by Ian Sansom
'Rosie?'
'Aye,' said Jimmy, nodding, not breaking stride with his reading of the paper or his smoking, and Ted walked off, through a door at the back of the reception, outside and along a paved path and through a picket gate in the direction of the rows of caravans.
'Hold on, Ted,' said Israel, catching him up.
'He'd talk a dog to death, Jimmy.'
'Yes,' agreed Israel. 'Where are we going?'
'We're going to see Rosie. Collect some books off her. She looks after the library books on site for everyone. Unofficial librarian, like.'
'Right.'
'You know Rosie.'
'Do I?'
'You do.'
'I don't think so.'
'Aye, you do,' said Ted knowingly. 'She runs a little childminding business.'
'What? Here? In a caravan?'
'They're not caravans, they're mobile homes,' said Ted.
'Right,' laughed Israel, mistaking Ted's statement for a joke. 'And so what's the difference exactly between a caravan and a mobile home? Is there a difference?'
'People live in mobile homes, Israel,' said Ted. 'This isn't a holiday for them. This is their life.'
Israel looked shamefaced, as they tramped over scrubland and grey gravel paths, towards sand-dunes in the distance: it was like approaching the edge of the world.
Rosie's home was one of the last on the site, at the very edge of the dunes–a long, creamy-brown, flat-roofed mobile home which had not been maintained to the highest of standards. There was a rusted barbecue outside, and rusted children's bicycles, rusted chairs, a washing-line and a rusted bin: the sand and wind and the sea air seemed to be gnawing everything down to stumps and bare bones. Ted knocked on the twisted aluminium door. A woman opened, with a beaming smile.
'Ach, Ted!' she said. 'There you are now! Come on in! Isn't that desperate weather altogether?'
Rosie Hart, it turned out, was the barmaid at the First and Last, the woman who had served Israel enough drink the night before to knock him down and lay him out flat. Today her dark black hair was tied back, and she was barefoot and she was wearing the kind of happy, slightly Scandinavian-looking clothes that one might at one time have associated with hippies, before hippy clothes became sanitised boho chic, and which Rosie seemed now to be successfully reclaiming for genuine dirty hippiness, and she ushered them into her caravan–her mobile home, rather–where four fat babies were rolling around on a play mat. In the background there was the unmistakable sound of Enya.
'This is Israel, Rosie,' said Ted. 'He's the new mobile librarian.'
'We've met,' she said teasingly. 'Last night.'
'Yes,' said Israel, ashamed.
'Of course,' said Ted, gloating. 'I almost forgot.'
'How are you feeling then?'
'OK,' said Israel, not feeling well at all.
'Good,' said Rosie. 'Now, you must have known I'd had the kettle on, Ted–it's only just boiled. What'll you have, fellas, tea or coffee?'
Israel looked at Ted, looking for a cue.
'Tea, please,' said Ted, who then got down on his stomach on the floor and started playing with the babies. 'OK, you wee rascals, who's for sparring?'
'Israel?' asked Rosie.
'Erm. I'll have a cup of coffee, thanks, if that's OK.'
'Who have we got here?' asked Ted.
'That's Liam with the hair. And Joel there with the cheeky grin. Charlotte in pink there. And Charlie with the bogeys–he's a wee dote, isn't he?'
'Aye,' said Ted.
'Sorry, Israel, what was it you wanted?'
'Coffee?'
'Now it's only instant, I'm afraid,' said Rosie, going down towards the kitchen area, Israel following.
'That's fine.'
'And it's mugs.'
'Fine.'
'Probably not what you're used to, though, eh?'
'Well…'
'Roasted coffee beans where you're from, I'll bet.' She took a few mugs from a mug-stand. 'And nice white china?'
'Well, I don't know about that exactly…'
'So?' she said, turning to Israel, hands on hips, having set out the mugs and put the kettle on to reboil, and fixing him with a quizzical gaze. 'How have you found it here so far?'
'It's been…'
Rosie crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow.
'It's been…' continued Israel, embarrassed.
'Och, I know, pet, don't worry. It's a dump, isn't it?' said Rosie, waving a hand in dismissal. 'It's all right. You can be honest.'
