by Ian Sansom
'Er…' Israel was more than a little put off and disconcerted by the sight of the now beaten and chastised dog–he was a vegetarian, after all–and he was not inclined to disagree or to contradict the man, but he couldn't work out the logic here: if he wasn't from round here, how was he supposed to know Abbey Street, unless for some reason Abbey Street carried its name and notoriety before it, like Fifth Avenue, or Oxford Street? And as far as Israel was aware, it did not: Abbey Street might be famous locally, but word of it had not yet reached Israel back home in north London. He looked down at the cuffed dog, though, and decided not to point out the logical error.
'No. Sorry,' he said, 'I don't know Abbey Street,' and then he started to speak more slowly, in that speaking-to-foreigners-and-those-with-possible-mental-impairments kind of a voice that he'd found himself resorting to increasingly since arriving in Tumdrum.
'It's-Ballymuckery-Yes?' and he nodded his head at this point, encouraging assent, 'That's-What-I'm-Looking-For.'
'Aye, aye. Right you are,' said the man, amused. 'And you reckon it's just past Ballygullable?'
'So I've been told.'
'Aye, well.' The man coughed again, and spat on the pavement. 'They're blaggarding you, you know.'
'Oh. I see,' said Israel, though he didn't.
'Never worry. It's just the way of us,' chuckled the man.
'Right. Yes. Ho, ho.'
'I'll see you right though–just let me think.'
This took some time–time that Israel used profitably in feeling sorry for himself, because now he saw: Ballygullable! Oh, honestly. They could have had their own Friday night sitcom, the people round here. Absolute side-splitters, the lot of them.
'Aye,' said the man eventually. He pointed down the road. 'I know. D'you see yon park?'
'Yes,' said Israel, although to be honest the patch of football-studded grass in the distance didn't look like much of a park to him. Hyde Park, that was a park.
'Up to the park there, and past the memorial.'
'Right.'
'You'll see the wine team.'
'Sorry?'
'The wine team, by the memorial. Old Shuey and them. They're harmless.'
'Right. OK,' said Israel, still with absolutely no idea what on earth the man was talking about.
'If you're wanting Ballymuckery you'd be turning left.'
'Right.'
'No, left.'
'Yes. Sorry, I meant left.'
'Aye, right. Just follow the road, son.'
The man now seemed to have finished giving his directions.
'OK. Great. Thanks,' said Israel, who went to wind up the window.
But the man hadn't finished. He pushed the window down, rather menacingly, thought Israel.
'So, you follow the road, right? Past the Spar. But that's not there any more. That's gone. It's one of them hair places now.'
'OK.'
'Then there's a roundabout.'
And here he paused again, for what seemed like a long time.
Israel assumed that this concluded proceedings.
'OK. Great, thanks,' he said, going to wind up the window again.
But no, there was more–the man was just thinking.
'Steady,' he said. 'I'm just thinking.'
There was a pathetic bark from the dog.
'And it's definitely Ballymuckery you're for?'
'I think so.'
'Aye, well. That's all right. Then there's another roundabout.'
'Right.'
'Straight on,' corrected the man.
'OK,' said Israel, through gritted teeth.
'And then there's the mini-roundabout.'
'OK. And then?'
'No, that's it. And Ballymuckery's up there on the left, by the old railway bridge.'
'Right. Good. How long do you think that should take?'
'Well, it's a brave wee walk, if you're walking.'
'Right. Er. I'm in the van, though.'
'Aye.'
'OK. Well, thanks for that. So: left, roundabout, roundabout, roundabout, left.'
'Right,' said the man.
'Right?'
'Left.'
'Left?'
'That'd be it.'
'Thanks. Good. Thank you very much.'
'I'll maybe take a wee ride with you,' said the man.
'No!' said Israel hurriedly. 'No. Really. Thanks. I'm not…erm. Insured. To carry the public.'
'No?'
'No, sorry. But thanks. Goodbye!'
'Good luck!'
'Thanks. Bye. Bye!'
Israel finally wound up the window, and set off.
They were the wrong directions.
