Читать книгу The Delegates’ Choice - Ian Sansom - Страница 7

The meeting had ended, as was traditional at Mobile Library Steering Committee meetings, amidst argument, dissolution and general disarray—‘Don’t forget the Booker Prize longlist, announced in August!’ cried Eileen. ‘That’s August!’; ‘PR!’ Ron was saying. ‘New van! Great PR!’; and ‘Some reports of discrepancies in cataloguing!’ Linda was reminding Ted and Israel; and ‘What?’ said Chi-Chi; and ‘What?’ said Chang-Chang—and then it was the long drive home in the van with Ted silent and sulking and Israel flicking through the fat, plush brochures and the programme for the Mobile Meet, the UK’s, quote, Premier Mobile Library Event. Unquote.

It was an uncomfortable, damp, sweaty summer’s evening; tempers were frayed; temperatures high; and Israel knew that he was going to have to do something pretty special to persuade Ted to go with him over to England. This was his opportunity to ensure himself a free trip back home: the prospect of leaving Tumdrum was the best thing that had happened to him since arriving.

‘There’s some really good stuff on at this Mobile Meet thing,’ he said casually.

‘Huh,’ said Ted.

‘Look. A Guide to Electronic Self-issue,’ said Israel.

‘Bullshit,’ said Ted.

‘Supplier-Select Book-Buying For Beginners,’ said Israel.

‘Bullshit.’

‘Bibliotherapy,’ said Israel.

‘What?’

‘Bibliotherapy,’ repeated Israel.

‘Bullshit.’

‘Honestly, some of this stuff looks really good,’ said Israel. ‘I think it’ll be really interesting.’

‘That’s because you’re a ragin’ eejit, like the rest of them.’

‘Thank you.’

‘My pleasure. Hirstle o’ blinkin’ eejits, the whole lot of youse.’

‘What’all of idiots?’

‘Ach, read a fuckin’ dictionary, Israel, will ye? I’m not in the mood.’

‘Right. Ted,’ said Israel soothingly, ‘not being funny, but you really shouldn’t take this personally.’

‘I shouldn’t take it personally?’

‘No. The whole van thing, you know. You need to see it as an opportunity rather than a threat.’

Israel could sense Ted’s neck and back—his whole body—stiffening in the van beside him, which was not a good sign. Ted was like a dog: he gave clear warnings before attacking. Israel’s softly-softly, soothing approach was clearly not working; he’d rubbed him up the wrong way.

‘An opportunity!’ said Ted, his shaven head glistening, his slightly shiny short-sleeved shirt shining, and his big hairy forearms tensing and tensing again. ‘An opportunity! The van I’ve tended like me own wean for the past…God only knows how many years, and they’re planning to throw on the scrap heap? And I should view that as an opportunity?’

‘Yes, no, I mean, just…You know, all good things must…and what have you—’

‘Ach!’

‘Plus,’ said Israel, trying an entirely other approach. ‘Yes! Plus! You could think of it as a nice holiday, you know. We’re going to get to go over to England, relax, choose a new van. It’ll be great fun.’

‘Fun?’

‘Yes.’

‘You are actually stupit, aren’t ye?’

Israel thought fast. ‘We could have air conditioning in the new van,’ he said, wiping the sweat dramatically from his brow. ‘You know how hot it gets in here sometimes. And with the rain, in the summer. You were complaining about it only yesterday. Dehumidification.’

‘We don’t need dehumimidifaction.’

‘For the…books, though.’

Maybe a clerkly appeal, an appeal to worthiness, to the ancient and high-minded principles of librarianship?

‘We can’t think of ourselves always, Ted. We’re librarians. We have to think of the good of the books. You know, that’s our first responsibility, as librarians, to the books, rather than to the van.’

‘To the books?’

‘That’s right. To the books. And…’

God, what else would appeal to Ted?

‘Our responsibility to the clients.’

‘The clients?’

‘Yes,’ said Israel, without conviction.

‘Are ye having me on?’

‘No,’ said Israel. Clearly an appeal to their responsibility to readers wouldn’t work. It wouldn’t have worked with him either.

‘You’re not even half interested though?’ said Israel tentatively. ‘I mean, they’re giving us carte blanche, Ted. We could go for the full works. Anything we want. You know, like a mobile Internet café. “Would you like an espresso with your Catherine Cookson, madam?” We could have our own blog! Honestly, it’d be amazing.’

‘No,’ said Ted. ‘It wouldn’t be amazing.’

‘Why?’

‘Because we’re not getting a new bloody van!’

‘Language, Ted.’

‘Don’t talk to me about my language, ye fuckin’ eejit!’

‘Sorry,’ said Israel.

