W hen, one Thursday morning last winter, I arrived at Battle library in west Reading , the library manager, Terry Curran, was sitting at the front desk writing a quiz. “It’s not a hard quiz,” said Curran, who was worried about attendance. “Often just the same two ladies turn up, and they don’t pay attention.
” Still, he hadn’t lost hope. He’d even put posters up in the Tesco round the corner. The phone rang.
“Yes, we have a children’s craft session at two,” said Curran’s colleague Amanda Giles, her voice warm and encouraging. “Just come along.” They’d already received an urgent request from the housing team at a nearby council, about someone who had to scan a form by 2pm if he was going to be housed before Christmas.
Could the library help? They didn’t usually offer scans, but Battle would make an exception – and they wouldn’t charge. A man carrying a plastic bag rustled up to the front desk. He twitched as he spoke, and he spoke at great speed.
“Do you have a magnifying glass?” he asked. Curran disappeared into the office and returned with a small purple magnifying glass from a children’s game. The man thanked him and made for the computers.
An elderly gentleman with a courtly air had a question about the library’s irregular opening hours. “They’re difficult for me to understand,” he said. “They’re hard for me as well,” answered Curran.
“This library is a very friendly type of place,” added the man, unprompted. “I�.
