The Library is cool and calm, clear and bright.

She stops typing for a moment to listen to other, busy fingers on warm keyboards, tapping through the room as they echo her own rhythm.  The only other sound she can hear is the gentle hum of air-conditioning, running to keep their space at a constant temperature.

She turns her face up to the open, natural light coming down from above and smiles, eyes closed in a brief moment of pure joy.  She loves the Library and always has.  It is her place of refuge, her solace, where she can be alone, and yet still together with her people.

She looks around at everyone working within their own silent contemplation, towards that shared purpose of knowledge, and perhaps a little wisdom; whether it’s a written journey through books and journals, or a visual journey through pictures and maps.

Inside the smaller library of her own mind, everything is in a state of flux.  Nothing is truly known or believed, except by degrees.  Sometimes there are brief moments of peace, of temporary understanding, and then another thought re-stirs her cauldron of ideas.  Then she begins the cycle anew, until her library is closed.

Or that cycle is interrupted.

She hears a heavy step and turns to see a disorganised pile of books wavering up the stairs.  If they had been sorted according to size and shape, they would not be so precarious, and their owner would not have to grasp each one with a different finger of his large hands.

He sees her looking, and a large open smile beams over the top of his books.  She quickly turns her gaze back to the laptop, leaning forward towards its warmth and encouraging messages.  Today it says ‘You’re an Idiot.  Study Harder.’

She returns to the notes on her screen and pretends rapt attention, re-reading their final line in a last-ditch attempt to reclaim the train of thought she once had.  It has either stopped completely or run on without her to the next station.

She is aware of his tall imposing frame as it moves towards her and then comes to a standstill next to her.  Even after he has stopped, the warmth of his presence continues towards her and she knows he is either looking at her, or more likely at the desk next to her.

She looks across the desk to her partner-in-research for support, but instead sees her smiling at the man stood next to her.  She gestures that if he wants to take any of the empty desks for working on, it’s okay.

It’s not okay.  It’s definitely not okay.

She is about to assert this herself when a mighty thump makes her start.  She looks over at the books dropped onto the desk next to hers and then up at the man who let them collapse like fallen words.

He moves his well-built body with ease as he manouvres the chair to sit down and has a short mop of shiny black hair that appears to have a mind of its own, especially where it curls around his ears.  He is full of charming smiles that she is sure would work on most women, but will not work on her.

It’s hard for her not to return his smile, open and affable as it is, but loud noises in quiet libraries cannot and will not be condoned.  She glares at him until he whispers ‘Sorry’ and offers her yet another smile, but still she doesn’t smile back.

She glares across the desk at her so-called friend, who smiles encouragement to her and mouths ‘he’s nice’.

All of which he sees.

It’s all very well for you.  You’ve already found someone.  You can be as nice to handsome men as you wish.

She returns her attention to the laptop screen, catching a glimpse of the compatriot smile between her so-called friend and her new next-door neighbour.  She refocuses back on her notes and returns to the start of the paragraph in an attempt to discern where her train has gone, if it was ever there to begin with.

She is studying the poetry of William Blake.  Today’s notes are from consulting many books to enhance her understanding of his complex work, ‘The Tyger’.  She bends her head down to re-read the text, and feels an interrupting warmth come close to her again, this time with a purpose.

She takes a moment to compose her annoyance into a polite smile and then turns to address him.  This time, she is greeted with a different smile, a smaller, more circumspect one.

Trying each one to see which will work.  I know your game.

She raises her eyebrows a little to enquire what he wants.

He whispers ‘may I borrow a pencil please?’

She looks down at the pencil case she has brought with her with two spare pencils inside and offers them to him.  He takes the one nearest to him, turns to leave her alone, then turns back but before he can ask for a rubber and sharpener, she already has them proffered.

He takes them, his fingertips gently brushing the skin of her palm, seeming to linger there and she feels her face begin to redden.  She turns away and hears a whispered ‘thanks’ as she nods a curt reply.

She looks back down at her book, tilting her head to the side so her hair hangs down to cover the flush in her face.  She is relieved when he starts to arrange his books and open them to begin making his own notes.

She turns her attention back to the book, to The Tyger and to Blake’s illustration.  She notes how the branches of the tree separate some parts of the poem, bringing other parts together, changing the meaning for her.

She doesn’t notice for a moment that he is looking at her book too and she turns towards him.  He opens his mouth to speak and she makes a ‘Sshhh’ motion with her lips.  He nods and then points to the spare notepad on her desk.  She relents and passes it to him before returning to the poem.

