The Wandering Library: A Series

Part 21: The Incident at Little Wiggleton Market

(I painted this in Procreate using the Scopus and Kombu brushes. - Chaiga T. Cheska)
~~~

Being an account of three women, one corridor of mirrors, and a situation that required the Library to run away

Compiled by Bramwell Corin, who is still baffled to be finding bits of jam and feathers in his hair

Preface

The Wandering Library parked itself at the edge of Little Wiggleton market on a Wednesday morning, which was unfortunate timing, as Wednesdays in Little Wiggleton are market days, and market days in Little Wiggleton are occasions of considerable social momentum. The Library, having arrived the previous evening in what I can only describe as a mood of quiet self-satisfaction, had no notion of what Wednesdays in Little Wiggleton would involve.

I was at my desk. Pip was reshelving the upper east corridor. Everything was orderly. Everything was calm and peaceful.

Then, from somewhere beyond the reading room windows, came a sound.

The Library heard it first. I know this because the card catalogue gave a small, interested shiver, and three books about human social behaviour migrated, of their own accord, to the front desk.

I looked at the books, and I looked at the window, and I could hear, distantly, three women all talking at once, each on a completely different subject.

Getting closer.

I put my pen down.

The Arrival

Bramwell’s Log

They came through the doors at twenty past ten.

Three of them, late forties, perhaps early fifties, dressed with the visible care of women who had put considerable thought into what they were wearing and knew the thought had been worthwhile. The first was broad and confident, with dark auburn hair pinned into an elaborate arrangement that was already escaping itself, and a hat whose circumference required those around her to make small spatial adjustments. She walked like a woman leading an expedition she had personally organised and was already privately certain had been an excellent idea.

The second was swathed. There is no other word. Scarves of varying colours and purposes wrapped her in a way that suggested she had started getting dressed and simply not stopped. She smelled powerfully of something floral that arrived a full second before she did.

The third wore a great deal of green and had an expression plastered to her face of someone listening to a conversation she had already heard several times but had not yet decided whether to comment.

The one in the hat swept her gaze across the reading room as if she was entering a new shop and deciding within four seconds whether it merited their continued presence.

“What a darling little library,” she said, to no one in particular. “Isn’t it lovely? I wonder where the fashion section is?”

She did not wait for an answer. She was already walking.

Pip’s Account

I heard them before I saw them, this sort of rising, overlapping chatter coming up from the reading room, and I abandoned the shelf I was halfway through and went to the top of the stairs for a proper look.

The one in the hat had picked up an illuminated manuscript off the display table, turned it upside down, and said, “Oh, pretty colours,” then she put it back at an angle, with one corner hanging off the edge. I actually winced. That manuscript takes me forty minutes to straighten when the Library gets moody about it.

I saw that down at his desk, Bramwell had gone completely still, the way he does when something is happening that he hasn’t yet worked out how to file. I know that stillness. It usually precedes him telling me to do extra work.

The Library gave a little curious shiver. Books were leaning out of the shelves at odd little angles, as if craning for a better look, and a door at the far end of the room cracked open an inch and stopped, which I think is the Library’s way of eavesdropping without admitting to it.

The woman with all the scarves was trailing her fingers along the book spines as she passed, not reading a single title, just running her hand along the books the way you’d trail a hand along a fence. These women didn’t strike me as the type of people who had time for books.

I watched Bramwell stand up as I settled in against the balustrade, because I had a feeling about this one, and I was right.

The Mirrored Corridor

Pip’s Account

I don’t know when the Library put a mirrored corridor in. It wasn’t there the day before. But there it was, off the east passage, long and narrow, mirrors floor to ceiling the whole way down, some in plain wood frames, some gilt, one enormous one at the far end in something dark and carved that I’d never noticed before and looked a little creepy to be honest.

The woman in the hat walked into this corridor of mirrors and stopped and sort of got a strange look on her face.

“Oh,” she said and then: “Girls, just look at this!”

That was apparently all the summons required, and the other two women were beside her in about two seconds.

