The Library in Knightsbridge

‘Oh, Miss Jones, don’t forget we’re moving into Claridge’s while Cook’s away.’ The somewhat flustered lady spoke sharply to her assistant, eager to make sure her copy of Agatha Christie’s Hallowe’en Party, due to be published the following week, arrived safely. For this was Harrods Library at the end of the 1960s, and it was my first day there as Controller.

Forty or so years ago, Harrods was still a place of considerable eccentricity. The Lending Library, with its attached Secondhand Book Department, hardly fitted with the high mark-up merchandise in the rest of this gargantuan store. However, the Harrods mantra that it could supply anything from a pin to an elephant allowed for the existence of the Library until its demise, in much reduced form, in 1989. My memory of the Library in that late ’60s period is of a clubbable atmosphere in various shades of Harrods green. The carpet, the furnishings, the rather nasty nylon overalls the Library assistants had to wear – all were green. Even the books, many of which were posted to distant climes, were wrapped in a double layer of green Kraft paper. Green is a peaceful colour, and if you took the busy escalators to the third floor and penetrated a seemingly endless row of luxury bedding, you reached the calm oasis of the Library. If you had entered this hushed environment at that time, you would have found me, seated at a leather-topped knee-hole desk, probably desperately copying out parts of jacket blurbs to compile one of the elegant little lists of recently published titles that helped Library users make up their minds as to what they might read next. Nearby, seated on one of the green-covered chairs, chatting with a Library assistant, you might have come across the unmistakable figure of Cecil Beaton in his broad-brimmed hat, or Christopher Lee, speaking in that distinctively rich voice and dressed in a long, dark coat – so much the epitome of the vampire Count in a Hammer horror film that new assistants were known to react strangely when they first encountered him. Writers who patronized the library included Storm Jameson and Dame Rebecca West, and the latter spread fear at her approach. From her apartment overlooking Hyde Park she would arrive at least twice a week to gather up six books at a time. Apparently suffering from severe insomnia, she seemed able to while away the night hours only on a diet of the latest thrillers. Woe betide the assistant who offered a title previously read. Recognizing famous faces could also be problematic. Many subscribers who lived abroad made only very occasional visits to the Library. For years books had been sent to the composer Sir William Walton at his home on the isle of Ischia, and on one of his infrequent calls a temporary assistant served him. Walton was a distinguished figure, with a heavy tan and pronounced profile. He was only a little irritated to be asked his name, but the assistant, a music student, was mortified. So what did all these exotic people read? Harrods had always understood that its function was shopping as entertainment, and the Library fulfilled this perfectly. If you opened your Sunday paper and read a review and wanted to be able to talk about the book at a dinner party on Friday, then on Monday you arrived wanting a copy. Harrods Library’s ‘on demand’ service guaranteed you would have one. If the title had not been ordered for the Library’s stock, then it meant a raid on the floor below in the hope that the Book Department would have at least one copy. If even this failed, then a charming, elderly Polish gentleman was sent off to the publisher’s trade counter to collect one. In an effort to avoid this expense too often, the Library ordered many hundreds of titles in advance of publication. The 12,000 paying subscribers who at one time were on the Library’s books had a voracious appetite for the latest thing. Titles that stick in the mind are such best-sellers as Antonia Fraser’s first historical biography, Mary, Queen of Scots, and James Morris’s Pax Britannica. But Harrods catered for all tastes. A selection in hardback of the latest Mills & Boons were kept discreetly out of sight, while some customers eagerly awaited the tenth volume of Anthony Powell’s sequence ‘A Dance to the Music of Time’, Books Do Furnish a Room. In the Library’s case they certainly did. All books were stripped of their dust-jackets before being put on the shelves, their cloth bindings and gold lettering giving the room the appearance of a great country-house library. This was not, however, for purely aesthetic reasons. Many books returned from their travels around the world, or from just down Sloane Street, with various marks of appreciation ranging from wine stains to a battering that made them look as if they had been used for clay-pigeon shooting. The Secondhand Department, next to the Library, had the essential role of moving on books after they had gone out of vogue. Six months after publication they could legally be sold at a reduced price. On went the carefully preserved dust-jackets, and at this point the public libraries quickly gathered to buy up extra copies of titles for which they still had long waiting-lists. In this way income could often be made from the same book twice. Harrods’ customers were demanding. Excellent service was expected and, if you ever wanted to complain, Harrods was the place to do it. An entire department was devoted to placating such people. My role as Controller was to smooth over these not infrequent problems, and my signature developed maturity at the bottom of letters sprinkled with apologies. Many customers were long term store account-holders – a privilege that seemed to be passed on with the family estate. A riffle through any of the drawers of small, neatly labelled buff files which were kept for each borrower was like reading Burke’s Peerage. Harrods’ exterior was festooned with coats of arms proclaiming its royal warrants, and the Library served the Palace along with everyone else. Dealing with royalty was always through an intermediary, and any book sent out in a Harrods van down the Mall had to be wrapped in a double layer of tissue paper, and be a mint copy. The Queen Mother was a regular borrower and her Library file bore a list of all the books she had read, and contained notes and lists of her preferences. The Library assistants were a devoted band, ranging from those in their late teens to a more mature core of ladies who had been tending their clientele for many years. The alphabet of surnames was divided up around the room, and the same assistant would always be on hand to attempt to recommend suitable reading. Long-term relationships developed and led to the arrival of small gifts at Christmas and other forms of appreciation. One very striking member of the House of Lords, always immaculately dressed and with flowing white hair, seemed to have more than a casual interest in the good-looking lady who looked after him. Stalking into the Library one afternoon with his arm behind his back, with a ‘Here you are, m’dear’, he thumped a brace of pheasants in full plumage on to the counter. Then, with a wave of his hand, he was off, leaving the assistant aghast at the sight of the dead birds in front of her. After three years with Harrods Library I moved up a notch and down one floor to become Assistant Buyer in the Book Department, an office that brought with it a gold key to the executive loo. The Book Department was positioned beside Harrods Zoo, and from time to time things would escape . . . But that’s another story.

Extract from Slightly Foxed Issue 32 © Andrew Brownlie 2011