She is aware of the pencil’s noise as he scratches something on her pad and then offers it back to her.

It reads: ‘Do you know why The Tyger is more well-known than The Lamb?’

She thinks about this.

She remembers her grandmother reciting The Tyger to her but doesn’t remember any recitations of The Lamb.  The Tyger was one of the many poems her grandmother could quote by heart, even after the long years had taken other words and memories from her.

So, either her grandmother didn’t recite it, or her own memory is going now.

She writes ‘No.’

He takes the pad back and she watches him writing, then looks up at his face.

He is so keen and earnest, his brow furrowing slightly just above the bridge of his nose as he concentrates on the words, seemingly unaware of her attention.  She catches herself breathing in his warmth again and wants to lean in closer, but she stops and pulls back to her side of the desk.

What he is writing now?  What does he want to say? 

Is it about William Blake or something just for me?

Of course it’s William Blake he’s interested in.  He must have seen the books when he was coming up the stairs and that’s why he came over to the desk.

That makes the most sense.

He finishes writing and looks up at her, smiling at her slightly flushed attention on him and hands her the notepad.

‘The Lamb was written as part of Songs of Innocence and The Tyger was written as part of Blake’s contrary work Songs of Experience.’

This much she knew.

‘To me, it feels like you can have innocence but once you lose it, it can never come back.  Experience is something you get and keep over time.  It can never be lost, only increased and enhanced.  That’s why The Tyger is remembered more than The Lamb, because Experience speaks to us longer and more deeply than Innocence.’

She nods at his insight.

‘Plus, Tygers are cooler.’

A small laugh is surprised from her then and she looks up at him.  At his unwavering clear blue eyes looking directly into hers.  There is no uncertainty in their gaze, only interest and now a kind of knowing regard.

He smiles as he takes the notepad from her again and she watches him write ‘Cup of Tea?’ before passing it back to her, with a look that says he already knows the answer to his question.

She looks across the long desk at her research partner, who is watching the exchange of written words with interest and passes her the notepad.  She reads it down to the end and smiles, offering her an effusive thumbs-up and the words ‘Go for it’.

She looks back at him for the longest moment, staring into his face for the slightest hint of a veil.  Will his resolve weaken as she makes him wait for the answer he seems so sure of?

It doesn’t.  There is no doubt in him.

Finally, she smiles.

Continued in ‘The Café and James MacPherson’

Following on from The Library & William Blake, the story continues…

The downstairs Library Café is busy for a Saturday lunchtime. Bundled up couples come in from the November cold already staking its claim as the start of winter, to reheat their chilled hands on tea-warmed mugs and lift their energy with sugary treats.

At a table meant for two, three new friends sit in warm companionship of tea and talk, about the focus of their studies, about the progress they have made, and how much further they feel they have to go.

She is trying to take in the things he is saying, but since he moved closer and his leg has been pressing strongly against hers, warm through soft jeans, she can think of little else.  Does he know his leg is touching mine?  Of course he does, but is it because he wants to, or because he has to?

He stands up and she feels the warmth suddenly gone, leaving a disappointed cold patch on her leg.  She looks up the full length of his tall stature, to his eyes as they flash blue at her from beneath darkly tousled hair.

“I’ll be back,” his warm deep voice says and she watches him walk away.

“He likes you,” her friend says.

“And he bought me a cup of tea to prove it.”  She lifts the almost empty cup to her lips. “He bought you one too, does that make us a threesome?”

“He bought you one too, does that make us a threesome?”

“He was just being nice.”

“So, he doesn’t want a threesome, then?”

“Disappointed?”

She laughs, returning the cup to its ill-fitting saucer.

“He clearly wants to talk to you, but I think he’s a little shy.”

“He wasn’t so shy in the library.”

“Neither were you, but then it’s easier to communicate when you don’t have to speak, isn’t it?”

She looks at her friend and says, “Much easier.”

“I think he wants a proper date with you.”

“This wasn’t a proper date?”

“I know it’s been a while for you,” her friend says,“but I don’t think a cup of tea counts as a date.  And not when there are more than two people present.”

“Maybe half a date,” she says.  But her emotions are on alert now.

I can’t go out on a date, I’m wearing the wrong clothes for starters.  Scruffy jeans and a bobbled cardigan with a hole in the sleeve, worn through from polishing up the laptop.  I keep meaning to patch it up, but who’s got the time?

 “I’ve got too much work to do to think about dating.”

“There’s no deadline,” her friend states.  “Apart from the ones you impose on yourself.”

“I have a blog to write.”

“Again, a deadline that you have set.”

