by Ian Sansom
'Right. It's a lovely…' Israel tried to think of the right adjective to describe a farm. 'Erm. Big farm.'
'Not really.'
'No,' agreed Israel. 'Of course. It's not that big.'
'Fifty acres.'
'Fifty? That's quite a lot, isn't it. I mean an acre is…' He had no idea how big an acre is. 'Quite a size.'
'We had five hundred at one time.'
'I see.'
'Had to sell 'em all. To survive.'
Israel nodded.
'Developers,' said the old man. 'From down south. And the mainland.' He spoke this last word with some menace. 'Now we've just the fifty. Far barn's gone.'
'Well, I suppose fifty's better than nothing,' said Israel nonsensically.
'Hmm. All George's now. Signed over to her.'
'I see. And how…long have you been farming here yourselves?'
'Since 1698.'
At which point, thankfully, Brownie re-entered the room.
'The boy here prefers his books to proper work,' said the old man, nodding at Brownie.
'Right,' said Israel, struggling to find some possible change of subject, his agricultural chat having proved predictably inadequate. 'Are you a student then?'
'Yep,' agreed Brownie, proffering a T-shirt, and trousers and socks, and a towel.
'Thanks. What are you studying?'
'Philosophy actually.'
'Oh right. My goodness. Very good. Where?'
'Cambridge.'
'Oh really? I was at Oxford.'
'Wow. What college?'
'It was the, er, other place actually.'
'What?'
'Oxford Brookes.'
'Oh, right. Is that the old poly?'
'Yes. Yes, it is…'
'It's got a very good reputation, hasn't it?'
'Yes…'
Israel quickly changed the subject, his less than illustrious academic career not being a subject he wished to dwell upon: he should have got a 2:1 at least.
'Can I change into these somewhere?'
'Aye. Come on.'
'And I wondered if you had a telephone I could use at all. My mobile…'
'Ach, aye, the coverage here is terrible.'
'Yes.'
'No problem.'
'And, er, sorry to be a bother and everything…'
'Yes?'
'But you wouldn't have any headache tablets at all, would you?'
'Granda?' said Brownie.
'What?'
'Headache tablets, for Israel here. Do we have any?'
'What for?'
'For a headache?'
'I wouldna thought so. We've TCP and some bandages just in the first-aid box.'
'That's no good.'
'It's OK,' said Israel, wishing he'd never brought it up in the first place. 'It's fine.'
'You sure?'
'Syrup of figs?' offered the old man.
'No, thanks. I'll be fine.'
'What's yon other stuff called?'
'What stuff?' said Brownie.
'Collis-Brown. That's it. Bind you rightly.'
'No. It's really OK,' said Israel.
'It'd not do you a button o' harm.'
'He's fine, Granda. Are you sure, Israel?'
'Yes. I'll be fine. And you've not got any–I really don't want to be a pain or anything–but you've not got any Sellotape, have you, by any chance? Just to fix my glasses?'
Israel took out the two halves of his spectacles from his pocket.
'Och dear. What happened there?'
'Well. It's a—'
'I'm sure we could fix them up, Granda, couldn't we? Sellotape or soldering iron or something?'
'Aye. P'rhaps.'
'And after that we'll maybe have some breakfast, Granda? No chance of a fry?'
'Aye.'
'Lovely. And you'll join us for breakfast, Israel, won't you? Room at the trough, Granda?'
'Aye.'
'Well, yes, thank you. That's very kind of you.'
Brownie then showed Israel into a dining room full of dark, miserable, heavy furniture, hung with cobwebs and family pictures, and with a large black Bible on the sideboard, open at the Book of Revelation, and an ancient grey dial telephone next to it. Israel slowly, painfully got changed out of his wet clothes and dried himself off underneath a photograph of men in robes and with drums outside an Orange Hall, looking for all the world as if they were fresh back from a lynching, and then he rang Gloria at home in London.
