Those weird musical guilty pleasure moments

I heard two songs today (which I'll reveal in a moment) – two songs that I shouldn't really like because they just don't fit my usual taste at all, and because I've never liked anything else by the bands concerned. But each one contains something which, for some completely inexplicable reason, I'm a bit of a sucker for. My first weakness is a good old “Whooo!” - you know, when someone whoops (can also be a “Whahoo!” as in Blur's 'Song 2' or a "Whoo-ooh!" like in Gwen Stefani's 'The Sweet Escape').

So today I heard 'Spiralling' by Keane. Now, every time I hear anything by Keane I'm taken back to several years ago, working on Sundays in my tiny village library where I was allowed to play the radio. Actually, not just allowed to play it but actively requested to play it as it was part of a whole, new 'informal library experience' reserved for Sunday openings, along with a miniature coffee machine and a horrible purple sweatshirt I was supposed to wear (but didn't).  Anyway, I used to tune it in to Virgin, which was the most likely station to play something I could actually tolerate hearing at the time. Now, whenever I hear White Stripes 'Seven Nation Army', 'Hey Ya! 'by Outkast, several tracks by Stereophonics, Muse and the Strokes, and 'Bed Shaped' by Keane I'm mentally transported back to the musty little library room with its heavy bookshelves and peeling paint.   Keane became one of the 'library days' bands....I didn't like them but they were of the time and in that context were just alright - helped the day to pass. Anyway, I heard the much later single, 'Spiralling', today and I was surprised at how un-Keane-like it sounds to my ears. In actual fact, I confess I quite like it.   But the bit that really does it for me, and which I could hear over and over again on a loop, is those “Whooo!”s in it.  Why?  What does it all mean?   I don't understand, but I want more.

The other track that I used to hear in my library days and heard again today - probably because it's now being used on an advert -  was 'Sing' by Travis. I am not into Travis. I should not be into a song like 'Sing'. No!  But, it's that banjo... and, oh, this is my other incomprehensible weakness, the plinky plunky plucking banjo.  Now if Fran Healy could have just dropped a couple of triumphant, ecstatic sounding “Whooo!”s into that song as well I would be in a very strange parallel world of music I don't really like, and yet I really do. Does that make sense?

The borrowers

                                                                   The resemblance is uncanny

I wasn’t sure what to make of Mr Parsons at first.  One thing I could rely on was that he would come in to the library, where I worked every Sunday, at exactly the same time each week.   Another thing was that he always wore a long grey mac, no matter what the weather, and spent an hour or two using the internet on the library’s one public computer, taking brief breaks to pick out books about war.  There were days when he was almost the sole visitor; the place was so small and quiet that it only needed one member of staff there at a time, so it could be lonely.  For a few years I was its ‘Sunday Girl’.

First impressions of Mr Parsons being a slightly creepy old man (he did have a habit of glancing furtively at the area between my collarbone and ribs when talking to me) were soon replaced by the realisation that he was rather nice and completely harmless.  We had some interesting, intelligent chats about language; he was a retired English teacher.  Funny how you remember odd things but he was the one who taught me that you pronounce the ‘ch’ in ‘machinations’ with a ‘k’ sound and not a ‘sh’ sound.  (At the library, I mean - he didn’t teach me at school.)  By the way, I’ve no idea what we were talking about for me to use the word ‘machinations’…   Anyway, over time I quite looked forward to him being around for a natter as the library often felt bleak on a dark Winter afternoon with no-one else about, and I was convinced there was a ghost in the store cupboard.  Mr Parsons took a bit of a shine to me but without making me feel uncomfortable; I think partly because he was very predictable.  A pleasant enough friendship developed between us and when he found out that I couldn’t take lunch breaks he started to bring me cakes wrapped in clingfilm.  My delight must have been such that he continued this habit until the day I left and each week I would be ceremoniously presented with two Almond Slices or Viennese Whirls (he must have had a thing for Mr Kiplings) which I consumed voraciously.  Bless him.