For a moment all three of them just looked. Then the woman in the hat squared her shoulders, adjusted the hat, and smiled at her own reflection and made a sort of pose with her hand on her hip, like dancers do before they begin leaping about.

“That colour is extraordinary on you,” the scarf woman said to the woman in green, and I could hear in the way she said it that she didn’t really mean it.

“Do you really think so?” said the woman in green, studying herself properly now. “I wasn’t sure. You know how I worry about green.”

“Not at all. Very brave of you.”

There was a pause. I felt it from the top of the stairs, and wished I had a better view.

“Brave,” the woman in green repeated slowly.

“I mean striking,” said the other woman, clearly with a note of tension.

The Library, from wherever it keeps an eye on this sort of thing, added two more mirrors to the corridor. Both slightly larger than the ones already there, both angled to catch the light in a way that was, I’ll say this for it, flattering without being strictly honest.

They got more elaborate after that. The woman with the hat adjusted her hat three times, each time achieving the same result, which made no sense, and I had to press my hand to my mouth to keep from laughing. The woman with the scarves unwound one scarf and rewound it a different way, which made absolutely no difference. The woman in green lifted her chin and looked up and down at the same time, posing a lot and moving her hips. I was trying so hard not to squeak.

“You look wonderful,” The woman in the hat said to the woman in the scarves, generously.

“So do you. Doesn’t she look well, Hessie?”

I like the name Hessie, as I used to visit a donkey named Hessie when I was much younger who liked to eat apples. Nice memories those….bit strange reflecting on Hessie the donkey whilst watching these women.

This woman called Hessie looked at the other two in the mirror. “You’re absolutely glowing,” she cooed. Then, after a pause about half a second too long to be comfortable: “Is that a new lipstick?”

“It is.”

“Barty’s seen it?”

Something changed in the air. Nothing dramatic, just a shift that felt really uncomfortable and made me wonder if I’d rather get back to shelving.

“Not yet,” said the woman with the hat, but in an oozingly pleasant way that was a little scary.

“He’ll have something to say about the hair too, I’d imagine,” Hessie said. “He’s particular, isn’t he. About hair and lipstick.”

“Well, to be fair…” The woman with all the scarves started.

“He’s not particular about anything,” said the woman with the hat, an edge creeping in now.

“He’s particular about women looking a certain way”

“He likes independent women!”

“Not what I heard….”

“Hessie.”

“I’m just saying. You were there. In the market. About Pellory’s wife.”

“That was completely different.”

“I don’t see how….”

And that was it, that was the spark, because after that they weren’t taking turns any more. All three of them were talking at once, on top of each other, voices climbing, and within about thirty seconds it had stopped being a heated conversation and turned into something you could hear through a closed door two rooms away. I know because I could hear it through a closed door two rooms away, having escaped back to the safety of my shelving task.

Bramwell’s Log

I arrived at the mirrored corridor at approximately eleven fifteen, having spent the intervening period retrieving a bone vessel from the floor, returning the manuscript to its correct orientation, and removing a very small blue book from the scarf woman’s bag, which she had apparently acquired without noticing she had done so. She had not noticed me remove it either. She was a woman of considerable unconscious momentum.

We did have actual readers in the Library prior to this, but the shouting women caused them to leave, which was disheartening.

The women’s shouting, at this point, had genuine structure to it. Not words tumbling over one another so much as three separate arguments running in parallel, none of them listening to the others, all of them increasing in volume as though competing for the last word required competing for it loudly.

“…AND I AM TELLING YOU, IT WAS THE SAME THING…”

“IT WAS NOT THE SAME THING, YOU ALWAYS DO THIS…”

“WILL THE PAIR OF YOU JUST STOP FOR ONE MOMENT…”

“DON’T YOU DARE TELL ME TO STOP, HESSIE, NOT AFTER WHAT YOU…”

I could hear, faintly, voices from the direction of the market gates asking one another what that noise was.

“Ladies,” I said, tentatively, stepping forward, which did have some impact in that they stopped shouting to look at me.

It is difficult to describe what followed except to say it was the professional equivalent of walking into a wall one had not seen coming. All three of them turned the full weight of their attention on me at once, with a focus of those who have been interrupted mid-argument and have located a new and more satisfying target.

