The Book Stops Here: A Mobile Library Mystery

by Ian Sansom

  'Ted? Charming?' Israel thought back to when he'd arrived in Tumdrum and Ted had physically threatened him on a number of occasions. 'Ted is certainly a lot of things, Mother,' he said, 'but I hardly think charming is one of them.'

  'I do like his accent.'

  'His accent?'

  'It's very cute, isn't it?'

  'He's Northern Irish.'

  'Yes, I know. Reminds me of your father.'

  'Dad was from Dublin.'

  'Well, it's the same sort of thing, isn't it? It's all an accent.'

  'Mother! It's not the same thing at all.'

  'He's a big hog of a man, though, isn't he?'

  'What?' said Israel.

  'Ted. How old is he, do you know?'

  'No! I've got no idea how old he is. Seventy?'

  'Don't be silly, Israel, he's not seventy. I'd place him early sixties. So he'd be about the same age as me, maybe a little older. He's really very well preserved, isn't he?'

  'Mother!'

  'He reminds me of Leo Fuld.'

  'Who?'

  'The singer. "Wo Ahin Soll Ich Geh'n".'

  'I'm sorry, I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about.'

  'I don't know,' said Israel's mother. 'Young people. Where did we go wrong?'

  'Maybe you've just got old?'

  'Thank you.'

  'Don't mention it.'

  'Anyway, come on, make yourself useful and take this tray.'

  They returned with coffee—proper coffee!—and dessert. Israel's mother's desserts were much better than her main courses.

  There was a good reason for this.

  'This is delicious,' said Ted, once they'd started in on dessert. 'What is this?'

  'Baklava,' said Israel.

  'Ba-whatter?' said Ted.

  'Baklava,' repeated Israel.

  'Aye. Right. What is it?'

  'It's pastry, with pistachios,' said Israel.

  'No,' said Ari. 'It's not pistachios. It's almonds.'

  'I always thought it was pistachios,' said Israel.

  'You can have either almond or pistachio,' said Deborah.

  'I've had walnut, actually,' said Ari.

  'Sounds lovely,' said Israel's mother.

  'Walnut?' said Israel.

  'Uh-huh.'

  'I've never had walnut,' said Israel. 'And I've had a lot of baklava.'

  'It's filo pastry,' said Deborah, explaining to Ted.

  'Aye. Nice.'

  'It was on a business trip to New York I had the walnut baklava,' said Ari.

  'And the sticky stuff is—what's the sticky stuff, Mother?' said Deborah.

  'Orange-blossom water.'

  'Ah, that's right.'

  'Are you sure it was walnut?' said Israel.

  'Of course I'm sure.'

  'What?' said Ted.

  'It's lovely baklava, Mum,' said Israel. 'Did you make it?'

  'Israel!' said Deborah.

  'What?'

  'You never ask a lady if she's made a dish.'

  'Do you not?'

  'No.'

  'Do I look like I have time to make baklava?' said Israel's mother.

  'Erm.' Israel looked at his mother's French-polished nails. 'So where's it from?'

  'Israel!' said Deborah.

  'It's from Israel?' said Ted.

  'It's from Jacob's, on the High Street, where we've been buying our baklava for thirty years,' said Israel's mother.

  'Oh,' said Israel. 'Of course. I was only asking.'

  * * *

  Soon after the baklava Ari and Deborah had to go: Ari had a big presentation the next day.

  'Big presentation,' he said, slipping into his suit jacket, Israel's mother holding it out for him, like a personal valet. 'You know what it's like, Eva.'

  'Hardly!' said Israel's mother, twittering.

  'Ted, it's been a pleasure,' said Ari.

  'Aye,' said Ted.

  Ted and Israel and his mother cleared the remaining dishes and then sat around drinking coffee. There was still no sign of Gloria. Israel texted her again.

  'Still no sign of Gloria then?' said Israel's mother.

  'No,' said Israel.

  'Surprise, surprise.'

  'It's fine. She's probably…'

  'You can always stay here tonight.'

  'Well, I'll…'

  'Your room's all made up.'

  'Well…'

  'Good. That's settled then,' said Israel's mother, opening another bottle of wine.

  'Now,' she said, turning her attention to Ted. 'Did you say you were from Dublin?'

  'Mother!' said Israel. 'I told you. He's from Northern Ireland.'

  'I'm from Antrim,' said Ted.