‘Thank you,’ said Ted.

‘We are getting a new van, though,’ said Israel determinedly.

‘We’re not getting a new van,’ said Ted, more determinedly. ‘We are not going to England, we’re not going to some daftie wee librarian conference—’

‘The Mobile Meet,’ corrected Israel.

‘And we’re not getting a new van.’

‘But—’

‘They’ll not get rid of this van,’ said Ted. ‘If they want to get rid of this van they’ll have to get rid of me first.’

‘Don’t say that, Ted.’

‘The van’s staying.’

‘Ted!’

‘And so am I. Here! In Norn Iron. And we are not getting a new van.’

‘We are, Ted,’ said Israel.

‘We’re not.’

‘We are.’

‘We’re not. I’m telling you now,’ said Ted, turning across to look at Israel, and gripping the steering wheel so tight that Israel thought he might actually choke it and throttle the whole vehicle. ‘Again. We. Are. Not. Getting. A. New. Van! We’re not going anywhere. We’re staying put! D’ye understand me?’ When Ted raised his voice it was like someone hitting you around the ears.

‘Please?’ said Israel quietly.

‘No!’ yelled Ted.

Israel was worried that Ted might have a heart attack or a stroke and they’d end up swerving and crashing and they’d both die, and they’d make the front page of the Impartial Recorder: ‘Librarians killed in tragic mobile library crash’, with a grainy black and white photo. And a few words of tribute from Linda Wei. Which was not the way Israel would have wished to be remembered.

Ted had lost his temper, and Israel had no other means of persuasion. He was reduced to pathetic pleading.

‘Please, Ted. A new van? A trip over to England? Seize the day. Carpe diem and all that.’

‘Aye, and who’s he when he’s at home?’

‘Carpe diem? It means—’

‘Of course I know what carpe diem means, ye fuckin’ wee shite!’

Ted punched the steering wheel. Which was never good. It made the whole front of the dashboard wobble.

‘Listen!’ said Ted. ‘Let me make meself perfectly plain. Do not patronise me. Do not try to talk me round. And do not try to appeal to my better nature!’

‘No, Ted. No, I wouldn’t dream of…appealing to your…’

That gave Israel an idea. They drove on in silence for a few minutes longer, Israel flicking through the programme of events for the Mobile Meet.

‘At the Mobile Meet they have all these competitions, you know.’

‘Hmm,’ said Ted.

‘Driver of the Year.’

‘Hmm.’

‘State of the Art Vehicle.’

‘Hmm.’

‘Best Livery.’

Israel thought he could just detect a slight interest in Ted’s ‘hmm’s. This could be it. He tried to utilise his advantage. Counter-intuitive was the way to go with Ted; there was no point setting out premises and establishing arguments. There was absolutely no point arguing with Ted, or appealing to his better nature. Cunning—that’s what was called for.

‘This old thing probably wouldn’t stand a chance, of course, at that sort of competition level.’

‘Don’t ye get started into the van again now.’

‘No, no, I’m not. I mean, she just wouldn’t, though, would she, realistically, stand a chance of winning a prize at the Mobile Meet? With that, you know, all that competition. Not a chance.’

‘Ach, of course she’d stand a chance.’

‘I don’t think so, Ted. Not up against all those English vans.’

‘Ach,’ said Ted.

‘Not a chance of winning. Not in a million years. If you look at these categories. Concours D’Elégance.’

‘What?’

‘Concours D’Elégance means, you know, the best-looking van there on the day.’

‘Ach, well, if she was there, she’d definitely win that. Best van, no problem.’

‘No?’ said Israel. ‘Do you really think so?’

‘Of course she would!’

‘Well, I suppose if you pimped her up a bit and—’

‘Wee bit of work, no problem,’ said Ted. ‘Definitely she’d win it. She’s a beauty,’ said Ted, affectionately stroking the dashboard. ‘Aren’t you, girl?’

He had found Ted’s Achilles heel; his underbelly; his soft spot; his weakness; his fatal Cleopatra. Pride.

‘I tell you what,’ said Israel. ‘Do you want to have a bet on it?’

‘A what?’ said Ted. ‘A bet?’

‘Yes, a bet, on you winning the Concours D’Elégance at the Mobile Meet.’

‘With you, a bet?’ said Ted.

‘Yes.’

‘Ach,’ said Ted. ‘I’m good living. I don’t gamble.’

‘Oh,’ said Israel. He knew that in fact Ted did gamble; the week of the Cheltenham Gold Cup he’d talked about nothing else. Israel had had to cover for him every day. Then again, Ted also claimed he didn’t drink. And didn’t smoke. And he did. And he did.

‘I don’t gamble,’ repeated Ted. ‘Unless I know I’m going to win.’

