I had only a three hour slot, and a lot of information to assimilate, so my attention was strictly divided between the hooded screen of the film-reader and the notebook on my left, eyes flicking between the two. As usual I was grateful for the deep-pile atmosphere of scholarly hush, knowing that in this inner sanctum the two librarians would say only what was necessary and relevant: exemplars of academic observance.
Consequently when I heard the door murmur open I anticipated no disturbance, and indeed there was none, my eyes remained focused, my left hand continued to write and my right hand wound on the film, scratched and grainy page by page. Nevertheless another of my senses – one not required for the task in hand - was instantly diverted: the person who entered, who quietly gave his name, briefly detailed his area of interest and confirmed that yes, he knew how to use the index, where to find the films he needed, had one of the most compelling voices I’d heard for a very long time.
His vowels were flat, confidently Calderdale, not harsh but modulated, rounded as a stream-smoothed pebble which had been washed every day of its life in soft, sky-dropped peat-brown hill water, his tones as smooth and as rich and as creamy as the toffee the town was famous for, and as he sat to use the reader on my right I changed my mind about the desirability of silence and would willingly have listened to him speak on any subject he chose for the rest of the morning, but he restricted himself to only the most occasional of occasional remarks to the librarian.
At twelve thirty I re-wound the film, turned the machine off and gathered up pencils and notebook, deliberately refraining from looking to my right until the last possible minute, whereupon I discovered that this aural distraction who had been sat beside me for the past two and a half hours was thin and faded, sixty-ish, tweed-jacketed and to all appearances totally unremarkable.
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