'Well…I don't know if I'd…'
'Not like what you're used to, I bet.'
'No, not exactly.'
'London, isn't it, you're from?'
'Yes.'
'You know, I'd love to live in London. Or New York. I've got a cousin in Hackensack.'
Israel had never heard of it.
'He went to Fairleigh Dickinson University?'
'Right. I'm afraid I'm not…'
'And one of my aunts lives in Greenford.'
'Really? In America?'
'Och, no. Greenford, in London. D'you not know it?'
'No. I'm afraid not.'
'Well. I've never been to visit her even.'
'That's a shame.'
'I'd love to live over there,' said Rosie, quietly and thoughtfully, pausing as she poured boiling water into the mugs.
'Well, why don't you?' asked Israel.
Rosie laughed, stirring tea bag and granules.
'This is where I live,' she said, gesturing at the four walls of the mobile home.
It was one room, with a stained and sagging red sofa dividing the living area from the kitchen, and the kitchen units were chipped and scratched and the brown carpet was worn and there were damp patches on the walls, but you didn't really notice any of that, or only for a moment, you didn't notice what was inside, because on three sides of the room were these huge windows, looking directly out to sea, which was all breaking waves under a slate-grey sky, headlands either side.
'That's quite a view you've got.'
'Aye,' said Rosie. 'The strand. Three miles, isn't it, Ted? Joel, don't do that.' Joel was punching Ted on the nose.
'He's all right,' said Ted.
'You sit here and it feels like being on a ship,' said Rosie. 'I could sit here all day, you know, just looking out, dreaming and that.'
In one corner of the room, under a window, by the television, was a table with a Star Wars chess set. 'Do you play chess?' asked Israel.
'No. That's my son. Conor!' she shouted. 'He loves chess.'
'Great game.'
'Is it?' said Rosie. 'God. I can't stand it myself. Conor!'
Ted was still wrestling with children on the floor. Rosie brought him his mug of tea.
'Thanks, Rosie,' said Ted. 'We've come about the books actually,' he continued, holding a baby up in the air. 'Lagalagalagalaa! Snaggleaggleuppaluss!'
'Oh, I'm sorry, Ted. I haven't collected them all in yet. I've only got ours.'
'It's all right,' said Ted. 'Weeee!' he called.
'We'll take whatever you've got,' said Israel.
'OK,' said Rosie. 'Conor!' she said. 'Conor! I'll go and get him. Are you all right with the wee ones there, Ted?'
'Aye. We'll manage. Here's one for you, Armstrong,' said Ted, trying to hand Israel a child.
'Erm. No, I'm all right thanks, Ted,' said Israel, clutching his mug of coffee tighter and backing away: he wasn't what you'd call a natural with children.
The baby started crying.
Rosie returned. 'Conor's there in his room–he's a wee bit shy of strangers, you know. I'd better deal with this one.' She picked up the crying baby and smelt its bottom. 'No, all right down that end. Let's get you something then, little man. Just pop your head round the door there, Israel, he'll let you in. Tell him I sent you. All the books are in there with him.'
Israel went to knock on the plyboard door at the end of the room. There was no answer.
'Hello?' said Israel, and
he pushed open the door.
There was a boy sitting upright on his bed. He was about eight years old–but he had the face of an old man. The room was in most respects a typical boy's room–posters Blu-Tacked to the walls, clothes and toys everywhere. But it was also full, from floor to ceiling, with books. Towers and towers of books. A miniature New York skyline of books.
'Wow!' said Israel, taken aback at what must have been at the very least the entire children's non-fiction section of Tumdrum Library. 'Hello? Conor? I'm Israel. Your mum said I could come in. I'm a librarian.'
The boy stared at Israel in silence.
'You've got a few books here, mate.'
'You've got a few books here, mate!' repeated Conor, mimicking Israel.
'Conor!' said Rosie, appearing next to Israel, sensing trouble, the now pacified baby in her arms chewing a biscuit. 'Behave!'
'Sorry, Mum,' said Conor. 'That's not fair, he's a biscuit!'
'Conor!'