He did find it eventually though, Ballymuckery, and the home of Norman Canning, Tumdrum's former librarian.
Norman, it turned out, lived in a maisonette, a part of a group of twenty or thirty two-storey pebble-dashed buildings clustered around a patch of grass which forbade ball games and which had long ago turned to mud. It was a place too small to count as an actual estate but too big to be simply a cul-de-sac: it was as if the houses had been cut adrift from the rest of civilisation and left floating in a dark sea of ploughed fields. All the kerbstones had been painted red, white and blue–some time ago, by the look of it, and by people using very broad brushstrokes–and there was matching, tattered, red, white and blue bunting hung from lampposts, giving the place the feeling of a sinister floating pleasure-boat. There was no one around. The whole place had the air of a loyalist Marie Celeste.
Israel walked up the concrete steps to the front door of Norman's maisonette, which looked down over a small garden where there were rose bushes dug into a deep triangle of dirt, hacked and grown into standards, like blackened skeletal fingers, like the buried body of the countryside had been crushed by the buildings and was grasping up towards the winter sky. There was no other greenery or attempts at pleasantness: just pebble-dash and concrete and red, white and blue bleeding into the dark black earth.
A net curtain hung at Norman's window. There was no bell.
Israel took a deep breath and tried to think like Miss Marple.
He tapped on the white UPVC and presently a man in late middle age answered the door; he had pinched, bitter features, as if someone had gripped a hold of his face with their hand and had not let go for many years, until the lines had deepened, and he wore small round glasses not dissimilar to Israel's own, and his grey, thinning hair hung down over the collar of his worn but neat and ironed white shirt: he looked every inch the ex-librarian.
'Hello,' said Israel. 'Norman Canning?'
'Hmm,' said the man non-committally.
'Erm. My name's Israel Armstrong. I'm…the new librarian, in Tumdrum. Well, the new librarian with the mobile library. If you see what I mean.'
He pointed back towards the road, at the mobile library.
'I see,' said the man, his eyes narrowing.
'And it is Norman, is it? Pleased to meet you.' Israel went to shake hands.
The man ignored Israel's hand and looked over his shoulder, towards the street.
Israel had parked the mobile library outside the maisonette, managing to get it surprisingly close to the kerb.
A group of young children had appeared out of nowhere and had gathered around the van, and were banging on the sides.
'Hey! Get away from there!' shouted the man, shaking his fist at the children, who ran off, shouting abuse. 'Go on! Go!'
'Thanks,' said Israel.
'They'll be back,' said the man. 'Your hubcaps'll be away.'
'I'm sure it'll be fine,' said Israel blithely.
'Aye. You'd know?'
'Well…'
'You'd better be quick.'
'Right. I was just wondering if I could ask you a few quick questions,' said Israel. 'About the library.'
'It's shut.'
'Yes. I know. I'm…' Israel began, but the man had already turned his back on him and walked away. 'Norman?' called Israel. 'Norman?'
'Come, if you
're coming,' called the man who was presumably Norman, retreating down a narrow hallway piled up with dozens of empty bottles. 'In here.'
He led the way into a small, spotless kitchen–'Kitchenette,' he said, as if cataloguing his own home, as they entered–the laminated surfaces pristine, the walls free of even a single spot or stain, empty bottles lined up neatly in rows: green glass; clear glass; brown glass.
'I'm preparing my breakfast. You'll forgive me if I continue?'
'Of course. Go ahead.' Israel sniffed. 'Something smells good,' he said encouragingly.
'I'm boiling an egg,' said Norman.
'Ah.'
'Take a seat.'
'Thanks.' Israel sat down on the kitchen's one and only chair, which was next to a small fridge, whose hum was much grumpier than its size. Norman went and stood by the stove.
'I—' began Israel.
'Sshh!' said Norman, raising a finger. 'About to boil.'
He nodded down towards the saucepan and stood with an egg-timer in his hand. Israel remained silent; the sound of the boiling water; the ticking of a wall clock; the humming of the fridge; the steam in the room beginning to mist the windows.
