Let there be books

By the age of eleven, after school and after tea, each Friday evening, I was borrowing my own weight in books from my local Library.

Pentre Library was on the hillside above Ton Pentre, with commanding views of the surrounding mountains. The building had once been the Intermediate School for the area, so it was spacious with large windows and had been built from local Pennant sandstone in the previous century. I loved going up the front steps and through the ever-open doors (so it seemed to me) into the large front porch which was often festooned with seriously wet umbrellas and damp raincoats.

It was within walking distance of my home, or a one penny half-fare ticket on the every ten minute bus service. Yes! it was that long ago. It was The Central Library, in those days, for the two Rhondda Valleys, the Fach and the Fawr, (little and big). However, each district or village in both the valleys had its own local library as well.

We schoolchildren who had reached eleven years had all sat the Scholarship examination in March of that year the results of which would allocate us to a place ‘appropriate’ to our abilities, the following September. That would be at schools of three different “levels”; in those days it was Grammar, Secondary Technical or Secondary Modern Schools. There was a second chance possible on offer for pupils following their first year at the ‘Big’ school if their scholarship results indicated that it was an unsuitable choice for them after all.

By Sara John

I was still a pupil in standard five at Gelli Junior School prior to discovering the joys of library-visiting, although Mr. Jones, our very stern and formidable teacher had always encouraged us all to READ. He seemed less strict and frightening after the big day of the scholarship examination and allowed us to spend many subsequent afternoons just reading in class. This resulted in a delivery of reading books from the Education Authority, the books went into a cupboard at the front of Mr. Jones’ desk. Most children had never seen so many books, not all of the same size like our school Book One, Book Two and so on from long before. These were all different sizes, shapes and colours!

Many children in the 1950’s were living in homes with few, if any, books. There was usually a very large family Bible on a small table, in the front room, which no child would be allowed to touch, and maybe a dictionary (unread since it arrived delivered from Odhams Press in answer to a newspaper advertisement). Few books were available for children, anyway and they were, up until the nineteen sixties, relatively expensive, unlike the glut of children’s books on the market today. In my childhood books would only be given at Christmas and for birthdays.

With no younger siblings at home, I could keep the few books that I had free of sticky fingers and pencilled scribbles.

Even today I still have some of my Rupert Bear Annuals, Film books such as Hollywood Album, and of course a copy of

Louisa M. Alcott’s ‘Little Women’. Not forgetting ‘Sue Barton, Student Nurse’. Then I moved on to read books belonging to my parents and grandparents. All too advanced for an eleven-year-old, except for two. Three Men in a Boat which I loved and made me laugh, and Uncle Tom’s Cabin which made me cry. I tried reading The Universal Home Doctor, which made me frightened and my mother’s precious copy of Mrs Beeton’s Recipes which made me very worried. In the future, if I married would I have to cook dead hares? clean, defeather and cook pheasants? and fold starched napkins to resemble swans with very long necks?

Why am I writing about books?

They are, nowadays, quite plentiful, easy to obtain and are no big deal. These days you can pay twenty pence in a charity shop, a discounted price on the internet, or full price from the publisher, prior to publication if you are really keen.

What is a book anyway? What is it for? What is this all about?

A book is a companion. It is a faithful friend, especially these days, if you are a woman travelling alone, eating dinner alone, and staying alone in a hotel. In those situations, you can always put a false dust jacket on your racy, romantic novel at your dinner table with a title such as ‘Advanced Quantum Physics’. That should keep you safe from marauding would be Romeos.

A book is not just a book. You open it, you read it, you put it away. They are an aid to understanding; you can discover and learn at exactly the right pace for you, you can drench yourself in information, opinions, references, humour and at any time you can as it were ‘enquire within’. You can find out more without asking anyone, you do not risk censure from others, you and your book share the secret of you not knowing something.

Best of all, a book does not require batteries! Books are handy and portable. The Penguin paperbacks were designed to fit a (man’s) hand and to go in a (man’s) suit pocket easily. Your books belong to you, only you. If you lend a book, you risk never seeing it again. You have been warned!

Living with my parents and maternal grandparents, and as an only child I was taught to read when I was very young by my father even before starting school. In the South Wales Valleys of long ago there was a strong culture of ‘book learning’. It often led to ‘night school’ as evening classes were called and on to a chosen occupation or possibly profession. For me at that time reading was important both at home and at school.

Then, at the age of eleven I made an astounding discovery!

In Standard Five when Mr Jones, our teacher, allowed us to read our own, or the new schoolbooks in the locked cupboard at the front of his desk. Many of the boys in Standard Five brought books to school that all seemed to have the same cover. I was offered a ‘lend’ of one to look at. It had a protective thick, clear plastic cover and had a loose list stuck inside with a crucial date showing when it had to be returned to the Central Library otherwise you had to pay a fine!

It appeared that they were all about a man called Biggles and they were by Captain W.E.Johns. They were written for our age group, but clearly aimed at boys. Gender divide was at its deepest in the nineteen fifties (just look at the fashions of those years) but I did not let that stop me from finding out more.

I discovered that many of the boys in my class had joined the library! They said that I could join too if I obtained a ‘ticket’. The best time to go there was after tea on Friday evening, that was late closing! So, the following Friday I set off on my first visit. I was on my own. I was nervous as

‘only children’ often are but determined. I went in and waited at the curved counter where grown-ups were handing in books.

