The Book Stops Here: A Mobile Library Mystery (2 page)

'I don't know what you're talking about,' said Ted. 'I had a cappuccino once in Belfast.'

'What?'

'They have coffee bars down there everywhere now. It's like the Continent.'

'Oh God,' said Israel.

'What?' said Ted.

'No,' said Israel, shaking his head. 'No.'

'No what?'

'No. Just no. It's no good, I can't drink this,' said Israel, putting aside his coffee.

He was thinking now about Gloria: whenever he started thinking about London his thoughts turned quickly to Gloria.

Gloria was the Eros in Israel's Piccadilly Circus, the Serpentine in his Hyde Park, the St Paul's in his City, the Brick Lane of his East End…her dark hair cascading down over her shoulders, her piercing brown eyes, his hand in hers, their bodies entwined…

'Scones!' said Minnie, interrupting Israel before the point of no return and placing a couple of enormous steaming chunks of hot scone down on the plastic gingham-look tablecloth.

'I was wrong,' she said.

'Sorry?' said Israel. 'Wrong? About what?'

'It's not Zelda's nephew at Portora.'

'Right.'

'It's her other nephew.'

'Uh-huh.'

'Zelda's other brother's boy—Niall, the fella who's the computer whiz?'

'Right,' said Israel.

What? Who? Niall? The nephew? The other nephew? Why on earth did people in Tumdrum go on like characters in Russian novels, insisting on talking about their friends and family members as if you'd known them for years, when of course you hadn't, you had no idea who the hell they were talking about, unless you'd lived here your whole life, which Israel hadn't. Did Israel speak to people in Tumdrum endlessly and incessantly about
his
family and friends? Did he ever mention
his
sisters, or his cousins, including the successful ones, or his mother's neighbours Mr and Mrs Krimholz, or the butcher, the baker and the candlestick makers of his own lovely little patch of north London? No, he did not. People in Tumdrum seemed to assume that the mere fact of living there instantly made you a local, as though you absorbed local knowledge of complex hereditary diseases and bloodlines by osmosis. I mean, how was he supposed to keep up with the progress of your mother's sister's urinary tract infection when he'd never even met your mother? It was a physical impossibility: he'd have had to be telepathic, and a qualified medical practitioner, and, also, he'd have to care, and he didn't. He was not bothered. Am I bothered?
Est-ce que je suis bovvered?
Israel slathered a piece of scone with butter.

'Was that the fella who used to go out with Zelda's cousin's husband's sister?' said Ted.

'Ugh!' said Israel.

'What?' said Ted.

'That's yer man,' said Minnie.

'Who?' said Israel. 'Who? Who are you talking about now?'

'You know,' said Minnie. 'The big fella. They used to live down there at Lough Island Reevy, in Down.'

'Hello?' said Israel. 'Excuse me! I don't know what you're talking about. Some of us were not born around here you know.'

'No, pet,' said Minnie pityingly, moving off to another table. 'Never mind.'

'God,' said Israel.

'Don't,' said Ted, wagging a finger.

'What?'

'You know what.'

'Oh God.'

'I'll not tell ye again,' said Ted, who was a very vehement anti-blasphemer, unless he was doing the blaspheming.

'Sorry,' said Israel. 'I'm going to have to bite the bullet, though,' he continued, picking up his scone, trying to decide where to start.

'Uh-huh,' said Ted, who'd already started on his own. 'She's a fair junt of scone, but, isn't she? And nice and warm.'

'No, I mean with the job. I'm definitely going to resign.'

'Mmm.'

'Even if it means going back to working in the Bargain Bookstore.'

'Good man ye are.'

'In Thurrock.'

'Uh-huh.'

'In Essex,' said Israel, convincing himself. 'I still have plenty of friends there.'

'Mmm.'

'A man has to have his self-respect,' said Israel.

'Or what does he have?' said Ted, finishing a mouthful.

'Exactly!' said Israel. 'Take this morning.'

'Why?' said Ted.

'Because,' said Israel.

'It wasnae a bad morning,' said Ted.

'Wasn't bad!' said Israel, using the scone gavel-like on the table; the crust did not give. 'You see! That's it!'

'What's it?'

'That's the problem.'

'Is it? The scone?'

'No! This morning
wasn't bad
, you said?'

'Aye.'

'Wasn't bad?'

'Aye.'

'Wasn't bad?'

'Yer right.'

'No, it wasn't bad! It was
terrible
!'

'Ach,' said Ted, picking a date out of his scone.