The phone rang for a long time before it was answered. Israel imagined the sound of it ringing in Gloria's lovely pale satinwood, soft-furnished, little-bit-of-the-Mediterranean-in-the-heart-of-the-city, inspired-by-the-World of Interiors-but-not-slavish-in-the-pursuit-of-fashion flat near Borough Market. He could almost smell the fresh bagels and orange juice.
'Hey!' shouted Israel, relieved and excited when Gloria finally picked up.
'__,' said Gloria indistinctly. It was a bad line.
'It's me,' explained Israel, his voice echoing round the room like a condemned man's in a prison cell.
'__.'
'Israel.'
'__.'
'Shit.'
'__.'
'Sorry. I forgot what time it was—'
'__.'
'I'm sorry.'
'__.'
'I said I was sorry.'
'__.'
'Sorry.'
'__.'
'I know. I tried. There's no coverage here.'
'__.'
'Oh. It was unbelievable.'
'__.'
'It's some farm in the middle of nowhere.'
'__.'
'No, not exactly.'
'__.'
'No. It's not a joke. It's terrible. There are chickens in my bed.'
'__.'
'Right. Yes. Ha, ha.'
'__.'
'No. But that's not the worst of it. You're not going to believe this…'
'__.'
'No, not that. I'm serious. There's no library.'
'__.'
'It's been shut.'
'__.'
'I know they can't.'
'__.'
'They want me to drive a mobile library instead.'
'__.'
'I'm glad you think it's funny.'
'__.'
'Yes, as a replacement.'
'__.'
'No, I told her I wouldn't accept it.'
'__.'
'It's not an opportunity.'
'__.'
'What do you mean? I can hold down a proper job.'
'__.'
'Anyway. I'm coming back in a couple of weeks' time.'
'__.'
'I can.'
'__.'
'No. You don't understand. This isn't a stepping stone. You haven't seen this place.'
'__.'
'Oh. You're not?'
'__.'
'I see. Why, where are you going?'
'__.'
'Right. Well, I'm sure you'll have a great time.'
'__.'
'No, of course not.'
'__.'
'Yes.'
'__.'
'Anyway, what else is happening there?'
'__.'
'Oh, really?'
'__.'
'No. That's great. No, you deserve it.'
'__.'
'Yeah, sure.'
'__.'
'But…'
'__.'
'Yeah, I'll try and ring you later.'
'__.'
'Yep. OK.'
'__.'
'No. I understand.'
'__.'
'Love you.'
'__.'
'OK, yeah. Bye.'
'__.'
'Bye.'
His head hurt.
It was not the most cheering and successful conversation Israel had ever had: discovering that his girlfriend was going skiing with friends on the proceeds of her more-than-generous Christmas bonus, and that there was a possib
ility she was about to get an unlooked-for but richly deserved promotion, while he was stood listening, shivering in a decrepit farmhouse in the middle of nowhere, staring at photographs of men in bowler hats and sashes with peculiar moustaches and glints in their eyes, while wearing someone else's combat trousers which were too tight and too short, and a hoodie, and a T-shirt saying 'Niggers With Attitude'.
He returned to the kitchen even more depressed than before.
Breakfast was on the table, Brownie and the old man patiently waiting–the old man now decked out in a festive-looking, fat-flecked Union Jack apron.
Israel was starving.
'Sorry I was so long. I…Something smells good.'
'Yep,' said Brownie. 'Clothes all right?'
'Thanks. Yes.'
'Good. Sit down.'
'Here,' said the old man, passing Israel his glasses, which had been fixed with masking tape.
'Thanks,' said Israel politely, putting them back on. 'How do they look?' he asked Brownie.
'Fine,' said Brownie hesitantly.
'They feel a bit…'
'Let's eat,' said Brownie.
Israel adjusted his wonky glasses as best he could.
The plate of food in front of Israel was of such extraordinary, all-encompassing shapes and sizes that it could have fed about a dozen deeply curious meat-eating men–although a vegetarian, alas, might have struggled to find much to interest and sustain him.
'Knock it into you,' said the old man, pouring out mugs of tea.
'Mmm,' said Brownie, tucking in. 'Thanks, Granda.'
'Yes, thank you,' said Israel. 'This looks…lovely.'