'Right!' said Norman, turning the egg-timer upside down. 'Three minutes.'
Israel wasn't entirely sure whether Norman meant him or the egg.
'Well. I suppose I should say straight away that I hope there's no bad feeling between us.'
'Bad feeling?' laughed Norman, in a not entirely friendly and more than slightly bonkers kind of a way. 'Why should there be bad feeling?'
'Well, you know. You used to be the librarian. And now…well, I'm the librarian.'
Norman snorted.
'Believe me, sir, I bear you no ill feeling. On the contrary. I pity you, actually.'
Norman swept his arm, indicating the room around him and a door leading off to another room–Israel glanced through and saw further dark, depressing depths: an imitation-flame-effect gas fire; piles of books and empty bottles everywhere.
'This,' said Norman, 'is what you've got to look forward to.'
Israel had to admit, it was hardly an encouragement to go into public service.
The egg-timer was running down.
'I worked for the Library Board for over thirty years,' said Norman. 'Did you know that?'
'No. I didn't.'
'I introduced computers. That was me.'
'Very good,' said Israel.
'And who do you think introduced the children's reading hour on Saturday afternoons?'
'Erm…'
'Me.'
'Right.'
'And the refurbishments? Who oversaw the refurbishments?'
'You?'
'Correct. Me. The carpet?'
'You?'
'Correct. Carpet! In a library! And the toilet facilities–who was that?'
'You?'
'Exactly. Me. Me. I did everything they told me to, and more. Do you know that? All their dictates. And their reports. I was in the middle of transferring the last of the card catalogues when they sacked me.'
'I'm sorry,' offered Israel.
'Don't you be sorry,' said Norman, laughing his little laugh again. 'You don't want to be sorry for me. You want to be sorry for yourself, Mr…What did you say your name was?'
'Armstrong. You can call me Israel though.'
'I don't think so.' Norman glanced at his egg-timer. 'See me?'
Israel looked shyly up at Norman standing by the sink.
'See me? I was the top of my year at school, d'you know that? Hmm?'
'No.'
'The Grammar. And this is where it gets you. This where you're heading, Israel Armstrong.' Norman emphasised the Israel with some distaste.
Israel glanced around nervously. Norman noticed his gaze.
'D'you know what I do now?' He nodded towards a box of cleaning products by the front door, and a large industrial vacuum cleaner.
'No.'
'Have they not told you what I do now?'
'No.'
'Contract cleaning. Do you know what that is?'
'Er.'
'Cleaning for businesses, and the middle classes, because they can't be bothered to pick up their own shit.' He pronounced 'shit' with the same emphasis he'd used for Israel. 'Like people who couldn't be bothered to buy their own books.'
'OK.'
'That's what you've got to look forward to.'
Israel remained silent.
'You know what they used to say, when I was at college?'
'No,' said Israel.
'Old librarians never die,' said Norman. 'They just become ex-libris.'
'Right,' said Israel, trying to raise a small laugh.
'It's not true, though, is it? Old librarians never die. They just become cleaners.' He laughed.
As jokes went Israel thought it was pretty poor: Norman probably wouldn't have got his own Friday night sitcom on the strength of that.
'Not fit for anything else, are we? Librarians!' He laughed again. 'Look at us! Look at the two of us. Useless, eh?'
'Yes,' agreed Israel nervously.
Norman looked at the egg-timer. 'Time up.' He turned off the gas.
'Actually, it's the library I needed to talk to you about, Norman.'
'Time up, I said,' repeated Norman. 'Time's up.'
'But…'
'I am not interested in your library, Mr Israel. Do you understand? I don't care about libraries any more. Do you know the last time I stepped into a library?'
'No.'
'The day they sacked me. I vowed I would never again use a library. And I haven't.'
'Right, well, that's, er, a bit sad, isn't it?'
'A bit sad? A bit sad? I dedicated my life to the library service, sir. My life. Do you understand that?'
'Yes, I, er, I think I do.'
'Ach, you're not old enough to understand what's holding up your trousers.'
It was his stomach, unfortunately, that was holding up Israel's trousers.