It was soon my turn. There were two lady librarians behind the counter, very busy but not smiling, neither friendly nor frightening. They both wore blouses with Peter Pan collars and pretty brooches at the neckline. Both wore spectacles which indicated to me they probably did a great deal of reading. I was given a card to take home and to school for signatures from my parents, my teacher, and the headmistress. I was to return the following Friday to collect my ‘ticket’. The librarian in the pink blouse insisted that I showed her my hands, backs and palms and then she suggested that I should go through the open archway opposite into the Children’s Section and look at the books that I would be permitted to borrow in the future.

I could not believe it. All the walls were covered with bookshelves and all the bookshelves were full of books.

In my bedroom at home the shelf above the cast iron fireplace held the books that I had purchased from Woolworths in Tonypandy with my pocket money. They were hardback editions of children’s classics and cost, new, two and sixpence each. On the back of the dust jacket there was a list of titles available in the series, I had six so far but there were many more to save up for. Children of the New Forest, Coral Island, Lorna Doone, Little Women, Good Wives, Jo’s Boys and Little Men.

Now there was a world of books available to me in the library:

rooms beyond rooms; furlongs of shelves; multitudes of books; all available to borrow;

And for as long as a fortnight at a time!

- On condition you had clean hands and your application had been accepted

I could not wait for it to be next Friday.

Little was I to know then how many libraries I would enjoy, how many books I would read, how valuable they would be to me. My atlas and dictionary that my father bought for me in ‘Phillips the Typewriter’ shop, stationer, and bookseller at the top of Pentre hill, (not for Christmas or for my birthday!) are still in regular use on my desk. I recall the two ladies who ran the shop wearing floral smocks, hair in a bun and, also, wearing spectacles. They could probably type very well too, and had many neat blot-free notebooks.

Inspired by access to books I now knew that I had much to look forward to in future. Books were, but only secretly inside my head, overtaking plans for being a bride someday, though there were no thoughts or plans at that time of finding a bridegroom.

How essential was a bridegroom I often wondered to myself? What did they actually do? Did it matter? I was too young to even ask.

The dress and the veil would be enough excitement for me anyway, why would I need a bridegroom?

For the next six years I tried to read as much as I could. I haunted the library having encouraged my parents to join so I could “chose books on their behalf” as it were. Well, that would be my explanation should one ever be required.

The seventh year at Grammar School was quite special because as Sixth formers the School Library with a grand piano, parquet floor and books beyond expectation were available for us and only us, to consult or read during prep periods. I remember discovering Brewer’s Dictionary of Phrase and Fable and being introduced to the Dewey Decimal System for classifying topics.

Then at eighteen it was off to Art School in Cardiff and another exciting Library to explore. We students were extra lucky to have an exceptional Librarian, (the late) John Beynon who also did a lot of work for the lecturers and tutors as a researcher. No bun, specs, smocks or “let me see your hands”. We were nearly grown-ups by then.

However, most of us spent a lot of our energy being Art Students. We (and that included a few of the boys) wanted to look French and as much like Juliette Greco as possible, long straight hair, an overlong fringe, far too much black eyeshadow and black mascara and smoking Disque Bleu cigarettes. Looking bored, cool, intellectual and French (even if you were from Bargoed or Taffs Well) took up more energy than any one’s parents could imagine. In particular the parents (mothers mostly) who said, “YOU are not going out looking like that are you???”

The one necessity to keep up this impersonation of a French Art Student was to carry a book, in French of course, of anything that had been written by Jean-Paul Sartre. In addition, to drink black coffee out of a mug while sitting on the floor, or, preferably on a studio couch. You also had to look very bored by life, you stayed silent and appeared opinion-less. It was essential NOT to be enthusiastic about anything. But, the library and the wonderful Librarian there was like having an individual tutor and best friend with endless patience, knowledge and experience and a profound love of books.

Of course, we students were also expected to attend lectures, paint, draw, create, learn, and write essays - that, we were frequently told, was ‘the whole idea’ of us attending college.

Since those long-gone days, I have visited many Libraries and Institutions that never cease to surprise and intrigue me. From University Libraries with their sophisticated interchange systems, specialist Libraries such as Swansea University’s Hendrefolian House housing so much about the South Wales coalfield, including original documents to the National Library of Wales in Aberystwyth which overwhelms all the others.

To recall just a few.

Having wallowed in the world of books for so long I am occasionally disconcerted to find that not everyone shares my enthusiasm for books. I have had, and still have, a few friends, clever, able, eager, and interested in all sorts of topics, adventures and projects who seem to suffer from what I call ‘Bookfear’. They appear to have a problem both with the printed word and with books themselves. They are bereft of curiosity about what lies under the cover. They can all read and write perfectly well so is it something about the ‘authority’ of the printed word? Memories of childhood possibly? Difficulties with the way they were being taught at a young age? They seem at home with handwritten letters, cards and notes but not with the printed page. Maybe it is after being frightened and overwhelmed by books at school, or falling behind other children when being taught to read.

I must find a book on this subject and find out more.

I reckon those who cannot pick up book, read a little, and want to read more are missing so much.

These days I have no toys from long ago, but frequently return to those influential books from childhood: Beatrix Potter’s Tom Kitten story; tales about Rupert Bear and his friend Billy Badger; Lorna Hills’ books about ballet; and the chapter telling of Meg going to ‘Vanity Fair’ in Little Women.

I fear I have by now, read enough about Biggles. After writing one hundred and four books about his adventures I reckon Captain W.E.Johns had also had enough of James Bigglesworth.

Although I realise that Captain W.E.Johns who introduced so many children to the adventures of Biggles, was instrumental for me. He improved my reading ability, and, most importantly sent me up the steps and into The Central Library in Pentre all those years ago.