The Day My Mum Lost A Library Book And Her World Became A Smaller Place

A few days ago, I read Paula Reid Nancarrow's latest blog, a compilation of quotes by authors about reading. Paula dedicated the post to her mother, who has always loved books and reading, and who now suffers from Altzheimer's Disease, which, of course, means that she and her family live within what Paula calls a "shifting reality."

Paula's blog made me think of my own mother - a dedicated reader, whose final years embraced the same shifting reality. I'd like to tell you about her lifelong relationship with reading... and with the public library.

It's impossible to think of Mum's books without also picturing our local library. She was a lifelong reader, as was my father, and they brought up a family of lifelong readers. My parents weren't well off when their children were young, but books were always worth spending money on. There were books for birthdays and Christmas and extra books in our Christmas stockings; and the day before going on holiday was always special, because we were given our holiday reading. There were always reference books in the house, too, in case they were needed for homework.

But I can remember only one occasion when Mum bought a book for herself. Even when things became financially easier, she didn't buy herself books. And no matter how much she loved reading, it was a waste of money to buy her a book as a present, because all she ever did with them was put them on a shelf to keep "in case I'm ever housebound." (She also had a cupboard crammed with tinned goods "in case we're ever snowed in." We never were.)

All my mum's reading came from the library. She was born long before the days of babies joining the library. In those days, you had to be 8 years old before you could join; but she was so desperate for reading matter than her father - who was a stickler for correct behaviour and the last person in world to break a rule and the first to be outraged at anyone else who did - lied about her age in order to get her enrolled.

She visited the library twice a week until almost the end of her life, always choosing fiction written by women or at least by authors using women's names. I never did tell her that Emma Blair and Jessica Stirling were really men. She loved family sagas. In her later years, she read contemporary novels as well as historicals, but before that she preferred books set in the past - but only stories that were set after the building of the railways. If ever I went to the library on her behalf, that was the instruction I was given - "They must be set after the building of the railways." To this day, whenever I pick up an historical novel, I immediately categorise it as a Mum-book or a not-Mum-book.

Then Altzheimer's Disease began to creep up on her. To begin with, reading was a great support and solace to her, as other areas of her life began to drift away. But then her memory problems started to reach into her reading life and when she picked up a book, she could no longer remember the story so far. You can imagine how frustrating this was. It was also frightening, because it was a quantifiable indication of her problems.

Did she stop reading? No, she didn't. The way she saw it, she had two choices. She could start again at the beginning every time she picked up a book - and she didn't want to do that, because that was what her own mother had been reduced to years previously. Or she could press on regardless and try to pick up what was happening, knowing that any understanding of the plot and any pleasure she derived would vanish the instant she put the book down - and that was what she chose to do, because she was a lifelong reader and she wanted to read.

Then came the day when she lost a library book. She was mortified. The library staff couldn't have been kinder or more supportive. They encouraged her to carry on borrowing books, but she wouldn't. I did my best to persuade her, but she wouldn't budge. Aware of her failing memory, she insisted she could no longer be trusted to look after library books ("the Corporation's property") and therefore she mustn't borrow any more.

And so ended her relationship with the public library service - a relationship that had lasted through seven decades. She never visited the library again.

Her condition worsened as a result. Going to the library - physically walking there twice a week - was one of the things that had provided scaffolding in her life. Removing it took away an important routine - it was only when it was too late and her life had shrunk and become geographically smaller that we realised how important it had been. Moreover, without that determination to read and engage even on a limited level with the fictional world that had always meant so much to her, Mum's mental capacity diminished, too.

Losing that library book and deciding not to use the library again was one of the defining moments of Mum's illness. But what I try to think of when I remember Mum and her reading, is the great pleasure it brought her and also the comfort and much-needed escape it provided for her when we lost my dad. Most of all, I am grateful to have had parents to whom reading was so important. They made me what I am - a lifelong reader and library user.