  'My late husband was from Dublin,' said Israel's mother dreamily.

  'In Ireland doth fair Dublin stand,' said Ted. 'The city chief therein; and it is said by many more, the city chief of sin.'

  'Oh!' said Israel's mother. 'That's very good. Did you make that up?'

  'Ach, no,' said Ted.

  'I have a couple of Van Morrison albums somewhere,' said Israel's mother, getting up.

  'Aye, he's a Belfast lad,' said Ted.

  'It's like name the famous Belgian, isn't it?' said Israel's mother, who'd gone over to the cupboard where Israel's dad had kept his records. 'Van Morrison. George Best. He's from your neck of the woods, isn't he?'

  'Aye,' said Ted.

  'Terrible waste,' said Israel's mother.

  'D'ye know the joke?' said Ted.

  'Which joke?' said Israel's mother.

  'So,' said Ted. 'George Best is in the Ritz Hotel in bed with Miss World.'

  'Right,' said Israel's mother, facing Ted, hand on hip, wineglass in the other.

  'And the bed is covered with money—fifty pound notes. The waiter comes in with room service—another bottle of champagne.'

  'Uh-huh,' said Israel's mother.

  'And the waiter takes in the scene and shakes his head and he says, "Where did it all go wrong, George?"'

  'Oh, that's very funny!' said Israel's mother, her face creasing up with laughter. 'That's very funny! Isn't it, Israel?'

  Israel frowned. Ted had told him the joke several dozen times before.

  'Yes,' said Israel.

  'I don't think I know any other famous Northern Irishmen,' said Israel's mother.

  'Wayne McCullough?' said Ted.

  'Is he a singer?'

  'He's a boxer,' said Ted.

  'The Corrs?' said Israel's mother.

  'They're from down south,' said Ted.

  'Oh.'

  'Liam Neeson,' said Ted.

  'Really?' said Israel's mother. 'Oh, I like him. Did you ever see him in Schindler's List?'

  'I don't think so,' said Ted.

  'No? We've probably got it on video somewhere if you'd like to see it. Although you'd be better seeing it in a cinema really. We have wonderful cinemas here. I prefer the theatre myself.'

  'Mother! You never go the theatre!'

  'I went to see Les Misérables with my book group. And Mary Poppins—that wasn't awfully good actually; not nearly as good as the film. Do you remember the film, Israel? We used to watch it when you were children. We had that on video too. I don't know where all the videos are now. Anyway, how many have we got then, Ted, Northern Irishmen. Five?'

  'Not far off,' said Ted.

  'Israel?' said his mother.

  'What?' said Israel, who was staring at his mobile phone, willing Gloria to ring.

  'Famous Northern Irishmen?'

  'Or women,' said Ted.

  'Yes, of course,' said Israel's mother, who'd returned to rifling through the old LPs. 'We don't want to forget the women.'

  'Certainly not,' said Ted. 'Mary Peters,' he added.

  'Ah!' said Israel's mother, standing up triumphantly with a copy of Moondance. 'Who did you say, Ted?'

  'Mary Peters.'

  'Ah, yes. That dates us a little bit, though, doesn't it?'

  'Who's Mary Peters?' said Israel.


  'She was in the Olympics, wasn't she?' said Israel's mother.

  'She was,' said Ted.

  Israel's mother was fiddling around with the turntable.

  'I can never get this right. Ted, would you mind?' she said.

  Ted went over and stood beside her, taking the record from her hands.

  'You just need to bring this over here, and put this here,' said Ted.

  'Ah!' said Israel's mother. 'Yes, of course, I'd forgotten. My husband used to do all the…'

  Israel's mother allowed Ted to reach right round her and lift the stylus.

  Israel coughed loudly, but no one seemed to hear him.

  'Do you like folk music, Ted?' he heard his mother saying, rather breathily, he thought.

  'No. I can't say I do, to be frank with ye, Mrs Armstrong.'

  'Do call me Eva,' said Israel's mother.

  'Sorry, Eva,' said Ted.

  'Good,' said Israel's mother. 'My late husband liked folk music. But I feel there's enough misery in the world already.'

  'Aye. I'm more of a Frankie Laine and Nat King Cole kind of a man meself.'

  'Oh, how lovely. I went to see the Drifters a while back, with some friends; they were fantastic.'

  'The original Drifters?'

