Chapter 4

The feather pillow was missing. Elizabeth slowly rolled over feeling against the wall for it, but in vain. It was Friday morning, and Elizabeth very much wanted to find her pillow, wherever she had thrown it, and go back to sleep. Her sleepy state precluded rational thought, so she thought of nothing but her comfy pillow. BRRRIINNGGGG, BRRIINNGGG!! Elizabeth jumped up and hit the alarm clock with force “I hate alarm clocks, it scared me to death. That one sounds like there’s a nuclear emergency of something.” It did however accomplish its task, Elizabeth was out of bed, and found herself standing on something squishy. “Oh, there’s my pillow.” Now right side up, she realized why her alarm clock was going off at such an early time, “It’s library day!” she said out loud and did a little dance. Thus motivated, she had the fortitude to jump into the chilly bathroom for a lukewarm shower and venture downstairs to turn on the kettle for her morning tea.

She put the kettle underneath the tap to fill it up, and she stared out the large kitchen window into the world beyond. Her favourite season was winter, and Charlbury seemed to be the most beautiful place for winter. The frost on the window provided a wispy frame for the hills that lay beyond, glittering like silver from the frost covering the dead rows of plants and the hedges that lined the stone fences. Away in the distance stood two of the Banbury Hill Farm miniature ponies, the morning sun reflecting off their caramel-coloured mane, and their steamy, wet breath making little clouds is the crisp morning air. Everything seemed still and silent, the colours were muted into the shades of blue and gold the Cotswolds part of England was known for. Elizabeth was quite sure she had never seen anything so calm and beautiful, and for a moment she wished her gift was art, so she could paint it. Her gift was not art, but she still ran upstairs to get her camera so she could at least capture the moment on film.

A short time later, Elizabeth was appropriately bundled up and laden down with her library supplies. She had a 10 AM appointment with another graduate student who would guide her through the library process. Elizabeth was thrilled about this, but first she had to go through the process of getting from the front door of her cottage in Charlbury to the main library in Oxford, no quick task in the best of weather, and made trickier by the layer of ice that made the hills look so beautiful. She started off down the hill, tentatively. “Oh, why can’t they just buy some salt?” She ended up slipping down the hill, and only ended up on her bottom twice. She was quite relieved when she finally walked into the level main street of Charlbury proper. “I deserve another tea.” Fortunately, “Whole Foods” was open, and the now friendlier Wendy was quick to get her a strong cup of tea and a tea biscuit. It was just the right snack to enjoy as she waited on the chilly train platform at Charlbury station. She was one of quite a few people waiting for the train into Oxford that continued on to London. Everyone else was wearing business attire and looked bored. She, on the other hand, was quite sure she gave off the air of tourist – she hoped that would soon turn to the air of doctorate student.

He was waiting on the large stone steps outside the admission building of the library. He looked slightly peeved, and Elizabeth was worried that this meeting would not be as fun as she had hoped. She was 15 minutes late, but there was nothing she could do about the ice on the train tracks!

“Hello! My name is Elizabeth, you must be Browning?!” she decided to take the first step to try to get the meeting off on the right foot. Fortunately, he responded well, “that upset look must be just how his face is.” She thought to herself. Browning was a second year doctorate student who was studying the effects of violence and gender in Shakespeare’s works. He did library introduction tours to new students for some extra money, and also because he loved the libraries. As Browning was explaining all this to Elizabeth, she was wondering about how many people in her life she had met who loved libraries, not many. “Since, I’ve been in England, almost everyone I’ve meet loves libraries just like me! I think this is where I fit!”

“The first step is to get your library card. Now this is a very formal process, but its part of the history of the University which stems back to the 13 century. The card will only be granted to you once you read a pledge about not eating in the library or burning books, or anything. It’s actually pretty funny – but DON’T laugh. That would not be looked upon well!” Browning explained to Elizabeth as they walked through the courtyards of the Bodleian library. He stopped outside an ancient wooden door, with little scholar gargoyles on each corner at the top, and the Latin phrase “Scholar Philosophy” scrolled in gold on a sign above the door. “Here we are.”

Inside, the process went exactly as Browning had described. She sat in an original “Bodely” chair as a rather bored looking Tutor, wearing his robes, gave a well-practiced speech about the history and privilege of the library. They were each given a 75-page handbook to the 100+ Oxford libraries, and were, one at a time, called up to read their pledge and receive their card. Elizabeth did get quite a thrill out of the history and tradition of it all, although she did seem to be the only one who didn’t find it entirely boring. With her freshly minted card in her hand, she followed Browning back into the cold sun in the center courtyard. “Now that you’re officially ‘in’ are you ready to go in?” asked Browning, with a poor sense of humour that Elizabeth felt compelled to smile at. “Yes, I’ve been waiting years to get into the Bodleian!” And together they started their tour.