The woman in the hat looked me up and down, as did the woman with the scarves, and then Hessie, who was by far the most thorough.

“Are you the librarian?” The woman with the hat asked.

I confirmed that I was.

“You’ve got jam on your robes,” The woman with the scarves said, and gave me a superior look.

This was possible, though I was not going to look down to confirm this.

“The colour of your robes,” said Hessie, with a small, considering sound. “Did someone tell you that was your colour?”

“This is the standard…” I tried to begin explaining what librarians typically wear.

“It’s ageing,” Hessie went on, flatly as she adjusted the frilly cuffs of her sleeves. “Not on everyone. Just on you specifically.”

The woman with all the scarves tilted her head. “Have you considered a different cut? Something with more movement? So you don’t look so lumpy.”

“And your hair,” said the woman with the hat, as she patted her hair, while scrutinising mine.

“I am going to have to ask you all to lower your voices,” I said, aware even as I said it that this was not my finest professional moment, “as we had other readers who…”

“It’s a lovely building,” The woman with all the scarves said, adjusting her scarves and looking around. “Is it for sale by any chance?”

“Do you have a fashion section?” said the woman with the hat.

“We don’t have…” Normally I am happy to share the sections of our Library, but on this occasion I felt a strong urge to get away. Before the women could ask any more questions, I turned quickly, strode with a measured pace, opened the door to the other reading room, and as I was stepping in, I realised that the location of the reading room had shifted and I was now swiftly entering, with purpose, a broom cupboard. Because the women were watching me retreat, I thought it best to follow through by stepping in and shutting the door behind me, thus plunging myself into total darkness and leaving myself unable to move, as it was a very small broom cupboard. Not my most professional moment, I do admit.

It was very dark in the cupboard, and I could just turn around to face the door, but that was it. Shelves lined my left and right, and behind me was a bucket and mop that rattled when I tentatively put my heel back. The women beyond the door had returned to their shouting argument about someone called Barty. I wondered who Barty was and how I could professionally extract myself from this cupboard when there was a sudden terrifying rustle on the shelf beside me, and then a heavy feathery weight settled onto my head. I admit I nearly shrieked until I realised it was Pemberton, and I had a moment to stand in the dark and reflect on how fortunate it was that I was in a dark cupboard during this moment of unprofessional, suppressed shrieking, with nobody there except Pemberton to witness it.

“Pemberton,” I said, to the dark.

Pemberton did not reply. Pemberton is a chicken.

I stood there in complete silence for what may have been two minutes and may have been considerably longer, until the door opened and Pip was standing in it, looking at me.

Pip’s Account

I’d gone looking for Bramwell because the shouting from the corridor had reached a pitch where somebody needed to actually do something about it, and he’d vanished from his desk. The side door leading to the mirrored corridor used to be the door to the other reading room, but for some reason it was now a broom cupboard. When I opened it, Bramwell was standing, looking back at me, with Pemberton sitting on his head. Pemberton looked sleepy and was clucking softly. I think this might be the first time I’ve ever seen such a sight!

Neither of them moved. Bramwell looked back at me with a sort of dignity that acknowledging his situation would only make it worse. Pemberton, for her part, looked extremely pleased with the arrangement.

“What are you doing in the broom cupboard, Bramwell?” It was very hard not to laugh, especially with Bramwell looking so serious with Pemberton clucking on his head.

“This is an accidental occurrence.”

“Pemberton is on your head.”

“Thank you, yes. I am actually aware of this observation, Pip.”

Bramwell stepped out of the broom cupboard and lifted Pemberton off his head and put her back on the shelf she liked and closed the door.

I had to pinch myself to stop laughing as we both looked towards the mirrored corridor where the shouting was getting louder. Something had to be done!

The Escalation

Bramwell’s Log

Somehow, while I had been in the broom cupboard, the Library had removed the doors on either side of the mirrored corridor. Pip confirmed that it had happened suddenly and without ceremony, the way the Library does things when it has made up its mind about something and hasn’t given a full explanation.