  'I'm not sure,' said Israel's mother. 'It was in Croydon.'

  'Were they good?'

  'Oh, they were fabulous! They did—oooh, what did they do?—"Under the Boardwalk" and "Saturday Night at the Movies". And "You're More Than a Number in My Little Red Book".'

  At which point—to Israel's utter horror—his mother started actually singing, and—worse!—Ted joined in, and suddenly they were duetting: 'You're more than a number in my little red book, you're more than a one night stand.'

  'Anyway,' said Israel, coughing much louder. 'Anyway!'

  'Sorry?' said Israel's mother, turning away from Ted and towards him.

  'Hello?' said Israel, as the opening bars of 'And It Stoned Me' came from the speakers. 'I could sit here all night listening to you talk about music and discussing famous Northern Irishmen—'

  'And women,' said his mother, who'd sat back down at the table.

  'And women,' said Israel, 'all night long. But—'

  'Are you a Catholic, Mr Carson?' asked Israel's mother, staring up at Ted.

  'Mother!' said Israel.

  'What?'

  'Ted's a Protestant.'

  'Oh, is he? Do they have those in Ireland as well?'

  'In the north of Ireland, Mother. Northern Ireland.'

  'Ah, yes, of course. My late husband was a Catholic. He didn't take it very seriously though.'

  'No,' said Ted, sitting down. 'I'm only a Sunday worshipper myself.'

  'Oh? Isn't that what you're supposed to be?'

  'Not if you're a Presbyterian, no.'

  'Really?' said Israel's mother. 'I've never met a Presbyterian. Is it like Jehovah's Witnesses?'

  'Not exactly,' said Ted.

  'It's a Christian religion though, is it?'

  'Aye. Though according to most Presbyterians I would be a failed Christian.'

  'Oh, I'm sure that's not the case.'

  'Ach, well. It's my decision, ye know. I like a drink. I smoke.'

  'Oh, I am glad,' said Israel's mother. 'I thought I was the only one.' She poured Ted another glass of wine. 'We need to stick together, Ted,' she said, winking. 'Have you noticed how everything that used to be good for you is supposed to be bad for you?'

  'Aye,' said Ted. 'You mean smoking and drinking?'

  'Yes, and eating, even, for goodness sake.' Israel's mother patted her ample hips.

  'Aye,' said Ted.

  'More baklava, Ted?'

  'Maybe just a small piece.'

  Israel went to take a piece as his mother offered the plate to Ted.

  'Guests first,' she said, slapping Israel's hand. 'I do like to see a man with a healthy appetite.'

  'I have a healthy appetite, Eva,' said Ted, 'that I must admit.'

  Israel thought he might be sick.

  'Have you ever met Gloria, Ted?' said Israel's mother.

  'Who?'

  'Israel's girlfriend. She was meant to be here this evening. Still no sign, Israel?'

  'No,' said Israel.

  'They live—lived?'

  'Live,' insisted Israel.

  'Together.'

  'No, I've not met her,' said Ted.

  'Thin as a rake,' said Israel's mother. She held up her little finger. 'Like that. Thin. As. A. Rake. She's a high-flyer,' she said to Ted.

  'I thought you'd given up smoking,' said Israel, changing the subject.

  'I have,' said his mother. 'But I just have one or two occasionally, for the sake of my health.'

  'For the sake of your health?'

  'My mental health. Goodness, I'm sorry. He's a terrible nag, Ted, isn't he? I hope he's not like that with you?'

  'We have a healthy working relationship,' said Ted.

  'Well, anyway. If Mr Health Police here would excuse us, perhaps, Ted, you would like to join me for a cigarette on the terrace.'

  'We don't have a terrace, Mum.'

  'The patio, then,' said Israel's mother, getting up from her seat. 'You are so pernickety. And perhaps Gloria will have arrived before we're all through?'

  Ted got up obediently and to the strains of 'Moondance' followed Israel's mother into the kitchen and out into the back garden.

  * * *

  Israel looked again at the photos on the walls. Checked his mobile again; nothing from Gloria.

  He couldn't believe she'd missed the meal.

  He was desperate to see her.

  Gloria: she looked like Giuletta Masina as Gelsomina in Fellini's La Strada—a film they'd gone to see together at the National Film Theatre, years ago. They used to go to the cinema two, three times a week back then.