'You're just inured to it, Ted.'

'Ee-what?'

'Inured. It's…Anyway, I'm young and you're…'

'What?'

'Older.'

'Aye.'

'And look at us! We're nothing more than errand boys!'

'I don't know about that,' said Ted.

'I've got a degree from Oxford you know,' said Israel.

'Uh-huh,' said Ted, picking at his scone. 'Oxford Brookes, wasn't it you said?'

'Which is
in
Oxford,' said Israel. 'I don't know if you've been there?'

'Can't say I have,' said Ted. 'No.'

'No!' said Israel triumphantly. 'Well then. I am a highly educated librarian. I shouldn't be—
we
shouldn't be—just doing errands for people.'

'We're not just doing errands for people.'

'Yes, we are!'

'We're a service,' said Ted.

'A library service,' said Israel. 'A
library
service. Not a Tesco home delivery service! Picking up people's groceries is not the kind of service I had in mind when I got into this job,' said Israel. 'It's ridiculous.'

'It's not ridiculous.'

'It is!' said Israel. 'Honestly. This morning…'

First stop of the day, up round the coast, and first in, a man in his seventies, not one of their regulars.

'D'ye have the
Impartial Recorder
?'

'Sorry?' said Israel.

'The paper? D'ye have the paper?'

'No. No. I'm afraid not.'

'The
Tele
then?'

'No. Sorry. We don't have any papers.'

'You don't sell any papers?'

'No. Sorry.'

'You sell books then?'

'No, no, we don't sell books either.'

'D'ye not?'

'No.'

'Why not?'

'We're a library.'

'Ach, aye. Second-hand books then.'

'Erm…Well, yes. Sort of, I suppose.'

'By the yard, or by the pound?'

'Sorry?'

'I saw a thing about it on the telly once. Books by the yard. Or the dozen. I don't know. I can't rightly remember.'

'Right. Well, we don't actually sell books here at all. You have to
join
a library. Like you do a video shop or…something. I need to see a utility bill, something with your name and address on it, and then I can—'

'I'd not be showing you that, indeed; that'd be under the Freedom of Information Act, wouldn't it? I don't know who ye are. Are ye the police?'

'No. I'm not the police.'

'You could be anybody.'

'Yes, true. I could, of course, be…anybody. I am
in fact
the librarian, though. Here. In the…mobile library. Where we…are.'

'You're a funny-lookin' librarian.'

'Yes, well, sorry, I…'

'D'ye sell milk?'

'No.'

'Bread?'

'No.'

'A pan loaf just?'

'No!'

'Ach. We used to have Paddy Weekly—he was great, so he was—but he was driven out by the supermarkets, ye know.'

'Yes.'

'We've to get to Ballycastle for shopping these days.'

'Right.'

'I prefer the shopping in Coleraine, meself.'

'Uh-huh.'

'I can get me feet done and me hair cut—there's a wee girl who comes round the Fold—but if I give ye a wee list ye couldn't do me a few messages once a week, could ye?'

It just wasn't right.

'It's just not right,' said Israel, picking absent-mindedly at his scone. 'You know, the longer I spend working as a librarian, the more I'm questioning my vocation.'

'Uh-huh,' said Ted, whose own scone was rapidly diminishing in size, down from bowling-ball size to tennis-ball size, maybe a little larger.

'No!' said Israel, correcting himself. 'Not just my vocation, in fact. The very ground of my being.'

'Would ye like a top-up of coffee?' said Minnie, who was doing the rounds.

'Yes, thanks,' said Israel.

'Still on Beckett then?' she said, pouring Israel another cup of the café's so-called coffee.

'Questioning the very ground of his being,' said Ted.

'Oh,' said Minnie. 'I think I'll leave you to it then.'

As a child back home in north London, Israel had always imagined that a life communing with books might be a life communing with the great minds and lives of the great thinkers of the past, those who had formed the culture and heritage of the world, and that it might perhaps be his role to share these riches with others. In fact, in reality, as a mobile librarian on the perpetually damp north coast of the north of the north of Ireland, Israel seemed to spend most of his time communing with the great minds and lives and thinkers who had produced Haynes car manuals, and
Some Stuff I Remember About Visiting My Granny on Her Farm in the Country, Before I Was Horribly Mentally, Physically and Sexually Abused by My Uncles and Married Three Unsuitable Husbands and Became an Alcoholic and Lost Everything and Lived in a Bedsit in Quite a Nasty Part of a City Before Meeting My Current Husband Who Is Rich, and Wonderful, and Then Moving Back to the Country, Which Is Ironic When You Think About It: The Sequel
, and
Shape Up or Ship Out! The Official US Navy Seals Diet
, and
How to Become a Babillionaire—Tomorrow!
, and pastel-covered Irish, English and American chick lit by the tonne, the half-tonne, the bushel and the hot steaming shovel load.

