Libraries and Richard III

As of yesterday, I hadn’t been to a British public library for over nine years. Their closure, decline in use and general dilapidation has been a fairly consistent news motif since the start of the austerity era. Seeing as I now had easy access to a number of libraries within the Leicestershire vicinity, I thought I’d visit one for the sake of nostalgia, and, apparently, because I might not be able to for much longer.

I decided to start big, heading to the Leicester Central Library on one wet and overcast afternoon. Finding no gratifying places at which to sit on the ground floor, I went up to the second, situating myself in the ‘Local Studies’ section, as it was the least populated.
The people in the Library generally looked like they had nowhere better to be; a collection of pensioners, tramp-like characters and younger people who must’ve had no access to a computer at home. There were very many computers in the library, most of which were occupied. Many of the patrons had quite a liberal interpretation of the ‘silence’ rule- librarians included; there was often a fairly loud conversation rumbling on in the background during the course of my stay.
The long, cylindrical halogen bulbs which illuminated the scene were exposed, and their brightness starched the pale green paint on the wall to a lighter shade in the shape of a rough, upside down semi-circle. From where I was sat, a security camera gazed directly at me.

People seem to have have generally accepted mass surveillance as a fact of life, seeing as it makes the world safer. Nonetheless, an eerie feeling is invoked when the camera is pointed directly at you. The feeling of being indefatigably observed by the unblinking black eye does not engender any immeadiate feelings of alarm, though my mind is drawn to thinking of what this space might be like without the camera’s presence- as being observed by one directly invokes a feeling of exposure. It doesn’t matter that the footage would go unwatched, or that the only people who ever viewed it were bored volunteer librarians; it’s that the possibility for anyone to see it is there. I think that we subconsciously acknowledge this every time we look into the infinite blackness of one of those dark lenses, if one looks, that is. Though then again, we might as well pretend that they’re not there…
The camera itself stuck out of the wall on a short arm. The unit was white in colour and had two black cables protruding from each side. It looked quite sci-fi. Also lurking in the back of my mind is the chance that the camera might not be operational. A dud camera almost seems more Big-Brother like than a functional one.
A fake, government-placed camera almost seems like an endorsement of dishonesty- of fakery for the sake of behavior modification. Or, as some might say, mass subordination. Though isn’t the process of socialisation itself one of learning to self-subordinate? The transformation of children from wild animals to people by means of self-control, for the avoidance of anarchy, societal deterioration, and the election of Jeremy Corbyn? Isn’t CCTV just externalising that self-control, or acting as an incentive for good behavior, at least? Isn’t CCTV only a problem if you have something to hide anyway? This is true, though remember that it’s the person watching who determines what’s worth hiding.

To my left was a window, out of which I could see the overcast Midlands sky. It was completely uniform in its colouration and texture, which almost created the illusion that the sky was just a large whitish-grey board, running parallel to the window, its edges beyond the remit of my limited view. In the foreground were some chimney pots belonging to the neighbouring building. They looked like they’d become extinct long ago. Serving no practical use, they act as dormant reminders of a previous age.
Not to take away from the functionality of the dead chimney stack though; one of them now served as a mounting point for a TV aerial, which no-doubt provided as much comfort and warmth to the occupants as the open fire once did in years gone by. As I see it, this is another example of a retro-futurism manifesting itself. Moon bases and flying cars never came to fruition, though if anyone back in the nineteen-thirties was drawing strange aerials protruding from roofs, then they can give themselves a pat on the back from their cryogenic bio-pods.
The aerial itself formed an upside-down L of silvery black metal, which isn’t so different in shape from a hangman’s gallows. The horizontal portion of the L was covered in spikes and jagged forks, presumably to aid in picking up the signal. These made the aerial resemble a mediaeval weapon of great viciousness and terror. The whole thing was buffeted by the wind and jiggled slightly, as if it wished to break free of the chimneystack and inflict a great pain on the world unimpeded.
The aerial and the chimneys were shimmering. This was because a large storage heater was emitting its warmth from underneath the window. The ripples in the air were very subtle, yet still visible which I suspect is the actual reason for the library’s busyness- like the transfer of energy itself, cold Britons will be irresistibly drawn from outside into the warmth. Add the passive stimuli of books and newspapers to aid in retention, and voila, you have a library! One could heat an empty room, put some chairs in and open it to the public; it’d fill. Maybe with Wi-Fi, that is- which this library also had, though only for members.