  In fact, Gloria looked nothing like Giuletta Masina as Gelsomina in Fellini's La Strada. Sometimes he could barely remember what she looked like. She was definitely beautiful though. She was…What could he say? She was just…Gloria.

  When Israel's mother and Ted returned, laughing and smelling of cigarettes, Israel was picking miserably at the remains of the baklava.

  'He was a terribly greedy child,' said his mother.

  'Mother!'

  'You were, though. Chocolate biscuits. He was a fiend for the chocolate biscuits, Ted. Honestly. I had to hide them. And then the girls would beat him up. He never learned to stick up for himself.' She walked over towards the hi-fi system. 'No sign of Gloria then?'

  'No, she—'

  'Has stood you up, I think.'

  'No,' said Israel. 'She has not stood me up, she's just…'

  'And not for the first time,' said Israel's mother.

  'She—'

  Israel's mother simply waved her hand at Israel dismissively and knelt down in front of the record cabinet.

  'A change of mood, I think,' she said. 'It turns out Ted and I have an interest in common, Israel.'

  'What, winding me up?' said Israel.

  'Now, how many times do I have to tell you? Don't be rude to our guest, please.'

  'What then?' said Israel. 'What interest have you got in common?'

  'Line dancing,' said Israel's mother.

  'Ha!' said Israel. 'Good one. You don't go line dancing.'

  'I do now.'

  'Since when?'

  'Since you've been gone. I do have a life, you know.'

  'Yes, of course, but—'

  'What?' said Israel's mother.

  'Line dancing?' said Israel, as though she'd confessed to participating in some kind of Satanic abuse rituals.

  'What's wrong with line dancing?' said Israel's mother, her back to him, searching for records.

  'Well, there's nothing wrong with line dancing. But couldn't you have done…I don't know, tango, or something?'

  'In Finchley, dear? Don't be such a snob. You're like your father. He wouldn't go to discos or anything when we were young. And al
so it's very good exercise. Keeps me in shape.' She patted her hips.

  'Ted?' said Israel. 'You don't dance, do you?'

  'Aye,' said Ted. 'I do.'

  'Really?'

  'Best feet in the parish,' said Ted. 'First Friday of every month in the First and Last.'

  'He never really joined in with anything, you know,' said Israel's mother.

  'Mother! I am here, you know. I can hear you.'

  'Yes. Ah! Just what I'm after.' She stood up, record in hand. 'We're fine here, you know, if you want to leave us.'

  'Well, it has been a long day,' said Israel. 'But I'm sure Ted is tired as well. Shall I show you where you're sleeping, Ted?'

  'Oh, leave Ted with me, Israel, he'll be fine,' said his mother.

  'Are you sure, Ted?'

  'Aye,' said Ted. 'We're grand.'

  'That's it, you pop along and read your books there.'

  'Mother, I'm not a child.'

  'Of course not! Good night then!'

  So Israel left them to it.

  He went upstairs to his childhood bedroom, the room where he'd done all that groundwork on Verfremdung and ostranenie in his teens. It had been decorated several times since then, and with the chintz it just wasn't the same; you couldn't really feel properly alienated under a nylon sunflower-print duvet cover.

  His first night back in England and he was alone.

  Except for the dog: his mother had put Muhammad in with him; he sat whimpering in his travel basket.

  'Shut up!' said Israel. Muhammad continued to whimper. 'No, really. I'm not joking.' Whimper. Whimper. 'Shut up!'

  Sometimes in Tumdrum Israel had had dreams about this room, but in his dreams it was much larger, a palace, where he would weigh his conscience and enjoy his princely pleasures. But of course it wasn't a palace; it was a room furnished with cheap melamine furniture and miniature Monet prints in lilac-coloured pine frames. Israel could no longer even imagine his excitement at reading Portnoy's Complaint in here, let alone re-create in memory that wet afternoon when Gloria had first let him kiss her here. It was all gone. All his books were gone. Everything of his own was in the flat he shared with Gloria.

  He rang her number again. Ten thirty: it wasn't late.

  No reply.

  He texted.

  No reply.

  Downstairs he could hear the sound of his mother's records. They'd never upgraded to a CD player. He remembered his father swivelling the records between his fingers, blowing gently on them, as if they were votive candles. And he could hear his mother singing, 'Don't tell my heart' and Ted singing back, 'My achy breaky heart' and both of them duetting on 'I just don't think it'd understand.'