Brownie was already eating.
'Grace!' said the old man.
'Sorry, Granda.'
'May the Lord Bless This Food to Us.'
'Amen,' said Brownie.
'Amen,' said Israel.
The two Irishmen tucked in.
'Erm. Could you just give me a guide here?'
'Mmm,' said Brownie, his mouth full. 'Yes, sorry. Pork chop.'
'Right.'
'Sausages.'
'Yep.'
'Bacon. Black pudding.'
'White pudding,' added the old man.
Israel had forgotten to mention that he was a vegetarian: maybe now was not the time.
'And that's potato bread,' said Brownie, pointing out a cardboardy squarey thing.
'Ah, right,' said Israel, delighted–something he could eat. 'Yes, I know potato bread. Lovely. My father'd call it boxty.'
'Really?'
'Yes. He was Irish, my dad.'
'Really?'
'Yes.'
'Wow,' said Brownie, in between mouthfuls. 'So it's like coming home for you really?'
'Erm. Yes. Kind of. I never made it over with him when he was alive—'
'Ah,' said the old man, as if this explained something. 'Boxty, is it? The auld Free State,' he said, to himself.
'And this,' continued Brownie, 'is soda bread.'
'Yes, of course,' said Israel, his fork poised over a hard, pointy, blackened, fat-soaked triangle.
'And where would your late father have hung his hat on a Sunday, if you wouldn't mind me asking?' said the old man, with an apparent lick of the lips.
'Sorry?' said Israel.
'Would he have been of the Catholic persuasion?'
'Well,' said Israel, hovering over a bursting pork sausage. 'You see, my mother's Jewish so—'
'Ah,' said the old man again, as if all the pieces were falling into place. 'Consider Abraham.'
'Sorry?' said Israel. The bacon looked pretty good too actually.
'He believed God and it was credited to him as righteousness.'
'I see.'
'Galatians.'
'Leave him alone, Granda. It's only seven o'clock in the morning.'
'Watch therefore: for ye know not what hour your Lord doth come.'
Israel pushed the bacon and sausage around on his plate, warding off temptation and damnation and started in on the soda bread and potato bread.
'So how are you finding things so far?' asked Brownie, polishing off a wide, glistening disc of black pudding.
'Erm.'
'You can be honest. It's a culture shock. I get it every time I come home. You're probably already missing good coffee and cinemas and—'
'Bagels.'
'Precisely.'
'Bookshops.'
'There you are. But you get used to it.'
'Do you?'
'Sure. Of course.'
'I don't think I want to get used to it.'
'It has its advantages.'
'Really? Like what?'
Israel was having to mash the soda bread in brown sauce in order to soften it enough to be edible.
'It's quiet. You can get a lot of reading done.'
'Well. Yes. That's one good thing, I suppose.' He took a mouthful of brown and black mush: it wasn't bad. 'I'm only going to be here a few weeks anyway, just to get things up and running and what have you.'
'Oh,' said Brownie, finishing off a pale fried egg. 'I thought you were a permanent appointment.'
'Well. You know,' said Israel, tapping his nose. 'I've got a few things lined up back home in London.'
'Yes. Of course. It'll be more like a wee holiday for you really then.'
'Yes. That's what people keep telling me.'
The old man scowled in his Union Jack apron at his end of the table. 'When are yous reopening up the library then?' he asked, mopping up brown sauce with a slice of wheaten bread.
'Well,' said Israel automatically. 'The actual library has closed, I'm afraid, sir. We are, though, shortly going to be relaunching the mobile library…'
Israel was amazed to find himself suddenly speaking on behalf of the Department of Entertainment, Leisure and Community Services: proof, he realised, if it were needed, of the thesis of Daniel Goldhagen's Hitler's Willing Executioners.
'Disgrace,' said the old man. 'Young people today—'
'That's fantastic,' interrupted Brownie.
'I'm glad you're excited about it,' said Israel. 'There's not any more of the soda bread, by any chance, is there?'
'No,' said the old man.
'Right. Never mind.'