Now there was just a wall where the door to the corridor used to be. I knocked on the wall experimentally to see if the Library might reconsider returning the door. It did not. The wall remained.

From within the mirrored corridor there came the shout of one of the women:

“IS THAT YOU OUT THERE? OPEN THIS WALL. OPEN IT IMMEDIATELY. I SHALL HAVE THE TOWN WATCH HERE. I AM DORRIT THINWARBLE, AND I KNOW PEOPLE!”

So the one with the hat was called Dorrit. I felt that having established her name helped somehow.

“Who do you think she knows?” Pip asked quietly, beside me.

I asked him to go and find Mistress Spine. He went. I remained at the wall and attempted, in a calm and rational voice, to convey that the situation was being addressed. The situation was not being addressed. I had no notion of how to address it. Calm and rational seemed, nonetheless, important to maintain.

“I CAN HEAR YOU BREATHING OUT THERE.”

“I am attempting to…” I tried.

“BREATHING ISN’T HELPING.”

Outside the front windows, I could see market-goers gathering to listen. The shouting was carrying rather well.

Mistress Spine’s Account

I arrived to find Bramwell at a wall, talking to it, and no door where Pip’s account assured me a door had recently been.

From behind the wall: three women in excellent voice, making a series of escalating demands and threats of civic consequence.

I asked Bramwell what had happened. He gave me a summary that was concise and largely accurate, though I did wonder why he had Pemberton’s feathers in his hair.

I knocked on the wall. Nothing. I addressed the Library directly, in the tone I reserve for professional rather than personal conversations. The Library was not currently accepting professional conversations. It was in the particular state it enters when it has done something it cannot immediately undo, and has decided that stillness is the appropriate response.

From outside: raised voices, several of them, getting closer.

Pip went to the window.

“There’s quite a crowd,” he said. “And there’s a man at the front. Large man. He’s got muscles the size of me, and he looks…” He paused. “He looks very motivated.”

The Arrival of Barty

Pip’s Account

The doors opened before he even reached them, which I think means the Library was either being unusually polite or had simply given up on controlling who came in. He didn’t look like a man who needed doors opened for him specifically, but I think it was a nice gesture all the same.

He was quite big and muscular, much bigger than me and, if I’m honest, a little scary. I think he might have been in his mid-thirties, and if I had to compare him to anything, I’d say he was like a raging bull, right down to looking like he could snort flames from his nostrils. Behind him were six or seven men who looked like market-goers, two who looked like the town watch, and one woman who had been selling preserved lemons and had simply walked in with the group and showed no intention of leaving.

This muscular man looked straight at Bramwell and said, “Why can I hear my girlfriend shouting from your library?”

I watched Bramwell, and I think he looked as worried as I was beginning to feel, and all Bramwell could do was gesture at the wall, which I don’t think helped very much.

I think Bramwell began behaving more bravely a few moments later when he stood straighter, looked this man in the eye, and said, “Are you, Barty?” Barty actually responded with a snort like a raging bull, and I absolutely saw Bramwell take a step back. “Our Library has sealed the doors of the mirrored corridor for some reason.”

Even I know that that was probably not the best thing to say to this giant man, but luckily, we were interrupted by the shouting on the other side of the wall.

“BARTY,” Dorrit shouted from behind the wall, at full volume. “BARTY, WE’RE IN HERE.”

“THERE’S NO DOOR. WE ARE BEING HELD PRISONER, AND WE CANNOT GET OUT, AND THAT MAN IN THE TERRIBLE ROBES...”

Barty looked at Bramwell’s robes. Bramwell straightened slightly, which did not help his case.

“HAS NOT DONE A SINGLE USEFUL THING.”

One of the town’s members of the watch was writing something in a small notebook. I didn’t ask what.

Mistress Spine said, quietly, to no one in particular, “If this building does not resolve itself in the next five minutes, I am going to have a great deal of paperwork.”

Sometimes I wonder if Mistress Spine can really see what’s going on right in front of her nose! Like the giant, muscular man, Barty, who at this moment was looking at me as if I had a solution!