Actually, he wasn’t the only customer to let me eat cake.  Sometimes G, one of my neighbours, would return huge piles of books on behalf of his mother and stop for a chat too.  He's a lovely chap who used to own a record shop in London, helped me to rescue a dove from our chimney and once had a pet pigeon called Percy (who would sit at his feet like a dog).   When he found out I was leaving he came in to the library on my last day there and gave me an Iced Finger. It was as if I had a sign around my neck saying ‘Feed Me’…

Not that Mr Gatewood ever gave me cake.  He’d always come in about ten minutes before I was due to close up and I couldn’t help but keep glancing very obviously at my watch whilst he deliberated over the autobiographies.  He had an old-fashioned moustache and always wore a peaked cap (to this day I have no idea what his hair is like).  Bicycle clips held his tweed trousers in so that they looked a bit like plus-fours, and somehow the overall effect was like that of a Victorian gent.  I wouldn’t have been surprised if his mode of transport (which he carefully wheeled in and left in the library’s cloakroom) had been a Penny Farthing.  Softly spoken with a rather shy, almost nervous manner, it surprised me when I  found out that his nickname was ‘The Terminator’.  He looked nothing like Arnie... but his job as a Community Police Officer with a passion for dishing out parking tickets had earned him the name, particularly when it came to light that in the space of 11 years he’d issued 11,000 tickets.  His zero-tolerance approach became infamous, making local news headlines and later even prompting a Facebook campaign.  But the ridicule and resistance he met from some members of the public was like water off a duck’s back when he had his uniform on and was strutting proudly around the streets on a mission.  I have to say, he was always sweet to me but, then again, I wasn’t parking on double yellow lines.  I guess the Almond Slice crumbs round my mouth may have endeared me to him too.

Always smiling and quite often just a little tipsy was the lovely Maxine.  “Hello daaarlin’!” she’d call from the doorway as she made her slightly wobbly entrance.  “I’m sorry, I’m a bit pissed!”    The days she popped in to the library coincided with  her family’s Sunday lunches down the pub, where the wine had obviously been flowing freely.  A short, buxom blonde of a certain age, Maxine was well-known in the village and when she got a job in our little Post Office she was a breath of fresh air compared to the more staid staff we were used to. She flirted delightfully with all the customers and made her rather fussy and officious boss despair when she couldn’t press the right numbers on one of those keypad machines because her red-painted nails were too long.   But she was really on the ball and quickly learned everything there was to know about sending parcels to Outer Mongolia or anywhere else for that matter.  Everyone liked Maxine.

There were plenty of other characters too whom I won’t go into here, although it is hard to forget the pretty but broken alchoholic woman who poured her life story out to me one day and her daughter who, in spite of being only eleven, had become the responsible adult in that relationship.  Very tragically the mother was found dead in her flat just a year or so later; she was only in her early forties.  I often wonder what happened to the daughter; I hope she’s ok.

I don’t miss the job, but I do quite miss the interaction with so many different people whom I wouldn’t normally have met. There was probably enough material there to inspire a book.

It's not about the money...

I was working part-time in my village library, eight or so years ago, just one day a week to help pay the bills.  It was in a tiny room adjoining a church hall, with a roof that leaked when it rained heavily and old-fashioned wooden bookshelves that took all my strength to wheel out from the yellowing walls and into position in readiness for opening time.  Being such a small establishment meant it only needed one member of staff there at a time.  It could be a lonely job, but I did get to look at a lot of lovely books.

Visitors were few so I made sure everyone got a warm greeting; a bit of chit-chat helped my day go faster.  When one elderly and very well turned out gent came in one afternoon I gave him my sweetest smile and we soon got into conversation.  He asked a lot of questions, but that was ok.  I somehow ended up telling him about the part-time course for which I was making the long journey down to Chelsea School of Art each week, and what I was doing to try and earn a bit of money here and there.  He liked that I was doing something artistic.  “Perhaps you could draw a picture of my house one day?” he enquired.  I said yes, that would be great, I’d done some work like that before and would be happy to discuss it further. 

The next time he came in I noticed his thick, shiny white hair looked even neater than before – as if he’d just combed it in the hallway – and his clothes were even more dapper.  Perhaps he’d been somewhere special before coming here – the strong scent of his aftershave suggested that too.  We had another pleasant chat, about the weather and keeping chickens, and his son who was a pilot, and so on.  He told me he was 86, had lost his wife some years ago and was new to the area.  Ah, seems like a nice chap, I thought.

I felt a bit uneasy accepting the box of chocolates he brought with him on his next library visit but he insisted. I took it as just his way of saying how much he appreciated some conversation and company.  They were very tasty, by the way – Belgian.

“Do you like poetry, my dear?” was his opening line the following week. Before I had chance to answer he went on, “I’d love to read some to you one day!”  How sweet, I thought.  What a sweet, romantic old man.  I feigned a vague interest – well it seemed rude not to – although to be honest my knowledge doesn’t go much beyond Spike Milligan’s 'Silly Verse For Kids'.

Looking back I think it must have been him I saw sitting in a car right outside the library when I came out at the end of work on one occasion, but whoever it was had their nose buried deep in a book. I had come out unusually early that week, though, and they didn’t notice me as I walked past.

