The Joy of Disruption
My yearning for a quiet place to write leads to an attitude adjustment. Who knew a library could be such a hotspot of colliding distractions?
10.00 a.m. Wheelers Hill Library. Muted whirring and clunking emits from the photocopy machines moving through their warm-up cycle. A glass door slides open admitting six early birds. A dozen feet scuff across the entrance carpet, their owners keen to claim a study table — especially one with a power source.
The tables are evenly spaced, like four-legged sentries keeping watch over the council-made pond visible through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The pond, surrounded by mulched gum trees, is home to ducks, carp and willowy reeds. Yes, this is the perfect spot to study, read or dream without the distractions of everyday life. The perfect spot to write.
A woman carrying two cushions claims an extra space for a yet-to-arrive friend. I crawl on my knees to plug my computer lead into a power board embedded into a metallic casing in the floor. I swear under my breath as the heavy lid drops on my fingers.
Regulars arrive at their own pace, stopping to chat with the librarians at the reception desk. A book is late, a fee is discussed, excuses are made, sympathy prevails and the fee is waived. Tub chairs, scattered between the study tables, fill with older citizens who watch other people’s business while flicking newspaper pages, or sit neatly with handbags on knees gossiping while they wait for their missing book club members to arrive.
I've settled into a contemplation of my previous day’s writings when raucous, cheery voices herald the arrival of a group of supervised Down syndrome teens. Flushed and wide-eyed, they meander through the shelves, calling out titles to each other, giggling at innuendos, and repeating their supervisor’s instructions when they catch a peer breaking the rules. ‘Don’t touch it! You’re not allowed to touch it.’ A young man at a private study cubicle looks up to find his computer has been unplugged from the wall socket behind him. He pushes his glasses up his nose, plugs his computer back in and watches two teens shoving each other as they hurry away. ‘You’re in trouble!’ one hisses at the other.
Back then, the only sound
you heard was ‘ssshhh’.
In years gone by this group would never have been permitted access to a library. Back then, the only sound you heard was ‘ssshhh’. These teens would have been forced into social exclusion. Treated as pariahs. I can't help smiling at the obvious joy a simple outing stirs in them.
Mid-way down the library, still giggling, the teens pass an elderly man reading in a tub chair. His wiry grey eyebrows rise in mute protest at the disturbance. He too, probably, has reminiscences of a quiet reading space where children were seen but not heard. Perhaps his own childhood was one of oppression and inhibition? A strict boarding school? Or maybe he’s just a grumpy old fart.
10.45 a.m. Few words down and I'm wondering about coffee. I stroll past the librarian’s desk and out to the slate-floored foyer that joins the library to a café. I deflate: café hours are 11.00am. – 4.00pm. I pass the time in the foyer, peering at sculptures encased in glass and wondering why the damn cafe opens an hour later than the library.
A bus-load of retirement home escapees come shuffling in. They meander past the café and into the minimalistic hive of rooms that form the Monash Gallery of Art. I’m tempted to follow. This week’s exhibition is ‘Photography Meets Feminism’. I refrain. I have writing to do.
Coffee in hand, I return to my table and gaze out the window at the designer houses ringing the road that borders the pond. I’ve heard this area colloquially referred to as ‘Snob’s Hill’ and that the estate has a ‘nautical’ theme. I don’t see it — not unless snobs have square or rectangular portholes. Sigh. I should be writing but I’d rather stare.
A white van pulls up next to the wooden jetty. An elderly Asian couple climb out, one carrying a large plastic sack. They throw bits of bread into the pond. The ducks have already skimmed across the water and have gathered below the end of the jetty, their bodies like miniature paddle boats, bobbing and sucking up the saturated bread offerings. I’ve lost half an hour.
It’s hard to tell if the woman
is laughing or crying.