'Erm. Are these all library books?' asked Israel politely.
'I'm afraid so,' said Rosie.
'How did you…?'
'He loves reading, you see. And so, they…'
Israel sensed that Rosie was searching for an explanation.
'They?'
'They…the old librarian.'
'Norman?'
'Yes, yes, that's right. He…Er. He let Conor take them all out.'
'All these books?'
'Yes, that's right!'
Having met Norman Canning, Israel doubted that very much.
'Conor?' said Israel.
Conor remained silent and looked at the floor.
'Well, we'll have to return all these to the library, I'm afraid.'
'But we'll not be fined, will we?' said Rosie. 'I mean, we couldn't possibly afford to pay the fines on all these.'
'No. We're having a fines amnesty.'
'What's an amnesty?' asked Conor.
'Amnesty?' said Israel. 'Good question. An amnesty is when there's a sort of pardon for some crime or—'
'Like in a war,' explained Rosie. 'When you decide to forgive the other side.'
'Couldn't you and Dad have an amnesty, Mum?'
'Conor!'
'Right,' said Israel, embarrassed. 'Perhaps if we could just gather these up and we'll be out of your hair?'
'Aye, right, of course. I'll get you some bags and Conor can help you.'
'Mum!'
'Conor!'
Rosie went to get some bags.
'Do you like reading, Conor?' asked Israel, with Rosie out of the room.
Conor didn't answer.
'Did you get these books from the library, Conor?'
'"Did you get these books from the library, Conor?"' repeated Conor, speaking with his tongue in his bottom lip, like a monkey.
Israel didn't seem to be getting very far with his line of questioning, but then he remembered the chess.
'Do you play chess, mate?'
'"Do you play chess, mate?"'
'Do you though? And without the funny voices, eh. The novelty sort of wears off, you know, and I've got a terrible headache.'
'Are you drunk?'
'No, I'm not drunk.'
'Are you hung over then?'
'No.'
'Are you an alcoholic?'
'No.'
'You look like an alcoholic.'
'Do you play chess with your mum, Conor?'
'She's rubbish.'
'I'm sure she's not rubbish. I like chess.'
'Are you any good?'
'I'm not bad.'
'I bet I could beat you.'
'Well, I'll tell you what. I'll give you a game if you tell me where you got the books.'
'Here we are, now,' said Rosie, reappearing with bin bags.
'Come on, Conor, you give Israel a hand here, please.'
'I'm going out to play,' said Conor, leaping out of bed and running out of the bedroom.
'Conor!'
There was the sound of the slamming of the front door.
'He's certainly a…boisterous little chap,' said Israel.
'Yes,' agreed Rosie.
'You must be very…proud.'
'Well. Would you mind just collecting them up yourself?'
'Sure.'
Rosie went outside.
'Ted,' she called, 'can you watch those wee ones for me a minute, OK?'
'Sure,' said Ted.
Israel could hear her shouting.
'Conor!' she called. 'Come here, this minute!'
Which left Israel to pack a couple of hundred books into plastic bin bags.
He did half a dozen trips to and from Rosie's home and through the mobile home park and to the Visitors' Car Park and the van, the plastic carrier bags sometimes spilling and splitting, and in the end Ted joined him and they said goodbye to Rosie–although there was still no sign of Conor.
'Where d'you think he got the books, Ted?'
'He's a great reader, the wee fella.'
'He's got enough books to keep him going until he's at university, though.'
'Aye, Rosie'd love him to go to university.'
'I'm sure she would, but the books, Ted–Rosie said Norman had let him have them all from the library?'
'Aye.'
'Well, you know Norman, Ted.'
'I do.'
'And he's not likely to have given an eight-year-old boy unrestricted borrowing rights, is he?'
'I don't rightly know, Israel.'
'Maybe he stole them?'
'Ach, give over, Israel. Wasn't it last week I was your criminal mastermind?'
'Yes, but—'
'And then this week it's a big conspiracy involving the council and the Shinners and the Orange Order and the Ancient Order of Hibernians?'
'No, Ted.'
'Aye, well, the wee fella's probably behind it all, isn't he, I would have thought. He's your Mr Big? D'you want to try a citizen's arrest?'
