READERS UNDRESSED

It is eleven o’clock and the Creeping Jinny woman’s cap appears rising slowly up the staircase. Nice if it were just the cap alone, well, not nice, but less dreary say, but already as you day-dream the cap is followed by a head, face and form, and the Creeping Jinny woman herself beetles silently across the expanse of floor towards you, all complete, alas.

Of what, you silent, sad, dim Creeping Jinny woman is your everlasting hat made, and at what period was it conceived?

Does the small cluster of beads trembling on the right hand side mean that once there was another cluster on the other side to balance things? And is the colour dark green, a poor black, or a slate grey?

I know nothing about here except her name and address which is on her Library ticket, that she arrives dead on 11.00 and creeps round the Library walls dimly, unhappily, unhopefully, and when she has chosen her books, back she

comes to the counter to stand there waiting patiently and humbly while I date stamp them out.

Perhaps at home she is another person? Perhaps she gallops around or practises Yoga? Is a comic? Drinks? Paints pictures? But however much I fantasise about her, I can see in imagination a small terrace house, neat (oh, very neat) and silent, with crocheted things over chair backs and a crumb on the rug and the Creeping Jinny woman stooping fumblingly to pick it up.

Usually on the stroke of twelve she departs. To partake of her solitary lunch no doubt? A meat-pie? A kipper perhaps? "An’ there’s a bit of blanc-mange on a saucer in the pantry, isn’t there?" Pad, pad to the pantry . . . . (Oooo! Give over) I’m sorry out of my heart for her but oh, she depresses me to the ground.

Anyway, who else? Mr Ambersley any minute now surely? Yes, he is coming. Come along dear fat chesty Mr Ambersley and let us have your profound and uplifting comments on life and the weather. Here we go --

"It’s changed, weather ‘as. It’s sharp. Wheer’s t’other young lady? Off sick agen? When I wor a lad if we wor deein’ we ‘ad to go to wuk. ‘Av yer got some new crime ones fer me? Eeee, it’s a cold wind. It’s changed . . . ."

Mr Ambersley always chooses mornings to appear, but his wife, on the contrary, turns up unfailingly every Wednesday afternoon.

Mr Ambersley’s wife is one of the Romance Ladies, who all seem to arrive together in a full-throated pack. Very valiant full-sail capable Yorkshire-housewife-women they are. They’ve scrubbed and scoured their houses (you’d know that somehow, even if you didn’t hear them proclaiming it) and with the same purposefulness they set about wresting from the trolley of returned fiction at least three "good" books.

They are very avid, these women. They know what they want. Before you can fish out their individual tickets they are snatching at each other’s volumes. The one where the Surgeon is courting the Theatre Sister and the one where the swab is found in the chap’s inside -- those are prize favourites. They cluster around the counter, all bosoms, baskets, backsides and lavender water, demanding their Doctor-Nurse Romances.

Sometimes I think that one day, when on the scent, they’ll trample me down. Their stout shoes grinding into my face and form as I lie prostrate alongside the counter, date stamp in fist, while they forage savagely above me. Berserk Yorkshire-Housewife-Ladies.

After they have departed the Young Marrieds appear with their babies.

The Young Marrieds are a slimmer edition of the Romance Ladies, only instead of elaborate toques they are inclined to go hatless. They all have the slightly harassed look on their faces which is common to all young mothers as they bustle absentmindedly around the shelves with an eye more often on their crawling offspring or the clock, than on the books.

Meanwhile Baby explores the expanse of polished floor, pulls a few books out of the bottom shelves, enjoying the nice clatter they make as they fall. He likes to get behind the counter and quietly work open cupboard doors, and above all loves the umbrella stand. The latter is an old, ricketty iron affair, and all babies are drawn to it. If pushed hard it makes a terrific scratching rattle as its horrid iron claws scrape along the boards. Strong lusty babes fed on their Mum’s good home-made food, all find they can push it --

"Michael, come here at once."

"Glenys, give over. . . ."

The afternoons on the whole are pretty busy, rising to a crescendo of activity at four when the youth from the Secondary Modern descends upon us. From then on, till about four thirty, the place takes on the nature of a street scene. Teen-agers lolling in corners and bays, grouping in

aisles, calling across to each other. Sex flickers and crashes about the atmosphere then, in the furtive self-conscious glances, in the scuffles and giggles. Even the satchels, which are dumped here and there, and which I’ve tripped over various times, are bursting voluptuously at the seams . . . . Sometimes when the row becomes too much we are requested to eject them. Very nice. We do so. They take as long as they dare to disperse, eyeing us boldly and chewing their gum. Not until they hit the stairs do they break into loud whoops and whistles. Defenceless? Awkward? Pitiful? Just mixed up kids? No doubt, no doubt, but it would be nice to have the job of belting them up for once.

Certain evenings there’s a little fellow who comes in. He reads serious stuff. He is earnest, polite, humble and aged about thirty.

I like this chap but, ye gods, he has an affliction. I wish some kind friend would engage him in a quiet talk one day.

"Have you tried using Carbolic Soap, John?" (balloony thing coming from lips.) John despondent, shoulders sagging. He knows he is a failure and no girls take to him. Why? The kind friend tells him why, ballooning away, and a few weeks later, there is John (one imagines) the centre of an admiring group of women.

"We never thought you were such a live wire, John."

"Why John, you’ve made this party!"

Of course by now you’ll have guessed that John pongs a bit. You are right, he does. It’s his feet, poor chap. On a hot day John’s presence in the Library is known immediately. On a cold day, should the alcove he occupies happen to hold a radiator, the smell doesn’t gently penetrate, it assaults you.

Sometimes canine friends accompany their owners, and there they sit tied to the rail, patiently waiting, while Master or Mistress dawdles amongst the books. One earnest, rather depressed looking spaniel frequently accompanies a lady whom I privately call The Laughing Lady. When you hear more about the Laughing Lady you will understand why the spaniel has to be depressed.

The Laughing Lady is a curious case. She roars with mirth almost constantly at everything.

"Har-har-har-har! I’m reet daft. I sez to our Bert, I sez -- ‘turn teapot on an’ put kettle to warm while I’m gone . . . .’ Can you beat it! Har-har-har-har! Hi! Isn’t that Mrs Fling? We saw you passin’ our window yesterday Mrs Flint an’ our Bert sez -- ‘She can move.’ It wor blowin’ an’ rainin’ but you weren’t bothered. Eeee, I did laugh. Har-har-har-har!"

Sometimes I’ve tested her to see if she can speak without the accompanying merriment, but no go so far. How, I ask myself gloomily, will she behave on her death-bed for instance, for die she must some time. Could she, will she be serious then?

"Har-har-har-har!" (a little gaspy and muted perhaps). "It seems as tho’ I’m dyin’. Me goin’ to ‘Eaven! Wot a scream . . . . Har-har-har-har!"

When, at such a time, think I a trifle morbidly, will the sounds of mirth change to the ominous rattle?

Creeping Jinny woman making her sad, intricate design, the Romance Ladies weaving in and out, crying lustily for their hospital romances, the crude, rude, pimpled, clumsy adolescents, blathering old Ambersley and his wife, the crawling wide-eyed wicked babes and their harassed mothers, the laughter of the Laughing Lady (har-har-har-har), the patient-eyed dogs waiting for their Goddos . . . me . . . stamping, smirking, sighing . . . .

A sort of Ghost Ballet I imagine I leave behind, performing its set little pattern on and on through the silent small-town night.