Ian Sansom - The Delegates' Choice aka The Book Stops Here

'Is he all right?' Israel's mother kept asking Israel. 'Do you think he's okay? Is it something I said?'

'He's fine,' said Israel. 'It's just been a shock, I think, with the van, you know, and seeing his cousin after all these years.'

'Oy!' said Israel's mother. 'People change. You remember your aunt Sarah? She was a brunette growing up in Finchley; now, twenty-five years later, she's a blonde in South Africa.'

'Right,' said Israel.

'And she's had a boob job.'

'Yeah, but-'

'And a nose job.'

'It's not quite the same, Mum. It's-'

Her mobile rang.

'I've got to take this call,' said his mother. 'It could be a lead.'

Israel's mother was taking the hunt for the van seriously. She'd always been ambitious and organised, but her ambition and organisation had been focused largely on making packed lunches and arranging school concerts for the PTA. Now that she was faced with a bona fide challenge, she'd turned into Hillary Clinton. It had given her a new lease of life.

Israel's mobile hadn't rung.

He still hadn't heard from Gloria.

She was busy. Maybe she was away. Business.

Yes. That was it. She was definitely away.

'You can talk to me about it, if you want,' said Israel.

Ted remained silent.

'Or not. "Whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must remain silent."'

'All right, Buddha,' said Ted.

'Actually, that's Wittgenstein.'

'Who?'

'Wittgenstein, Ludwig, famous Austrian philosopher.'

'Aye,' said Ted, 'we had one of them, but the wheels fell off.'

'Are you all right, though, seriously?' said Israel, as he parked the car.

'What?' said Ted, stroking the dog.

'Well, it's just, you've not said anything all morning,' said Israel. 'I was just wondering, you know, if you're all right?'

'Am I all right?' said Ted irritably. 'Am I all right?'

'It's a straightforward question,' said Israel.

Ted shook his head, either in rage or despair, it was difficult to tell which. Muhammad barked in sympathy.

'There's nothing wrong with me,' said Ted, with implication.

'Are you thinking about your cousin?' said Israel.

Ted huffed.

'I know it was a shock, but…You can't know everything about people, Ted, not even your own family. Everybody has to lead their life the way they see fit. And it's just…something we all have to face, one day or another. Sometimes you just have to embrace difference and change and try to move forward.'

'Israel?' said Ted.

'What?'

'I'll tell you what would make me feel better.'

'What?'

'If you shut up.'

'Right.'

'Completely.'

'All right. Okay.'

'Which means not speaking.'

'Okay, sorry.'

'Ever.'

'I-'

'At all.'

They got out of the car and walked in through the gates of Britton's Second Hand Van Sales into a forecourt filled with white vans, a vast drift of vehicles looking as though they were floating upon the brimming Thames behind them and beyond: Citroën, Fiat, Mazda, Mercedes, Toyota, Vauxhall, like big wheeled swans ready to fly up and away and soar over the capital.

'Wow,' said Israel. 'Looks like they've got them all here.'

'Except ours,' said Ted.

'Come on, let's think positive,' said Israel.

'I thought you were staying silent?' said Ted.

A man came down a flight of steps from a Portakabin office raised on stilts and approached them.

'Right,' said Israel.

'Do not speak,' said Ted. 'Leave the ba-flum to me.'

'The what?' said Israel.

'Leave it to me,' repeated Ted. 'The ba-flum.'

'All right, I will,' whispered Israel, as the man approached. 'Even though I have no idea what bum-flum-'

'Ba-flum,' said Ted.

'-ba-flum might be,' said Israel.

'Hello, gents!' said the man. He had thinning, slicked-back hair. He wore a cheap-looking suit with an expensive-looking purple lining, and he was finishing off a bacon sandwich, licking his fingers clean of grease and crumbs. He'd had acne. He couldn't have been much older than Israel but he looked like a bloated, out-of-condition Bill Clinton. He was, definitively, a second-hand car salesman.

'Gentlemen, gentlemen. Lovely to see you.'

They all shook hands. Israel wiped his hands on his trousers.

'Barry Britton,' said the man. 'How can I help you?'

'Great view,' said Israel, nodding towards the River Thames, out past the high wire fencing.

'Yeah, well. It's okay,' said Barry. 'You get used to it. It's like looking up a bit of skirt I always think. D'you know what I mean?' He had a long, lop-sided smile-a smile so big and so false, so gaping, that it looked as though if he smiled a little longer the top of his head would fall off.

'Erm…' said Israel.

'We're looking for a van,' said Ted.

'You're looking for a van?' said Barry, pointing finger and thumb at Ted, as though cocking a gun.

'That's right,' said Ted.

'You are lookin' for a van?' repeated Barry, amused, almost singing the words, cocking both hands at Ted.

'Yes,' said Ted mirthlessly.

'Well, my friend,' said Barry, slapping Ted on the back. 'You have come to the right place! This is where you're going to find your van. What did you say your name was?'

'I didn't,' said Ted.

'Ha!' said Barry. 'You're good! You're not giving anything away, right?'

Ted looked at him silently.

'Yeah. Good! Now, my friend, what sort of a van are you looking for? We specialise in light commercial and fittings, as you know. And you are looking for…No. Don't tell me…' He stood back and eyed Ted and Israel up and down. 'You're plumbers? Am I right, or am I right?'

'No,' said Ted.

'No? We get a lot of plumbers,' said Barry. 'Roof racks for the pipes, you know, and racking and what have you. Super racking. We've got a deal on that at the moment, if you're interested.'

'We don't want a plumber's van,' said Ted.

'That's fine,' said Barry. 'Not a problem. What is it then? Erm. You are…No, don't tell me…Chippies, are you?'

'No,' said Israel.

'We're not chippies,' said Ted.

'That's all right,' said Barry. 'Just guessing. You can't always judge a book by its cover, eh! Doesn't matter what you are, or what you do. Whatever it is, I can guarantee you, Britton's has the van for you.' When he spoke Barry sounded like he was rapping; Israel suspected a fondness for Eminem.

'It's a very particular sort of van we're looking for,' said Ted.

'Good!' said Barry. 'Excellent! You know what you want. That's good. I like a man who knows his own mind. I'm the same myself. A man's got to know what he wants in this life, and go get it, if you know what I mean. Eh?'

'The van,' said Ted, 'we're looking for-'

'Yeah. Okay. Let me tell you this. You just name your vehicle and spec, and if by some fluke we haven't got it-you're not going to believe this, but it's true-we'll get it; week, two weeks max, no problem. But first look. Look. Look at that. Little Citroën C15 over there. Lovely vehicle.' He gestured towards a small white van. 'And then we go all the way right up to the big Mercedes.' He gestured towards a big white van. 'I'm guessing there's going to be something here that's gonna suit you but if not, like I say, if we haven't got what you're looking for today, right here, right now on the forecourt, we'll source it. At Britton's we're all about customer service.'

'We're looking for a Bedford,' said Ted.

'Ha! Right, now,' said Barry. 'A Bedford? Well. Now…Phew! Don't take this the wrong way, all right, but I'm afraid you might be showing your age a little bit there. Yeah.' He patted Ted on the arm.

Ted looked for a moment as though he might knock him out.

'Only joking!' said Barry, sensing danger, stepping back. 'But the Bedford-okay?-that's more of a collector's item these days. We've not had a Bedford in for…Phew! I don't know how long. More of my dad's generation of vehicle, d'you know what I mean? No offence, like.' He pointed at him again with two fingers. 'If you're thinking Bedford, I don't know, let me think…You'd probably be better off these days with a Fiat. Depending on what you're after.'