Overdue Consideration
When Julian Peveril strolls into the village library with a smudged copy of Anna Karenina and eighty-three days of overdue fines, he expects a scolding at most. What he receives instead is a practical demonstration of Section Twelve: Paragraph Two, administered with authority, a corrective ruler, and just enough punctuation to make him regret every exclamation mark. Overdue Consideration is a tale of late returns, early regrets, and the enduring wrath of a well-organised librarian.
There was an air of formidable calm about the St. Mallow’s Village Library. Dust motes drifted through slats of golden light, a clock ticked in a tolerable breach of the “Silence” policy, and the reading chairs all bore the slightly sagged look of being sat upon by the same few devoted patrons for the better part of forty years.
Miss Eliza Cartwright presided over this temple of silence with the gravitas of a minor bishop. She was a woman of exacting standards, polished vowels, and the ability to silence patrons with a glance. In her domain, order was more than a virtue—it was a necessity.
It was approaching elevenses when Julian Peveril pushed open the heavy oak door, letting in a gust of warm spring air and bringing with him the faint whiff of irresponsibility.
He wore a lopsided grin and a soft blazer that looked slept in. Under his arm was a copy of Anna Karenina, its corners curled and a suspicious smudge on the back cover.
“Hi there, Miss Cartwright,” he said cheerfully, approaching the counter like a man who had absolutely no intention of making amends. “You’ll be thrilled to know I’ve returned your Tolstoy. No trains were involved.”
She did not look up from the returns ledger, merely leafing back through the pages—far too many, she noted—until she found the entry.
“It’s eighty-three days late,” she said, with the flat intonation of someone who had already guessed as much.
“Is that a personal best?” Julian replied, attempting charm.
Miss Cartwright finally met his eye. “Mr Peveril, this is your fifth serious delinquency in under two years. The first occurred with Wodehouse at the Waldorf. Then British Birds of the Chilterns. Then Great Railway Journeys, which I understand toured Portugal in your rucksack.”
Julian winced. “The Algarve copy was sun-dried, not water-damaged.”
“Your fines total £14.10,” she said crisply.
He patted his pockets in the exaggerated manner of a man who knew perfectly well he hadn’t brought any money. “Would you believe—I’ve left my wallet in my other jacket?”
“I would believe almost anything of you, Mr Peveril, unless it involves punctuality.”
He grinned, ready with another excuse, when she closed the ledger with a quiet thunk and stood.
“In cases of habitual delinquency,” she said, with the careful diction of someone reciting established policy, “library code section twelve permits the implementation of alternative corrective measures at the discretion of the head librarian — that would be me. You can see it clearly stated at the front desk.”
Julian glanced at the sign, which he had always assumed was a joke—like My other car is a Porsche.
“Oh,” he said. “You were serious about that?”
“This way, if you please,” she said, beckoning him with a finger that did not invite defiance.
The Reading Room
The reading room was a smaller, more solemn space. Framed prints of 19th-century poets glared from the walls, and a large oak table dominated the centre, surrounded by high-backed chairs. On the table, resting with an air of imposing menace, lay a long wooden ruler. It measured twenty inches, marked in imperious red ink for an air of greater authority. Despite its weighty heft and long tenure, it nevertheless looked thoroughly worn-in from extensive use.
Julian eyed it with mild alarm. “That’s not a standard ruler. It's not even been updated for the metric system.”
“No,” said Miss Cartwright, with polite emphasis. “It’s a corrective ruler for corrective measures.”
“From a former pupil’s art class, perhaps?” he offered weakly.
“From the County Archives,” she said, picking it up with delicate precision. “Used originally to flatten maps and ensure behaviour remains measured.”
Julian let out a nervous laugh. “Surely this is all a bit much for a late library book.”
Miss Cartwright looked at him over the rim of her spectacles. “Mr Peveril, you have flouted our due-date policy five times, travelled with borrowed books across international borders, and once returned Notes on a Small Island with notes of your own scrawled in the margins.”
“They were merely suggestions,” he ventured, with a nervous gulp.
“Yes, well—unless you would like me to withdraw your library card—you will kindly lean forward. Forearms flat on the desk, please.”
He obeyed—whether out of guilt or reckless curiosity—even he couldn’t say. Yet it seemed ungentlemanly to refuse her request and, he thought to himself, this must be for show. She could not possibly intend to carry through.
Miss Cartwright stood behind him, raised the ruler, and delivered a sharp, decisive thwack! across the seat of his trousers.
“Yowch!” Julian yelped, half turning to stare back in sheer disbelief.
She raised a finger to her lips. “Shh. This is a library, Mr Peveril.”
Another swift crack followed.
“I’m beginning to question the legality of all this,” he muttered.
Thwack.
“Surely you’re exceeding your authority.”
“Not at all. Section twelve, paragraph two. Corrective measures may be proportionate to the offence. And you have quite the catalogue of offences, Mr Peveril.”
Smack.
“I really don’t think this is permissible in a reading room,” he said through gritted teeth.
“Oh, on the contrary,” she said, inspecting the ruler like a connoisseur to verify it remained unharmed and ready for further action. “It’s where we correct misreadings. Especially misreadings of the rules.”
Several more brisk strokes landed in quick succession.
“You do realise I’m a grown man,” he muttered, voice slightly higher now, and he was feeling less grown-up with every passing second.
“Yes, and I had rather hoped you’d behave like one,” she replied coolly, delivering a particularly well-placed and deliberate swat.
“That one,” she said, “was for the marginalia. And now, for the exclamation marks.”
Julian grimaced and braced himself as a quantity of exclamation marks that would have unnerved the most broad-minded of proof-readers brought Miss Cartwright’s critique to a spectacular finale.
“Oof. Honestly, I think I’ve learnt my lesson.”
“I very much doubt that,” she said, laying the ruler down with finality. “But I suppose one must try.”
He didn’t know whether to protest or apologise—or simply marvel at the fact that this might have been the most structured scolding of his life, complete with citations, marginalia, and punctuation penalties.
“I’ll bring the £14.10 first thing in the morning, I promise. And perhaps I could help at the Book Fair—instead of facing an additional charge for interest.”
“I think that’s an excellent suggestion,” Miss Cartwright replied. “In that case you may arise, and we’ll consider this a probationary period.”
Reparation
They returned to the main counter with Julian eagerly massaging the seat of his trousers, and treading rather more carefully than usual. He wasn’t looking forward to the bus journey home, and fervently hoped the route was freshly resurfaced.
To his horror, Mrs Pettigrew—his next-door neighbour, and one of the library’s most formidable regulars—was waiting at the counter with the air of a duchess who had been kept waiting by a maid who omitted the milk jug from the tea tray. She wore a pressed lilac suit, carried her books in a tapestry bag, and had the permanently raised eyebrows of someone who was rarely surprised, but often disappointed.
“Ah, Mr Peveril. Back from the reading room, I see.”
Julian turned several shades of scarlet and could feel the perspiration beneath his collar.
Mrs Pettigrew offered a small, knowing smile and deposited her books on the counter. “Punctuality,” she said, without looking up, “is the courtesy of gentlefolk.”
Julian made an incoherent sound, nodded at no one in particular, and fled.
Miss Cartwright permitted herself the faintest smile as she reached for her date stamper.
“Good afternoon, Mrs Pettigrew. I’m very sorry to have kept you waiting. I was explaining to Julian that fines may be postponed—but corrective measures never are.”
First published in the Quiet Reform Supplement of The SpankLit Society Papers, Autumn 1992.