She starts to redden a little, as if caught in a lie.  It’s not really a lie.  I do have a lot of work to do.  A lifetime of it in fact.  It doesn’t matter if it’s for my own personal blog. 

“People read my posts and expect to read the next one.”

“Yes,” she agrees.  “But not until you post it.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Then it should be.”

She stares down into her cup again, swirling her leftover tea and the dregs left behind.

Her friend puts her own cup down on the table and pushes it away, leaving a circle smear along the surface.

She looks down at the mug that should be with its saucer, even if they don’t fit together.

“I’m not telling you what to do.  It’s up to you.”

“I know.”

“It’s your choice if you want to go back to the big room of books and disappear inside another one.”

“I don’t disappear.”

“Yes you do.  I’ve watched you dive head first into every book and if you like it well enough, you follow it up with your feet.”

“Not every book.”

She looks away and sees him coming back.

He is returning to their table, then to his research upstairs.  She watches as his attention is grabbed by something else.  Or someone else.  Perhaps another girl took his fancy, one that styles her hair, applies make-up and wears clean girly clothes that don’t have holes in them.

She turns back to her friend and decides it is time to dive into another book.  Books are great.  They rarely let you down, and if they do, you can always get another one.  And they never leave you.  Though sometimes they hide under the bed.

She is about to suggest they return to the library, when he comes back to their table and smiles at her.

“Let me ask you something,” he says.  “Is it the poetry that you like, or that William Blake wrote it?”

She thinks about this.

“I liked poetry first, from school and from my granny, who could quote poems at length from memory.  She particularly liked to quote The Tyger.   So I guess my interest in William Blake came a little after.  Or kind of at the same time.”

He nods.  “Then can I interest you in an exhibition on 18^th Century Scottish Poems and their Illustrations?”

He wants me to go to an exhibition with him?  Away from the safety of the library?  That sounds dangerously like a proper date.

He seems to sense her hesitation and says, “It’s here.  The exhibition is just across the way.”  He points to the small Exhibition Area.

As she looks over, he says, “It includes poems by Robert Burns and James MacPherson.”

“I’ve heard of Robert Burns,” she says, “but not the other guy.  I don’t know much about Scottish poems, I’m afraid.”

She turns back to face him, sure that he’ll be put off by her total lack of knowledge.  But he isn’t.  He’s looking at her with the same enthusiasm he had upstairs for William Blake.

“James MacPherson was famous for his tales of Ossian the bard.”

Her friend stands up and says, “Sounds like you’re just the guide to take her round.”

He throws a bashful smile her way and says, “I’m not an expert or anything, but I do know a little of his work.”

“Sounds great.”

Sounds like I’m being shanghaied into this.  She looks back up at him and says, “Well it sounds interesting, but I still have a lot of research to do.”

Her friend says, “Yes, but there’s no deadline.  Take a break.”  Then she leans over to her friend and says in a lower voice, “Take a risk.  He likes you.”

More fool him.  She looks from one to the other and says, “Sounds great.”

His smile beams out at her then, brighter than when he came up the stairs and spotted her sitting at the desk.  He holds out an arm and indicates the way across for her, so she stands to go.

Behind his back, her friend gives her the thumbs-up before heading back towards the library stairs.  She starts to redden a little again and begins to walk over to the poetry exhibition ahead of him.

This won’t take long to walk through to the end.  And my knowledge of this kind of exhibit is a lot slimmer than me, so if he actually wanted to take someone who could discuss and debate Scottish poetry, then he’s got the wrong girl.

It would take me hours of study to reach the level he’s clearly at, or to accomplish anything at all.  Those books he brought over to the desk upstairs were very advanced, much deeper than I could swim in.

I’d drown.

He’s not in her sightline and she slows a little in order to look back, but before she can there is a slight pressure at her back, and knows that his hand is gently there.  She smiles and keeps walking until they come to the start of the small exhibition.

They walk slowly along the glass-fronted exhibit, looking at the poems alongside their later illustrations.  It doesn’t take long to reach the end of the exhibit, where they come upon the poetry of James MacPherson, and a number of illustrations.

He stops in front of the case and bends down to regard the illustration, then looks back at her, clearly waiting for her to join him.  She matches his slightly bent-over stature to look at an 1819 illustration entitled ‘Son of Morni’.

In it, a young warrior has tossed aside his tools of cruel war; his helmet, shield and spear, and fallen to the ground.  His deep sadness is being looked down on by a lightened female presence, someone who could be his guardian angel.

