table, oustretched his hand towards the table then paused. He frowned and stared at the pieces of paper. His expression became bemused. Then anxious.
‘Mummy, I can’t find my picture!’
The mother said nothing but looked at the sheets of paper and separated them to make sure they were all blank. She looked around the nearby tables.
‘Mummy, I promise I finished the picture.’
‘I know you did, sweetheart. Mummy’s going to talk to the gentleman at the desk. Just sit here for a moment.’
When she reached the desk where Arthur was pretending to type at a computer, she cleared her throat and said, ‘Excuse me.’
Arthur looked up with an expression of obliging helpfulness. ‘Hi. How can I help you?’
‘My son was working on a drawing for his schoolwork. It’s been removed from the table.’
She stared firmly at Arthur. He stared back and said, ‘When did this happen... exactly?’ His expression had altered and become so severe, wordlessly communicating the importance of his job role, that it disconcerted the woman.
‘Ehmm...a couple of minutes ago...Has a cleaner been in the library?’
Arthur relaxed and smiled. ‘Madam I am so frightfully sorry. The cleaner here is like a whirlwind. She must have swept it off the desk without stopping to think. I did see her hurrying out the main door, she was clearly in a rush, but I can call her on her mobile and ask her to come back here immediately if you think that’s...’ Arthur paused for as long as he could manage, in order to ramp up the drama of his next words: ‘A necessity?’
He looked expectantly at the woman as if awaiting further instructions. Now his expression was one of utter humility. Arthur was highly experienced in the use of unexpected shifts from authoritarian to meek demeanour.
Generally, he found this technique neutralized the anger of a member of the public. He liked to think of himself as playing the dual role of good librarian, bad librarian.
The woman was silent as she concentrated on the problem. Then she sighed and said, sounding unhappy, ‘It’s okay. The cleaner’s probably overworked and underpaid, like we all are these days. But thank you for being so understanding.’
The woman went back to the table to explain the situation to the boy and they gathered up the pieces of paper and crayons and headed towards the exit.
As they were walking past the lending desk, Arthur heard the boy crying and his mother saying, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll explain to the teacher.’ Arthur felt his earlier bad mood evanesce and everything was good in his world.
Later at the end of the day, as Arthur was getting ready to leave and walk to the station, a young woman, a trainee librarian who seemed like a hippie type to him, said to him, ‘I saw a cute little spider scuttling about earlier.’ She laughed and added: ‘Hopefully a lucky spider. Means I might get some money... like a pay raise.’
She giggled, which annoyed Arthur. He said, ‘Not a very lucky spider, as it turns out. I just pulled all its legs off.’
The trainee librarian stared at him, eyes wide in horror, mouth open in shock. Arthur turned his back on her and left. Although he had not even seen a spider, he had got the reaction he wanted. Job done. Tonight he would sleep well.
Copyright © 2026 by Ruairi MacInnes