'No, well,' he said. 'But I do sympathise. And I take your point. But I was wondering if you might at least be able to answer a couple of questions about the library?'
'Answer your questions?'
'Yes.'
'I suggest you take your questions to the town hall. They seem to have all the answers.'
Norman had fished the egg from the pan with a spoon and had placed it carefully in an egg-cup.
'Well, it was more of a, you know, personal kind of a question, actually,' continued Israel. 'Librarian to librarian. It was about the books.'
'What about the books?'
'They've gone missing.'
'Missing?'
'Yes.'
'Ha!' Norman took a knife from a drawer. 'Books go missing all the time. How long have you been a librarian?'
'On and off. A while.'
'Well. You know what happens when you're dealing with the public. Overdue. Lost. Theft.'
Norman took the knife and sliced the top off the egg.
'Actually, we've lost the whole lot,' said Israel.
'The whole lot?'
'Yes.'
'Ha!' Norman laughed. 'Boys-a-boys. The whole lot! All of them?'
'I'm afraid so.'
'Oh, that's good. That's excellent. You must be even more stupid than you look.'
'Erm…' There was no simple response to that.
'How did you manage that then?'
'They were missing before I arrived actually.'
'I see.'
Norman had picked up the saucepan of boiling water and was moving towards the sink.
'And I was,' continued Israel, 'I was wondering maybe if you knew anything…'
Norman stopped in his movements and then slowly turned around.
'Me? Knew anything? Why?'
He was holding the saucepan of boiling water in his hand.
'Well, something's happened to the books. And…'
'Are you insinuating, sir?'
'Insinuating?'
'A
re you suggesting I have anything to do with these missing books? Is that your insinuation?'
'No, Norman, no. No, no. I'm not insinuating anything. It's just, you would have had access to the…'
Norman had stepped closer to Israel now and was standing right over him with the saucepan of boiling water. Israel could see his hand shaking slightly with rage. He didn't like the way this was going.
'Norman,' he said nervously. 'I don't like the way this is going…'
'The way this is going? The way this is going? That's rich! You come in here under false pretences and accuse me—'
'No. No one's accusing you, Norman.'
'Mr Canning, please!'
'Sorry. Mr Canning. No one's…I really don't like the way this is going, Norman…'
'The way this is going! I'll tell you the way this is going, sir! You're getting out of my house, now, and you're never darkening my doorstep again, that's the way this is going. D'you understand?'
Israel was edging himself off his seat.
'Do you understand?'
'OK, yes, that's fine.'
Norman stepped closer, clutching the saucepan unsteadily. Israel could see his nostrils flaring and vibrating.
'I'm going, it's OK.'
'No, it is not OK! You come round here insinuating: it is not OK!'
'No. Fine. Sorry. I was just…'
'I'll tell you what you should do, sir, about your missing library books, shall I? Eh? I'll tell you what you should do. You should ask your borrowers–huhn?–or your customers–customers is it?–that's what you call them now, isn't it?–ask them what happened to your books. Rather than coming and bothering me. It's the borrowers who are the problem around here. Not me. You want to find out what they know! Prise the books out of their greasy little paws, eh? Eh?'
'Yes. Thank you. That's…good advice,' said Israel, who had edged himself off the seat and was moving back slowly towards the front door.
'And I don't expect to see your face ever again!' called Norman, looking down on Israel, the saucepan still in his hand, as Israel scurried quickly down the concrete steps and towards the sanctuary of the mobile library.
'Well,' said Israel, to try and calm himself, once he was safely back behind the wheel of the van, 'that went well.' Except for the hubcaps: Norman had been right about the hubcaps.
9
He shook all the way back to Tumdrum, his guts and his glasses jiggling and his nerves jangling, thrashing the old van up to 50 mph, and he did his best to park up neat and straight in Tumdrum's town square–there was quite a bit of play in the steering wheel, and the brakes were a little sloppy but he managed finally to bring the van to a halt across three bays at a slight angle–and when he turned off the ignition he took a long deep breath, a swig from his bottle of water, and a couple of Nurofen.