'I'd never have managed my exams without the old mobile library,' said Brownie. 'They should never have got rid of it. It was a lifeline. I was stuck up here all the time with my sister.'
'George?'
'That's right.'
'So she basically runs the farm then?'
'Yep. That's her idea of fun.'
'Right.'
'Not mine though,' said Brownie, finishing his final sausage.
There was a funny smell permeating the kitchen, Israel noticed. Animals, no doubt: he sensed dogs.
'D'you not want that?' asked the old man, pointing to Israel's uneaten pile of black-fried pig parts.
'No. I'm absolutely—' Israel patted his 'Niggers With Attitude' T-shirted stomach, and before he could finish his sentence the old man had whipped the plate away from him and was scraping Israel's leftovers onto his own.
'That was great, thanks, Granda,' said Brownie.
'Keep us going another half hour,' agreed the old man.
'What have you got planned for today then, Israel?'
'That's a good question. I've…Sorry, can you smell something?'
Brownie and Israel both glanced then simultaneously at the Rayburn, where Israel's trousers were quietly scorching on a hotplate.
'Oh shit!' shouted Israel.
'Excuse me!' said the old man.
'My!…'
Brownie had already whipped the trousers off the hotplate and thrown them in the sink.
'…Trousers.'
'Sorry,' said Brownie.
'That's…OK,' said Israel. He fished inside the pockets of his burnt, soaking, manured trousers and took out a couple of handfuls of slightly crinkled credit and debit cards and some wet paper and started to separate them out on the table-top.
<
br /> 'My cards,' said Israel.
'You'll have to get new ones,' agreed Brownie, as Israel held up a far too flexible credit card.
'Oh, God.' He paused then for a moment and took a large gulp of his cold tea. 'All my instructions from Linda.'
'Oh dear. Can you remember what it is you're supposed to be doing today?'
'Erm. I'm supposed to be meeting Ted, I think, at the library.'
'Ted Carson?' said Brownie.
'The Big Wee Man,' said the old man.
'Yeah.'
'Yeah, of course, right,' said Brownie. 'He used to be the driver of the library, didn't he, Granda, do you remember, until they stopped the service?'
'Aye.'
'Have you met Ted then, Israel?'
'Yes,' said Israel, restraining his 'alas'. 'He gave me a lift here last night.'
'Aye. He was a tight wee fighter in his time,' said the old man. 'Rough enough and damn the scars. Terrible temper on him.'
'I guess he'll be showing you the ropes,' said Brownie.
'I guess so,' said Israel, wishing now he'd had a sausage.
'Mind his left hook now,' said the old man.
'Right. Thanks,' said Israel weakly. 'I'll do my best.'
6
Israel met Ted outside the old library at nine o'clock as arranged. The conversation was a little strained. 'Nice eye,' was all that Ted offered in acknowledgement of Israel's previous night's tangling with Tony Thompson in the back of his cab, and 'What's with the specs?' he asked of Israel's parcel-taped glasses, and 'Fancy dress?' he said, of Israel's too-tight and too-short borrowed combat trousers and hoodie and T-shirt, which certainly did not match his old brown duffle coat and his brown corduroy jacket and his old brown brogues and which made him look like he was on perpetual day-release from some long-since-closed long-term mental institution.
In return, Israel did not mention Ted's less than friendly farewell of the night before–when Ted had grabbed him by the coat and nearly pulled him through his car window–which was frankly now the least of his worries. Stripped of his money, his clothes, his dignity, unable to understand what people were talking about half the time, unwilling to eat the food, forced to be doing a job he didn't want to do, and threatened, beaten, and in a state of some uncertainty, confusion and tension, he was now really enjoying the full immigrant experience: this was what it must have been like for his ancestors and relatives who'd made it to Bethnal Green and to America. No wonder they all looked so bloody miserable in the photographs. Also, when he prodded his glasses the masking tape kept digging into his forehead.
'There,' said Ted.
'Sorry,' said Israel. 'What? Where?'
Ted nodded, indicating the red and cream rusting mobile library, parked down the side of the old library building.
