FORUM: Illtyd Harrington: ‘As I Please’

Main Image : 

Published: 12 May, 2011
by ILLTYD HARRINGTON

Let’s hold on to these bastions against the men of the night

THE Age of Enlightenment did not cast its rays on our mayor Councillor Trevor Bell or his stony-faced wife Dilys. It was said in mitigation that his mind had been put into reverse gear by a feckless midwife.

Mrs Dilys drew great comfort from reading sections of the Book of Job daily and the many burdens inflicted on Job by God to make him strong in his faith.

Nothing would have impressed them less than the slogan on my jumper: “A gift from Brooklyn Public Library.” Libraries are the mind’s best friend. 

It would not have shaken or deterred that couple from their firm adherence to bigotry. He was a man of unassailable stupidity, while she clung to the principle of invincible ignorance. This joyless partnership were members of the strict Welsh Baptist Church.

Neither were familiar with the medical and mechanical requirements for human reproduction. A clinical account gave them a rough guide and Dilys was disgusted. Her idea of a Christian ecstasy was to dream of being flung to the fierce lions in the arena of Rome’s Coliseum, preferably with other strict baptists. She dutifully and reluctantly undertook the shameful event several times in a darkened bedroom.

The fruit of their loins brought forth neither beauty nor honesty. By mutual consent they agreed that this was the ultimate sexual act. Dilys daily looked eastwards towards Abergavenny for the avenging fiery chariots of Christ to come. Meanwhile Trevor’s testosterone bubbled away like Vesuvius. And urgent needs to sublimate his energy was necessary and he was encouraged to take advice on a strenuous course of physical activity.

His rare acquaintanceship with the library caused a stir when his eye fell on a slim volume entitled What Makes Sammy Run.

He quickly realised that this was not an encouragement to run the marathon but, for its time and to his prudish mind, a sexually explicit American novel. 

In a rage he called a special meeting of the council, appearing in full scarlet regalia. But inexplicably wearing a pair of heavy industrial gloves. He announced in sombre tones while picking up Sammy: “I intend to burn this pornography in the town square.”

On a slow news day the local hack sold the story to the nationals. Local ratepayers felt aggrieved and demanded to read Sammy, to enjoy it and condemn it. Words like shock, fury and storm screamed from the local press.

Ten years later in my student days I marched into a library and asked for three books. 

The Well of Loneliness by Radclyffe Hall, a frightening attempt to explain lesbianism. 

My second choice was Peter Wildeblood’s gripping account of his trial with Lord Montagu of Beaulieu for criminal homosexual acts. I told the librarian’s assistant that I knew there was a copy of Lady Chatterley’s Lover in a locked room and I wanted to read it.

The chief librarian was summoned and began a pious sermon why she would not allow my request. She talked about sexual deviation and social probity. I called her bluff when I asked her how her housemate Miss Knight was getting on. Emma Knight was the first dyke on a bike that I ever saw. She made Tugboat Annie look like Marilyn Monroe.

Miss Taylor the librarian washed in Eau de Cologne and draped in velvet and lace staggered back. “You whited sepulchre!” I cried. My coup de grace exploded on the front of the local paper. We had won round one.

Adolescence can drive you to the Valium but it can also give you an unexpected pleasure. My insistence of employing a female librarian in our all-male school was justified when I was alerted by a strange and worrying quiet. I crept into the library where the most awkward boys were transfixed by Mrs Angel. She was reading allowed the Cat in a Hat. They demanded more and were satisfied with Stig of the Dump.

Actor Robson Green, a miner’s son, demonstrated on television the power of the pitman painter. There and elsewhere our great grandfathers founded men’s institutes with a range of learning activity and tranquillity.

During a blizzard in 1956 I went to the miners’ institute and heard a good violinist David Oistrakh and his son Igor with the composer Dmitry Kabalevsky probably the last ever musical function held in that library. This was the working man’s answer to clubland.

In Zola’s Germinal a prostitute takes a day off and with her family wanders into the Louvre museum.

Overwhelmed and shy at first she is touched by the beauty of the place and it changes her life.

Now in the 21st century we are witnessing a policy of restricting access to knowledge. The universities are for the middle classes. There is no room for the poorer paid.

There are 5,000 public libraries, 100 academic and specialised ones for intensive research, 500 public ones are either closing or scheduled to close.

Librarians are special people handling rapid change on technology, coping in areas of changing populations, they can reflect and discriminate were necessary. But basically they are moved by public service, even allowing the ones who come in to sleep or steal.

Marylebone public libraries are noted for the theft of the Jewish Chronicle, Arabic papers and copies of the Holy Bible.

One grim, long-term librarian remembers the man who asked for a book on suicide. 

He never came back.

The local location of the British Library is a reminder of the need for a safe bastion for those who think, query, research – a splendid bulwark against the men of the night, the troglodytes who walk among us, the living dead.