There weren’t many books in the house I grew up in. I remember the Pears Cyclopædia, 1926 edition, we’d inherited from my grandma, which taught me 101 uses for baking soda as well as the flags of the British Empire. Plus, it had an atlas showing most of the world coloured pink. But other than that. Books were expensive things, and in the early sixties, apart from my Beano and Rupert bear annuals, there wasn’t much else.

What books we did have were usually my brother’s, loaned from Corby’s public library. My brother generally saw books as a means to an end, to pass exams, and I don’t think I ever saw him read simply for the pleasure of it. But it was my brother who first introduced me to our local library, where I would spend many hours of my childhood agonising over my selection for the week, or just wandering around it, soaking up the wonderful silence of the place. Even the children’s section was mostly deserted, so I could spend as much time as I wanted making my selection without distraction.

The library, as shown above, was Corby’s most beautiful building. Built into a shallow bank, its upper floor was an embossed concrete frieze. While the lower floor was mainly glass, so it looked as if the building was floating.

I have to confess, I still have a couple of books from there which I ‘forgot’ to return. Fortunately, there is little chance of being hit with a fifty year library fine, as the library was burned down in the late seventies by vandals.

I have often felt guilty for not returning these two books, but console myself that I have at least saved these volumes from the flames.