'Ach, come on,' said Ted. 'It's not that bad. You're exeggeratin'.'

'I'm what?'

'Exeggeratin'.'

'Exaggerating?'

'Aye.'

'I'm not! What about that other old man in this morning?'

'Who? Which other old man?'

'The old man in the baseball cap that was dripping with rain.'

'When?'

'When it was raining?'

'Ach, aye.'

Their second stop, up farther round the coast. A lay-by. The rain had come on—even though it was June. June! Pounding with rain in June! Jesus Christ!

Old Man in Baseball Cap, Dripping with Rain: 'Ye've some books here, boy.'

Israel (restrainedly): 'Yes. Yes. It's a library.'

Old Man in Baseball Cap, Dripping with Rain: 'Aye.'

Israel (doing his best to be helpful): 'And can I help you at all?'

Old Man in Baseball Cap, Dripping with Rain: 'No. I'm only in for to be out of the rain.'

Israel: 'Right. Okay. That's fine. Happy to be of—'

Old Man in Baseball Cap, Dripping with Rain: 'Mind, would ye have any books about…'

Israel: 'About? What?'

Old Man in Baseball Cap, Dripping with Rain (indicating width between finger and thumb): 'About this thick?'

Israel: 'Er. Well, possibly. Any subject in particular you're after?'

Old Man in Baseball Cap, Dripping with Rain: 'I don't mind about the subject.'

Israel: 'Right. So, anything really, as long as it's…'

Old Man in Baseball Cap, Dripping with Rain (indicating his required width again): 'This thick.'

Israel: 'I see. What's that, then? About two, three centimetres?'

Old Man in Baseball Cap, Dripping with Rain: 'Quarter-inch.'

Israel, scanning the shelves: 'Okay. Erm. I don't know, Carol Shields, have you read any of her? She's very popular.'

Old Man in Baseball Cap, Dripping with Rain: 'How thick's she?'

Israel: 'Erm.'

Old Man in Baseball Cap, Dripping with Rain (taking book from Israel): 'She'll do rightly.'

Israel: 'Do you have a ticket with you?'

Old Man in Baseball Cap, Dripping with Rain: 'No. I've not a ticket. The wife does, but.'

Israel: 'I'd need to see the ticket really. I could always hold it over for you.'

Old Man in Baseball Cap, Dripping with Rain (glancing outside): 'Ach, no. I'll not bother. We've family over at the weekend. I thought it might be the thing for to fix the table—there's a wee wobble where we had the floor tiled.'

Israel: 'Right.'

Old Man in Baseball Cap, Dripping with Rain: 'I'll get an offcut a wood, sure. It's only because you were insisting that I was askin'.'

Israel: 'Okay, right.'

Old Man in Baseball Cap, Dripping with Rain: 'Rain's off.'

Israel: 'Good.'

Old Man in Baseball Cap, Dripping with Rain exits.

Israel: 'Sorry we couldn't be of more help!'

'Sure, there was no harm in him,' said Ted.

'No!' said Israel. 'No! You're right. There may have been no harm in
him
, but he did harm to
me
! To my mental health! I am a highly trained professional.'

Ted coughed.

'I am though,' continued Israel. '
We
are. And we should be treated with respect.'

Israel had imagined that a librarian in a small town might be regarded as a kind of cultural ambassador, an adept, like a country priest guiding his grateful parishioners into the mysteries of the holy realms of the book. In fact, most library users in and around Tumdrum and District seemed to regard a librarian as nothing more than a glorified shop assistant, and the mobile library as a kind of large motorised shopping trolley. There were only so many small errands that Israel could perform in a day without beginning to feel like a grocer's assistant, and there was only so much sugar, tea, biscuits, potatoes, newspapers, betting slips and hand-rolling tobacco that the mobile library could carry before they would have to start abandoning the books altogether and go over entirely to carrying dry goods and comestibles. If they ripped out the issues desk and put in a deli counter and got a licence for selling drink, Israel and Ted could probably have made a fortune: your breaded ham, a bottle of Bushmills, and the latest Oprah or Richard and Judy Book Club recommendations, available together at last from a veritable touring one-stop shop; they'd be bazillionaires by Christmas.