Whilst I think this is the defining factor in the library’s success in getting people through the door, it isn’t its ostensible function. Opposite the window to my right I glanced over the spines of books pertaining to the local area: “Life and Times of the Royal Infirmary of Leicester”, “Coaching Days in the Midlands”, “Birds of Charnwood”, and “Jihad: From Qur’an to Bin Laden”.
In front of me were seven rows of shelves, the centremost of which was dedicated to Richard III. His countenance stared at me six times over, from two book covers, two posters, a cut-out and a flyer. For some reason, they failed to inspire me, though I felt sorry for the doleful expression on the cardboard Richard’s face, as if he was right then aware of the inevitable truth that his slaying in Bosworth would ultimately result in a boost for provincial tourism in the MIdlands. I decided to read into him later.

As I walked homeward along Loseby Lane, the mossy exterior of the cathedral caught my eye. It then dawned on me that the remains of Richard himself were entombed in that very building and I decided that now was as apt a time as ever for my first visit.
A porter greeted me upon entering, she was one of three elderly female canons I encountered- as the men were apparently having a day off. My first impression was that the Cathedral’s interior contained much space, and few chairs for congregants. I thought they might be wheel out extras especially for Sunday, though from my cursory perusal of their website, this doesn’t seem to be the case. The Cathedral only became so in 1927, and I wouldn’t have been surprised to find out that it was merely a grand church; maybe I ought to temper my expectations after having become accustomed to the ostentatious temples of Andalucia. Not everyone had Mayan gold to spend, after all.
From the entrance I walked across the nave and turned right, in the direction of the altar. Tourists of a more secular persuasion were provided for with numerous information points on the history of Richard and his reign. After passing these, and the various other items church paraphernalia, one turns right again to see the tomb itself. On top of a black plinth is a limestone block with a thin cross incised into the solid rock. When you look straight up the middle of the cross, the shadows cast onto the base of the cross form the shape of a sword.

I decided to re-visit the back of the church, where an array of decorated glass doors is situated, and I thought I ought to inspect them closer before leaving. An elderly lady in clerical garb approached me as I was looking. She started extolling to me the beauty and quality of the glass doors .
Seemingly perceiving that my attention was rapidly being lost, she asked me what I thought the designs on the doors depicted. I told her I thought they represented the pillars of fire and smoke that guided the Israelites through the desert, though I didn’t clock onto the middle door being a stylisation of the parting of the red sea.
‘Well, you know your Bible!’ she exclaimed with joy and great surprise. Her question seemed a strange one to ask, seeing as the image of the pillars of fire and smoke are hardly the most prevalent in popular consciousness, though perhaps seperating the sheep from the goats was her intention. I don’t think she expected me to know the answer- maybe this was another reason for her query; that an ‘Errm, I don’t know’ would opportune a well-practiced spiel on the journeying of the Israelites in the desert. I might’ve disappointed her by snatching the opportunity of that unrequested speech away from her.
She then asked where I was from, to which I replied ‘Gibraltar.’
‘It’ll be interesting to see what happens in regard to Brexit then, she repiied. I didn’t provide a response of my own, so she decided to continue riffing on this theme.
‘Personally, I voted to remain,’ she said. ‘People who votedleave didn’t know what they were getting themselves into. They thought we would leave and that would be it. People are quite thick here’ she explained.
‘I imagine they weren’t any less thick when they voted to join in the first place,’ I replied- the issue of national sovereignty didn’t come up in the debate on whether or not to enter the politically benign ‘Common Market’.
The canon evidently wasn’t impressed with this response, and quickly turned to the closest group of camera-wielding women, telling them that ‘Most places charge for pictures but we don’t!’
Evidently, I was being left to find my own way out. I suspect she thought that a she might’ve found political concurrence, perceiving me to be the archetypal Europhilic youth. If she’d known the referendum result from Gibraltar, this would be an automatic assumption, as well as her tendency for Brexit-apologism. Not wanting to engender a heated political debate, wtthin these sacred walls, she simply aborted the conversation as unexpectedly as it she’d began it. I turned away from her and the women, and went towards the porter, who opened the door for me. I suspect she’d observed this whole exchange.
‘I hope you enjoyed your visit.’
‘Yes, thank you.’
My conversation with the old lady had hardly been gratifying, though on the bright side, I’d been spared any more of it.
At least someone was watching over me.