What I find really interesting about all this is that while it was happening, the woman with the preserved lemons picked up a book on citrus essences from the front desk, examined it, and put it in her bag. Ordinarily I’d have said something, but these were not ordinary circumstances.

The Ejection

Bramwell’s Log

What the Library did next, it did without warning, and without, as far as any of us could tell, any particular plan beyond the immediate objective of being finished with the whole business.

We heard a strange creaking noise from inside the mirrored corridor which made absolutely no sense, and because we weren’t in there, we couldn’t see what was happening, but being familiar with the quirks of this Library and having heard that sound before, I suspected that the Wandering Library had opened up the floor in the form of a trap door. Whenever the Library creates trap doors in floors, it always creaks horrendously. At some point, I will have to look into this to see how it can be improved.

Apparently, the Library created a trap door in the floor of the mirrored corridor, which simply hinged downwards and delivered its occupants to the ground below, which was covered in moss, so the women would have a soft landing. As anyone familiar with this Wandering Library knows, the Library likes to sit cross-legged when it parks itself somewhere, but there’s still a gap of about five feet between the Library’s foundation and the ground, which is navigated by the Library’s retractable front steps and, apparently, now by a trap door. A rather good one, actually.

We heard the women drop through the trap door, then heard their shouts below the Library, which sent Barty and the crowd with him darting back out the front door and running around the side of the building to help pull the three women back onto the path. The woman with the preserved lemons followed after them as she bit into one of her lemons, whilst her left eye twitched and shut of its own accord.

The front door closed. The bolt slid across, and there was a pause of perhaps ten seconds, in which Mistress Spine, Pip, Pemberton, who had wandered out of the broom cupboard to see what was going on, and I stood in the front room and watched the departing women with Barty and the market goers.

Then the Library stood up, shook itself, did a few bends of its legs, which made us all stagger a bit, and then it turned with its back to Little Wiggleton. Suddenly the Library was running away, taking long, loping strides as the little town disappeared behind us and the trees on the hills rose all around.

Books settled back onto their shelves with the orderly confidence of things that have been through worse and know their place. The tea trolley rolled with the movement and came to rest neatly against the far wall.

Pip held onto the desk. Mistress Spine held her clipboard. I held Pemberton.

Pip’s Final Notes

We didn’t stop until early evening, when the Library settled in a meadow none of us recognised and showed no intention of explaining itself.

Bramwell made tea. Mistress Spine wrote her report. I fed Pemberton, who was in an excellent mood, all things considered, having spent the better part of the morning as a hat.

Nobody said much for quite a while, which felt like its own kind of statement.

Then Bramwell said, “We are never parking at a market again.”

The Library shifted its weight very slightly to the left, which I have learned means it isn’t committing to anything.

Thaddeus, who had spent the whole incident in the archive room and only emerged once the Library had stopped moving, left a note on the front desk. It read:

I understand there was an incident today.

I have reviewed the records and note that the Library has never previously deployed a trap door for the purposes of visitor removal, though it has apparently had the capacity. I am curious about how it will explore this technique in the future.

Final Notes (Added by Mistress Spine)

The incident is closed. No formal complaint has been received from the town of Little Wiggleton, possibly because the women themselves are unwilling to explain what the argument was about in the first place, and the town’s watch has written a report that simply describes the cause as “architectural intervention” and leaves it there.

The Library has removed the mirrored corridor from its interior altogether. I have not asked where it went. Some questions improve nothing.

Additional Notes (Added by Pip Thimble)

Pemberton has been occupying the cupboard with noticeably more authority since the incident. I think she considers it hers now, which, given the circumstances, seems fair enough.

Compiled on the day of, and for some days after, the Little Wiggleton Market Incident. The Library has not returned to Little Wiggleton. It shows no signs of contrition. It has, however, added a mysterious dial to inner doors that can be turned to better determine where you would like to take a specific door to, so as to perhaps avoid any more unexpected broom cupboard entrances.

Author’s Note:

Most of this was written in a bookshop cafe in Hertfordshire, where the conversations are so determined to be overheard that they practically arrive pre-formatted. I merely tidy them up. The Library does the rest!

-Chaiga T. Cheska