As they trudged along the grey gravel path towards the reception a man approached them, running steadily, in running shorts and windcheater.
'John!' called Ted to the runner. 'John! Hey! Over here!'
The man stopped in his tracks.
'John, it's me, Ted.'
'Ach, what about ye, Ted?'
'This is Israel, John, the new mobile librarian. Israel, John Boyd.'
'Hello, Israel,' said John, 'pleased to meet you. People call me Feely.'
'Right, well, hello, erm, Feely,' said Israel, who was about to ask the man why people called him Feely as he went to shake his hand, and found his hand engulfed by a massive muscular shake: John was over six foot tall, had a shaven head, and was built like a boxer. He looked like a younger, fitter version of Ted: the only real difference was, John was completely blind.
'What brings you out here then, Ted?'
'We're getting the mobile library up and running. Israel here's rounding up all the overdue books.'
'Right.'
'Have you any, John?'
John hesitated.
'There's a fines amnesty, but, so you're all right.'
'Great, Ted,' said John with relief. 'They were months overdue. Would have cost me a fortune returning them.'
'That's all right,' said Israel magnanimously. 'Happens all the time.'
'I've got audio books mostly.'
'That's OK. An audio book's still a book, in my book,' said Israel jocularly.
'Right.'
'Don't mind him, John,' said Ted. 'He's from England.'
'Oh, aye.'
John led them to his mobile home.
From outside it looked exactly the same as Rosie's, but inside it was done out entirely as a gym: where Rosie had her sofa and her coffee table and the Star Wars chess set, John had a rowing machine, a running machine, racks of free weights, a weights station and a huge contraption like a gibbet hung with punch bags.
'This new, John?' said Ted, patting the big metal contraption.
'The UBS?' said John.
'T
he what?'
'Universal Boxing System.'
'Aye.'
'Yeah.'
'Speed bag, heavy bag, and double-end striking bag all in one, eh,' said Ted, walking round, admiring the kit.
'Nice, isn't she.'
Ted took a boxing stance and threw a succession of punches into the centre of a heavy bag. There was a lovely soft sound of oofs.
'I've got spare gloves and wraps if you want them, Ted.'
'No,' said Ted, laughing, throwing another couple of punches at the bag. 'I'm too old for that game–beaten docket, me. It's not canvas then?'
'No, it's all this plastic these days.'
'I wish we'd had these little double-end bags when I was younger,' said Ted, moving round to another small bag, suspended between two plastic cords. He threw a punch at it and it sprang back and forwards as he leant his body to the side, ducking and bobbing.
'Good for coordination,' said John.
'Aye.'
'Cost a few pound, eh?'
'Well, got it on eBay.'
'Oh, right.'
'Got my medicine ball as well,' said John.
'God, I haven't seen one of them in a few years,' said Ted, going over and picking up a big black leather ball.
'Great for the old abdominals,' said John.
'Aye,' said Ted, and then, 'Here, Israel, catch!' and threw the ball to Israel.
Israel saw the ball coming towards him as if in slow motion, and he had a flashback, of gym at school, of being unable to climb ropes, of panicking in the swimming pool, of getting pounded in rugby, and collapsing in cross-country, flailing in tennis, as the medicine ball hit him in the stomach.
'Steady, Ted,' said John.
'Ach, get him in shape,' said Ted. 'Look at him, he's a belly like a drowned pup.'
'Aaggh.'
'Anyway,' said Ted, turning to John. 'It was about the books we came.'
'Yes.'
'What have you got?'
'Here we go,' said John, going over to a state-of-the-art sound system, which had CDs and tape cassettes piled around.
'Israel?' said Ted. Israel remained doubled over. 'Ach, come on. Stop clowning about. What have we got here then, John? The Odyssey, read by Ian McKellen. Any good?'
'Not bad.'
'Have you heard that one of him doing Les Misérables though?'
'No. I must get that out.'
Israel had staggered over. 'God, you've got most of the history of English literature on tape here,' he said.
'Aye. Well, makes a break during training: I need to cool off actually, now. Do my stretching. D'you mind?'