On his next visit he reminded me about the picture he wanted drawn of his home.  He described it  – a charming thatched house with lots of rooms, a rambling garden and a private courtyard.  “The courtyard is wonderful - great for sunbathing in,” he informed me, “so if you ever want to just relax somewhere on a hot day, let me know”.  I laughed and made some joke about how easily I get sunburnt and turn red, blushing as if to prove the point as I did.  I was quite looking forward to drawing the house, though.

A week later he suggested going for a coffee to dicuss the finer details of the picture commission.  Great idea, I thought, easier than trying to discuss it here at work.  “Your husband won’t mind, will he?” the sweet gentleman asked. I assured him that my husband was very laid-back about that kind of thing and so we arranged to meet down at The Boar’s Head that Wednesday at noon.

I thought it was a bit strange that he took me into one of the little lounges off from the bar as soon as I got there but then he said he had a proposition for me: “I’m going to buy you lunch today,” he announced, “and you mustn’t say no!”  I laughed, and felt embarrassed, but it would’ve been rude not to accept.  “And that’s not all…” he continued, patting my knee.  With his other hand he reached inside his jacket pocket and pulled out an envelope.    “I want to help you,” he said.  He thrust the packet into my hand, his gnarly fingers lingering against mine for a moment.  A moment that felt too long.  “Open it…”

I was starting to feel rather uncomfortable now.  “OPEN IT!” the old man insisted, his eyes darkening.  He suddenly seemed larger and stronger than his physical presence suggested.  I did as he said.  The envelope was stuffed full of £20 notes.  £800 worth of £20 notes.

The explanation followed – calculated and confident: “This is just the first payment to start you off” he said, “and after that I’ll give you £200 each month.”  I was, naturally, speechless.  “It’ll help pay your train fare to college, I want to help you get through your course” he smiled, but there was something not entirely altruistic about it.  He went on “and….I want something in return.”  I still couldn’t find any words, but a slight knot was forming in my stomach.

“I want you to be my, erm, my companion.  Come with me to art galleries and the theatre and trips into London.  Spend time with me.  You know, just two or three times a month.  Cinema trips and restaurants. You'll come to my house.  I have a beautiful bedroom, you must see it.   I’ll buy you jewellery too – you like silver, don’t you?  And we can travel…I know a great hotel in Greece…”  He pulled up even closer, and started to stroke my knee.

I didn’t know what to do.  I’m not one for big, dramatic gestures or conflicts, especially in public, so I wasn’t about to make a scene in the middle of The Boar’s Head.  I moved away from his groping hand and said, trying to keep as cool as possible, “No, I can’t take it… no…”  But he was insistent.  “Think about it. Take it for now and think about it.”  Not knowing quite how to tackle the situation I shrugged weakly. I guess it was the wrong thing to do but I was in shock, so, playing for time, I assured him reluctantly that I would at least have a think, and unwillingly put the envelope in my bag, a million thoughts jostling around in my head.

Lunch was a complete embarrassment.  My companion carried on as if everything was normal, like nothing was odd about the proposal he’d just made to me, while I found it hard to swallow the smallest morsel, let alone speak.  I longed for this to be over and to get home.

Of course I didn’t keep the £800 or enter into a paid, ahem, ‘companionship’ arrangement (in spite of my husband thinking purely of the financial benefits and saying, “Take it!”…)   Instead I sat down and wrote a carefully worded letter to the ageing lothario, refusing his offer as diplomatically as possible.  The next time I was at the library I took it with me along with the envelope of money and waited for him to come in.

The smell of his liberally applied aftershave signalled his arrival… then in he walked, beaming a big smile, came right round behind my desk, put his arm tightly around me and said, “I assume one may give the librarian a kiss?”   I recoiled and shook my head,  “No…no…I’ve explained it here,” I replied nervously, trying to look kind and handing him the letter with his envelope of cash.  He could tell from my face what it said.  His expression changed dramatically – once again his presence suddenly seemed larger, stronger, darker – as he snatched it from me.  Then the unpleasant accusations came – I can’t even remember what he said now, but I know it was bad and unfair.  I felt a bit sick.  Finally he stormed out of the library, slamming the door behind him.  Immediately any doubts I’d had about his intentions were confirmed by this angry reaction alone.  I exhaled and shuffled some books around, longing for another customer to come in and for some normality to be restored.

Some months later I saw him in town, looking small and unassuming, neatly turned out, just as he had before.   Just a sweet old man, eh...?