‘Ha ha,’ said Israel.

Israel could see a glint in Ted’s eye.

‘A bet,’ Ted said to himself. ‘The van to win the…What did you call it?’

‘Concours D’Elégance.’

‘Concord De Elephants,’ repeated Ted.

‘That’s it,’ said Israel.

‘Are ye serious?’

‘Yes, absolutely I’m serious.’

Israel could see Ted thinking through the proposition. ‘Well?’ he said gingerly.

‘I tell you what, son,’ said Ted, pausing dramatically. Big pause. ‘Seeing as you’ve asked.’ Another pause. ‘You’re on.’

‘No. Really? Honestly?’

‘Yes,’ said Ted.

‘Really?’ said Israel.

‘I said yes.’

‘Great!’ said Israel. ‘How much? A couple of pounds?’

‘Couple of pounds!’ said Ted, bellowing with laughter. ‘Couple of pounds! Ach, ye’re a quare geg. No, no, no. No. If I’m going all the way over to the mainland I want to get my money’s worth out of you. We’ll do it properly. I’ll get JP to open up a book on it.’

‘JP?’

‘The bookie on Main Street. He’ll see us right.’

‘Erm.’

‘Yer bet’s definitely on now; ye’re not going to back out?’

‘No. Definitely. Absolutely,’ said Israel. ‘Game on.’

‘You don’t want to change yer mind?’

‘Nope.’

‘Ye know ye don’t back out of a bet, now?’

‘Quite.’

Ted reached a hand across. ‘Five hundred pounds,’ said Ted.

‘Five hundred pounds!’ said Israel.

‘You’re right,’ said Ted. ‘Five hundred’s not enough. One thousand says we win the…What did you call it?’

‘Concours D’Elégance. But I haven’t got one thousand pounds, Ted. The van’s not worth a thousand pounds.’

‘I thought you wanted a bet?’

‘I do, but—’

‘Aye, right, that’s typical, so it is. You’re trying to wriggle out of it now.’

‘No, I am not trying to wriggle out of it.’

‘Ach, you are, so you are. Ye’re not prepared to put your money where your mouth is. Typical Englishman.’

‘I am not trying to wriggle out of it, Ted.’

‘Well, then, are youse in, or are youse out?’

‘All right,’ said Israel, trying to suppress a grin. ‘One thousand pounds says you won’t win the Concours D’Elégance at this year’s Mobile Meet.’ He knew his money was safe.

The rest of the journey continued in silence, with Israel elated and exhausted from his negotiations and Ted already planning the few little tweaks and alterations he needed to get the van into top condition. Eventually, Ted pulled up outside the Devines’ farm, where Israel was a lodger, and Israel clambered down wearily from the van.

‘Hey!’ called Ted, as Israel was about to shut the door. ‘Did ye not forget something?’

‘No,’ said Israel, patting his pockets, patting the seat. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘I think you did,’ said Ted.

‘What? “Thank you” for the lift?’

‘No,’ said Ted.

‘What? The bet?’

‘No. The bet’s on—we’ve shaken.’

‘Yes,’ said Israel. ‘And I am a man of my word.’

‘Aye. Exactly. And you remember what you were going to do today, Man of Your Word?’

‘Erm. No. I don’t remember. Should I?’

‘You were going to tell her?’

‘Tell who?’

‘Linda. That you were resigning.’

‘Ah, yes. Well…things have changed since this afternoon.’

‘Have they now?’

‘Yes. I feel I have a…responsibility to the readers of Tumdrum and District to…’

‘And it’s not because you’re getting a free holiday to England?’

‘No! Of course not!’

‘You shouldn’t ever try to kid a kidder,’ said Ted.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I know your game.’

‘I don’t…I’m not playing a game, Ted.’

‘Aye.’

‘No. I just feel very strongly that my responsibility is to books, and to…encouraging the people of the north coast of Northern Ireland to…indulge their learned curiosity and to give them unlimited assistance…by helping to choose a new mobile library van.’

‘Aye, tell the truth and shame the devil, why don’t ye?’

‘What?’

‘I don’t care what you think your responsibility is,’ said Ted. ‘My first responsibility is to the van. One thousand pounds, remember.’

‘Fine.’

‘Pay for some refurbishments, wouldn’t it? You’d better start saving, boy!’

‘No, Ted, I don’t need to start saving, because alas very soon we shall be in sunny England choosing a brand spanking new top-of-the-range mobile library and we will no longer have need of this…’ And with that, Israel walked away and slammed the door. ‘…piece of junk,’ he muttered under his breath.

Oh, yes!

Ted had been reeled in hook, line and sinker!

Israel Armstrong was going home!