Hallowe'en: One from the Box of Memories.

The library in my home town looks like it was designed by a council official in a shabby grey suit who thought that Modernism meant ‘as bland as you can possibly make it’ or, alternatively, ‘the sort of thing that only a council official in a shabby grey suit could possibly design.’

It wasn’t ever thus. When I was a kid the library was housed in an old Victorian building. The wooden staircase from the ground floor to where the books were housed was curved, and it creaked when you walked on it. It was dimly lit, and had stuffed birds and animals lining the ascent. The main room had windows only on the wall that faced the street, and was also dimly lit by tungsten bulbs in metal shades which seemed possessed of the notion that they needed to emulate their gaslight predecessors as closely as possible. In consequence, the light in there was not only dim, but yellow. And the whole place had a musty smell redolent of church vestries – an oddly dichotomous mix of dust and furniture polish. It suited books, and it suited Hallowe’en.

I always made a point of going there on the afternoon of the last Saturday in October. I would pick out half a dozen or so books on supernatural subjects, and spend the whole afternoon sitting at an old wooden table, reading portions that took my eye. At closing time I would walk out into the chilly darkness of a late afternoon in late October, my head full of ghosts, goblins, witches, vampires etc, etc. I wanted the veil to be thin, and so it seemed to be.

Eventually the number of books grew and the old library shrank into unsuitability. A council official came along with ‘the atmosphere shall be exterminated’ on his thin, bloodless lips, and my world made space for Bryan Ferry instead.