She says, “I don’t know much about the text for this illustration, but in some ways it reminds me of the pen and ink drawings William Blake did for his religious illustrations.  It feels like the same kind of emotion.  Sort of.”

He says nothing for a moment.  She looks at him as he is looking at the drawing, probably wondering where her piece of nonsense came from.

Instead he says, “Interesting.  I never looked at the MacPherson illustrations in that way before.  Historically they came before Blake, and were also published in London, so it’s possible he saw these before he did his own drawings.”

“Or they might have gone to the same school to learn to draw,” she offers.

He nods, “Yes.  They could have gone to the same school, or learned in a similar style, orfrom a similar school of thought.”

He looks at her then, his eyes transforming as the blue submits to its inner dark circle.  “Why should Ossian sing of battles?  For nevermore shall my steel shine in war.”

She stares at him.

Where do his words come from?  Do they live deep within, rising from a passion shared, like they were for her granny, words that would bubble up with the right words to trigger them?  Or the right environment?

“That’s the way poetry should be,” she says, “Out loud, live and in person.  My granny often shared her love of poetry and books, of stories and tales, especially poetry, and of course Shakespeare.”

He straightens and asks her, “What’s the first live Shakespeare you saw?”

“King Lear,” she says, standing up beside him, looking into the gaze fixed firmly on hers.  “I saw it when I was still at school, and I never forgot it.”

“Especially the part where they put Gloucester’s eyes out.”

“Yes, especially that part,” she agrees, experiencing the same gut twist as she felt then.

There was something special about being in the theatre, experiencing it live, as if it really was happening to the man in the chair, being held down and tormented before his eyes were put out, first one and then the other.

 “Years later, I came upon the William Blake painting of King Lear and Cordelia in prison together,” she smiles.  “As if everything was linked.”

He says, “We two alone will sing like birds in a cage.”

She smiles and nods. They are at the end of the exhibition now, but he is not moving towards the exit, and is standing in the way of her doing the same.  She could go round him and make an end of this, but doesn’t.

He’s staring into the glass case and not really seeing what’s there.  As if there’s a debate going on inside his mind.  For the first time in their short acquaintance he seems uncertain, and she tilts her head a little as she regards him with a small smile.

Human after all.

He turns to look at her and sees her smiling at him.  This seems to make up his mind.  He takes a deep breath, and lets it raggedly out.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he says.

“It’s okay,” she says.  “What do you want to do?”

“I want to ask you out on a proper date,” he says.  “A cup of tea hardly counts as a date.”

She smiles and says, “I was thinking the same thing.”

“Really?”

“A cup of tea is more like half a date.”

A laugh is surprised out of him and she laughs a little too.

It’s okay.  You can do it.  I want you to do it.  Truthfully, I’ve wanted you to do it since I saw you coming up the stairs.  Since you dropped your books down beside me.  I just couldn’t admit it until now.

“Would you like to go on a date with me?”

“I’d love to,” she smiles.  “Where would you like to go?”

His eyes widen as if he hadn’t thought that far ahead.  He looks around and sees a ‘Places to Go’ display, “Let’s find something.”

As they walk towards the leaflets of many colours, the one that catches her eye is for the Galleries, and she reaches for it.  He reaches for it too and their fingers touch, but this time she does not pull away from him.

He takes her hand and says, “As this has only been half a date, I could not be so presumptuous as to kiss you.”

Really?  That’s a shame.

“So I’ll do this instead.”

He lifts her hand up towards his mouth.  She knows what’s coming, but can hardly believe it.  Things like this never happen to her.  Well, in her distracted imagination, perhaps, but never in the here and now.

The touch of his lips to her fingers is gentle, but there is strength beneath.  As if he wants to do more, but not here and not now.  A promise of what is to come, perhaps, as he holds her hand in his.

“I’d love to take you to the Gallery today.  You know, once we’ve finished our work upstairs.”

Work?  On a day like today?  Who could possibly think about doing research and analysis on a day like this?

She smiles and says, “I don’t think I could possibly focus on any more work today.”

“No,” he agrees.  “Not now I have something better to look forward to.”

That was just a little bit…

“Too corny?” he asks.

“No,” she smiles.  “Just corny enough.”

“Good,” he says. “Then that just leaves three things for us to do.”

“Three?” she asks.

“Pack up our books.  Get our coats.”

“And?”

“If we’re going on a proper date, you really should tell me your name.”

A smile grows on her face and she says, “Ellie.”

“Ellie,” he says, and a series of tiny sparks go off inside her.

“I’m Sam.”

“Sam,” she repeats with a smile, and they walk together towards the Library stairs.