The Guildhall Library, City of London

This one Saturday in February was especially cold.

London seemed to be blanketed in one continuous and seamless cloud whose grayness carried the threat of snow. It diffused the sunlight so much that what did filter through was flat and devoid of shadows. The wind came at me head on regardless of which direction I was walking along a gridwork of streets unchanged since medieval times. Its cold energy wheedled its way through the weft and weave of my multiple layers of clothing.

I walked the very streets for half an hour where fortunes had been made and where losses inflicted mercilessly on investors and speculators by the various financial markets throughout history. Today the screens and trading books were taking a break.

My planned escape, my hoped for refuge from these cold streets that weaved like arteries through what is referred to as “the square mile” at the very heart of Britain’s centre of capitalism was the Guildhall Library in the Guildhall complex of buildings between the Bank of England and St Paul’s Cathedral.

When I walked into the reception area my glasses fogged up. My hands were too cold to fumble in my pockets without looking indecent to find something to wipe them with. So, I stood under a warm air vent and looked at the noticeboard unable to read the A5 and A4 sized notices pinned to it. As my glasses cleared the vague shapes in front of me became clear. They advertised exhibitions, talks, concerts and most importantly of all; the opening hours of the library. I could stay here until four thirty before walking the cold streets and heading home.

The library had filled up with readers from the back towards the front where the reception desk was. I found a table near the front in amongst shelves of reference books about the City of London. And luxury of luxuries, the table was next to a radiator belting out some heat; not warmth but heat.

One of the first books I retrieved from the shelves for my own research had the following quote on its front page:

“Two nations between whom there is no intercourse and no sympathy; who are ignorant of each other’s habits, thoughts and feelings as if they were dwellers in different or inhabitants of different planets…..”

Those words resonated and echoed around my chamber of feelings about the referendum in June the previous year to decide the country’s relationship with the European Union. I was disappointed to the point of disbelief that the country had voted to leave. Worse than that personal disappointment was how the country had been divided between vehemently binary lines with neither side able or willing to understand the other. Instead, defending positions with vitriol and opinions rather than looking at what the options were for something so important to the country with logic and rationality.

I settled down to my reading, research and scribbling of notes about the history of the streets I had just walked. For a break from this I glanced up at the nearby window. The light outside was still a dull cold grey. A couple of droplets of water surrendered to gravity on the glass. Rain or snow? Around the room the occupants at the other desks and tables busy reading and writing. A couple of them had been overcome by the heat and were in a doze position over their books. A bibliophile’s rigor mortis.

As I settled back to my own reading, I felt a sudden draft of cold air sweep across my table and could hear whispered voices from the desk at the entrance. There were two men standing where I had stood under the vent while I was clearing my glasses. They both had back packs and a couple of bulging bin liners. They left their “luggage” in the reception area while a librarian guided them to a table near me that had a computer screen. There was some rustling of clothes as they sat down, hushed conversations between them and the librarian and I heard the word “rugby”.

Some other readers looked up as silent disinterested witnesses. Others made facial expressions of disdain and one even let out a “tut tut” of disapproval. They all returned their attentions to their books and notepads.

The librarian came back to where the two men were sitting carrying two sets of headphones. He then leant over the keyboard of the computer and clacked away at the keyboard.

“There, that’s all set up now. You can watch the rugby and listen to it on these” he whispered as he offered them the headphones.

This was the day that England was playing France in what is called the “Six Nations” series. It raises nationalistic passions in supporters on all sides but once the final whistle is blown the differences are forgotten except in the chiding of winners against losers over pints of beerin bars around the country.

I carried on with my reading and writing as the others around me except for the two men who craned forward from their chairs to almost climb inside the screen. It must have been a close game as every nuance on the pitch flexed through to their hands which gripped themselves with frustration, pain, agony and ecstasy. All the passionate ingredients that spill out from any sport to the spectators played to its best.

At twenty-five past four the librarian announced the place would be closing in five minutes. Around the room there was a flurry of rustling papers, books being shut and the luggage that regular inhabitants of libraries carry their own worlds in. I started clearing my table. The librarian came over to the two men. When they saw him, they removed their headphones.

“Stay and watch the end o the game…..it’ll take at least twenty minutes to put all the books back and tidy up” he said.

“Cheers mate……it’s right bloody close…..England could win but I don’t trust those French” one of the men replied.

I packed my things away, put on my scarf, coat and hat. Outside it looked dark and cold. I would be back home in about two hours. I walked past the table where the two men were sitting. I asked how the game was going and was told it was “right crackin” and England might just win.

At Waterloo Station I surfaced from the underground and looked up at the huge TV screen above the departures board. The post match review was taking place and in the bottom right hand corner of the screen the final score:

ENG 19 FRA 16

That was close. a close game.

As I waited for my train I read through my notes and found the rest of the quote from the front page of that first book I took off the shelf at the Guildhall Library half a day ago::

“…..who are formed by different breeding, are fed by different food, are ordered by different manners, and are not governed by the same laws……THE RICH AND THE POOR.” (Benjamin Disraeli 1804 – 1881)