Elizabeth knew, but was not fully aware of, the extent of the library system at Oxford University. Each college had it’s own library, and there was also a series of departmental libraries that all supplemented the main holdings. The ‘stacks’ as they were called, were actually all hidden away under the streets of Oxford, in underground rooms, with shelves and shelves of books. The Bodleian Library was a copy-right library, meaning they had every book published in Britain, after a certain date, of course. And all these books stayed hidden away, until some diligent soul called them up on the computer, which would then start the process of them being pulled from their underground grave, and being brought back to life, ready to pick up at the library of the reader’s choice.

Browning showed Elizabeth the complicated procedure for finding and pulling the books she needed from the stacks. He introduced her to all the different reading rooms, where she could choose to have her books sent. “Books are never loaned out from the Bodleian, the “readers” as the people with library cards are called, can only find the books they want and read them here. This really does make the Bodelian different from other University libraries. I believe that’s what really helps to develop a spirit of academic camaraderie among the students and tutors and fellows of the different colleges; we are united in our tether to the library, and our late nights in the reading rooms.” Browning explained to Elizabeth. “Now, I have to show you my favourite place in Oxford. My favourite, and probably half of the other students as well!”

They walked back through the courtyard where they had started, out onto the street, “This is it!” They had turned a corner and were facing the large, domed building, that Elizabeth had always considered the central landmark of Oxford, that she remembered from story books as a child. “Oh yes – what is it called again?” She turned to Browning, grinning like a little kid at the joy of such a lovely building. “This is the Radcliffe Camera; camera just is an old word for a round building, by the way.” Elizabeth did know that fact, but she didn’t fault Browning for thinking she didn’t. “It is only open to readers; tourists are only allowed to look at the outside. I think that’s one reason I love it so much – the rest of Oxford seems always to be crawling with tourists – it’s nice to have a place to get away.” “Can we go inside?” Elizabeth felt it was almost too much to ask. “Of course” said Browning, with a knowing smile.

The steps outside the building led to a landing inside, where a porter sat, checking students cards as they went in, and checking their bags for books as they left. Browning and Elizabeth showed their cards, and Browning suggested they start downstairs first. The downstairs room was known as the “Lower Cam” when ordering books, Browning explained, but it was probably the most popular reading room in Oxford. Thus, there’s usually a limit to how many books you can send here to read. Elizabeth could see why it was so popular – the room screamed “Oxford University” in a very subtle, British, understated way. The room was round, with heavy, mahogany tables branching out in a star pattern. Antique bankers lights were implanted in the tables at regular intervals, and wooden chairs, with tall backs and leather cushions, were pulled up to the tables. Along every available wall and panel were bookshelves, filled with ancient looking books. The room was filled with about 70 people, reading, writing, or finding books. Yet, it was completely quiet. “They get really upset when people talk,” explained Browning in a whisper, “let’s go upstairs.”

As soon as she walked through the large wooden door that Browning held open for her, Elizabeth knew she had found ‘her spot’ at Oxford. Whereas the Lower Cam was small, dark, and intimate, the “Upper Cam” was bright, airy and open. It was actually probably about three stories high, and the center area was open, with a huge, beautifully decorated dome to look up to. There was a selection of tables surrounding the walls of the room, but these were much more mundane than the one’s downstairs. Plain wood, with plain, unpadded wooded chairs and florescent lights. The floors creaked horribly when Elizabeth and Barrett walked further in, and the sound was compounded by the complete quiet of the readers. The walls again were lined with bookcases, but these ones were covered with a mesh door, locked up carefully. “Those are the really, really, old books” Barrett said.

He led her back to a metal, filigreed, circular staircase, which led them to the second floor of the upper cam, really just a second tier of tables, surrounding the edge, with a railing to see down to the center or up to the dome. “This looks like a beautiful place to work” whispered Elizabeth, “why aren’t there more people up here?” “Don’t know” said Barrett, disinterestedly. “Lucky for me” thought Elizabeth.

The final stop was at a coffee shop for a cup of tea. Barrett led her across the cobblestone street opposite the Radcliffe, into the basement of a church. “This is the coffee shop in the crypt of St. Mary’s. It’s something of an Oxford institution. Way overpriced, but a nice experience for first timers. When I was new here, my tour guide brought me here for tea.” Elizabeth thanked Browning, “It is an entirely different kind of coffee shop from anyone I’ve ever visited before.” They sat down at a table, and Elizabeth sipped her tea. “If there’s one thing I’m going to love about living in England,” she thought, “its good tea!”