12.40 p.m. I’m jarred by the sound of a woman crying. She’s sitting at a desk behind a row of shelves. ‘It’s only my second day here and I’m crying already,’ she wails. ‘I just want to get this job finished and the bloody computer won’t work.’ One of the librarians walks over to her and places a hand on her shoulder. There are murmurings between them and then it’s hard to tell if the woman is laughing or crying.
1.50 p.m. I’ve only nine hundred words down and know I should keep going but I’m distracted by light rain dampening the window and the soundless swaying of tree branches. Someone rustles a plastic bag while retrieving their lunch. I think about the chocolate tart I saw in the café. My stomach growls. I need some fresh air.
Outside, in the parking lot, I stand hunched, trying to stay out of the drizzle. There’s a crunching of tyres on gravel as a four wheel drive pulls up. A driver gets out and leans into the back seat to untether her offspring. In the car space next to them, a grizzle from a tired toddler turns into a wail. Little feet scrabble for purchase and a tiny fist tugs at a mother’s hand. There’s a tone of panic in the high-pitched ‘Hurry up, Mummy.’
I should get back to my writing but I’m intrigued. In a far corner of the library, colourful bean bags and low benches await the energy of these breathless little people. It’s Story Time and Lilian O’Connor welcomes her kidlets. ‘Let’s get started with our welcome song.’
The space is a blur of colour as uncoordinated arms and legs wave and jump out of rhythm to the singing. Two mothers with babies, one still in a pram, lean their heads close, trying to converse over the musical din, while others are focussed on their mobile phones, oblivious to their kids’ interactions. After twenty minutes of singing and high pitched squeals, Lilian returns to her desk.
Up close I’m surprised by her age. She must be in her fifties but her voice has the high clarity of a young girl, especially when she’s singing. This youthful brightness is juxtaposed by a stern, almost suspicious, countenance but her answers are warm and thoughtful.
How does she cope with the repetitiveness of her job?
I love watching the kids grow up. How they progress from being unable to sit still and concentrate, to listening and laughing, and sometimes becoming the professional — showing the younger kids how to do it.
And what about the parents?
It’s disappointing to see them talking on their phones, reading and not participating. They’re missing out.
These children come back to me again and again until eventually they grow up and say ‘Lilian I have to go to school now but I’ll always remember you’. I’ve been doing this for over twenty years.
Storytime during my childhood was held in the confines of a classroom, where we sat quietly, hands folded on desks, and listened to a narrator on the radio, ABC Radio National I think it was. Winnie The Pooh featured often. Now the experience seems to have an added purpose: a social interaction for both parents and kiddies.
I return to my table in time to see a new arrival: a slim, greying woman in a floral shirt, rifling through the daily newspapers shelf. There’s a tense energy about her and she seems secretly pleased to find her paper is missing. She walks over to a middle-aged man in a tub chair. ‘Are you going to be long with that?’ she asks. The man lowers his paper and peers over his bifocals. ‘A while.’ The woman huffs and goes back to the newspaper shelf. She pulls out what looks like a gardening section and plonks herself at a vacated table. For fifteen minutes she flips through the booklet, keeping an eye on the culprit who’s stolen her paper.
The woman grunts. She’s not the
type to give up easy.
She can’t resist. She gets up and walks over to him again. ‘Much longer?’ The man ignores her. ‘Excuse me!’ she persists. The man looks up. ‘I’ll let you know when I’ve finished, okay?’ The woman literally grunts, holding her ground for a few seconds, then returns to her table. Another fifteen minutes and she’s had enough. She scrapes her chair back and her carriage is determined. ‘Well, can I just have the section at the back?’
The man immediately folds up the paper, not caring if he scrunches the edges. ‘Here! Take it.’ The woman protests but the man dumps the paper on his chair and stalks off. She smiles and takes his seat and his paper.
I pack up my computer feeling a little annoyed I’ve not done much writing. Still, I have a yearning to return. Observation is, after all, an essential tool for the consummate writer and I suspect there are plenty more stories here, running amok between the shelves.
