The Pitshanger Archive is once again jumping with new blood as the new interns take up their positions. Except no-one is jumping, because the ceilings are too low. But it certainly feels lively around here, as a dozen keen young archivists begin their long careers in indexology and ledger-stration. The first thing they had to do was undertake the initiation ceremony, whereby they dress in ceremonial Cardigans of Strength and the Pearls of Inquiry. No, I don’t know why they’re not Pearls of Wisdom either. In my day, when my hair was much longer and straighter, I had to wear a permed wig to achieve the correct 1950s silhouette in which to be initiated, but our budget doesn’t stretch to such things these days, and we had to make do with hot rollers and hairspray. Considering half of the intake had the vivid pink and blue hair of the fashion, it certainly presented a curious image of respectful tradition and secret non-conformity.
Finally, they don the Half-Moon Spectacles of Insight upon the Librarian Chains of Security, and proved their right to recite the ancient rite of the entire Dewey Decimal System by heart. Then I, as the Grand Mistress Keeper of the Words, raise up a prayer to Seshat the Egyptian goddess of record-keepers, and Janus the gatekeeper – for we must never forget our twin roles of preserving all knowledge, and of rationing it out as we see best. The pearls and glasses were returned to me afterwards, but the cardigans, along with their White Blouses of Cleanliness and Tea-Length Skirts of Modesty became their new uniforms, to be worn always to remind them of the proud sisterhood they now belong to (yes, even the men). All this is underpinned by the Foundational Undergarments of Foundation, starched and buttoned to keep everything in its place, in every sense. (Yes, even the men).
That out of the way, I put them to immediate work of taking down every single slim volume from the miles and miles of shelves in the stacks, and auditing their conditions. They must examine each booklet carefully, checking for signs of wear, sniffing each for signs of mildew, measuring the paper reflectivity coefficient for signs of browning, and weighing each to the nearest micron for signs of dust. This used to be an annual task, part of the Spring cleaning, but alas has not been undertaken since the dreaded Lockdown (and if I’m honest, not for a couple of decades prior to that), so there was much meticulous dusting with paintbrushes required as we collectively get our dungeon in order.
With perfect timing, Aubrey’s Man popped in at 3 o’clock for Earl Gray and manor house slices. It was obviously a much less intimate gathering than the last few years, but my trusty guest facing a wall of twinsets, but he was not the least perturbed as he recounted how he was loyally entrusted to return his master’s borrowings from the good old Ealing Central Library, and how he would never dream of divulging what racy thrillers and unexpected non-fictions of enquiry he had ferried. Quite right too, we book-pushers treat confidentiality with the utmost. Naturally, I was aware of the dozen pair of eyes watching, and kept the talk between him and me strictly small. I am aware that I may have allowed my childish fancies towards him in the past to cloud my impeccable common sense, but there is no need to start spinning the rumour mill on the first day. But what should I then witness but two of the newbugs batting their strictly-unmascara’d eyelashes his way. Well, let them try ! If my years of small-town respectitude have not won his heart, then what chance have these flashy big-city bookniks ?
But one thing I can divulge is the doings at this week’s Workshop. Martin Choules has been giggling away at a perfectly respectable and classical name for one of the planets, while Roger Beckett has been serenading the cows, who prove to be surprisingly musical (then again, they have some real vibrato power in those moos…) For Sue Flemons, her family gathering was overshadowed by something, but what was it ? Oddly, nobody’s saying… Finally, John Hurley has been doubting his poetic ability in a sneakily poetical way.
Finally, as I finish this before turning-in, I can hear the gentle sobs of a dozen bright eyes finally realising just what they’ve signed up for. I remember my first night as an intern, unable to contain my joy at finally entering the world I always knew I belonged-to ever since I held my first library card and set about working methodically along the children’s shelves. It must be hard for them to truly grasp they will spend the rest of their working lives down here in the dark, the neat, safe dark, which I love to feel closing-in on me with its suffocating silence. Every librarian must learn to love silence. I cannot think what triggered my panic attack a couple of years back…
The Pitshanger Poets 