Ian Sansom - Mr Dixon Disappears

He’d say, ‘Hello! Welcome!’ and try to be as cheery as a mobile librarian might reasonably be expected to be, and he might even ask the person if they knew the title of the book they were after, but invariably the person – let’s call them Mrs Onions, for the sake of example – would say ‘No,’ and Israel might manage to remain patient for a moment or two and he might say, ‘OK, fine, do you know the name of the author?’ but then of course the person – let’s say still they’re Mrs Onions – would say, ‘Och, no,’ and Israel would start to struggle a little bit then and the person, Mrs Onions would usually add, ‘But you’d know it when you saw it, because it’s got a blue sort of a cover, and my cousin had it out last year I think it was, and it’s about this big…’, at which point Israel would lose interest completely, would be incapable of offering anything but his ill-disguised north London university-educated liberal scorn for someone who didn’t know what they wanted and didn’t know how to get it. But Rosie, Rosie would take it all in her stride and she’d try to find every blue-coloured book in the van and if they didn’t have it in, sure they could get a few blue-coloured books on inter-library loan, it was no problem at all. Israel just couldn’t be bothered with all that; Israel liked the idea of public service, but he struggled with being an actual public servant.

Rosie, though, she was a saviour. She was really something special, Rosie. Israel liked Rosie a lot; he couldn’t deny it. She reminded him of someone. She reminded him of his girlfriend, in fact, Gloria, back home in England.

There were of course things about Rosie that Israel didn’t like; you couldn’t spend much time with someone on a mobile library and not get annoyed and irritated by their little tics and habits. The mobile library after all was really no more than a giant rabbit hutch, or a book-lined prison cell, a place of strictly limited human dimensions; you couldn’t wave your hands around too much in the mobile without knocking something over. In the mobile library you lived life, but in miniature, and you minded any hot liquids.

Israel didn’t like the way Rosie ate chocolate, for one thing: the way she’d just pop a piece of chocolate in her mouth, and cheap chocolate too, and munch on it like a chipmunk, unapologetic, and so fast. Back home in London Gloria never really ate chocolate—’ A moment on the lips, a lifetime on the hips,’ she’d say patting her little wasp-like waist – and if she ever did eat chocolate, she only ever ate Green and Black’s, a tiny little square. Rosie also had the habit of applying her make-up in the library, even when there were borrowers in, as if she were in the privacy of her own home; Gloria would never have done anything like that. Israel had lived with Gloria for – what? – four years before coming here and he had never seen her apply her make-up in public. He wondered, now, thinking about it, if she had some kind of magic make-up that never needed reapplying. Or maybe he just wasn’t paying attention.

Rosie also smoked and chewed her fingernails, and these were bad habits by any standards, but Israel didn’t mind; his were only mild dislikes, after all, in the grand scheme of things, and they were consistently outweighed by the many things he did like about Rosie. He liked the fact that she had a slightly bloodshot right eye, for example, which she claimed was from having suppressed a sneeze and burst a blood-vessel, and which made her look…interesting. He liked the fact that she never finished a novel, that she would jump around from book to book, and would fold down the corners and cram the books into her shoulder-bag, wrinkling and wrecking the covers – Memoirs of a Geisha covered in lipstick and crushed to a pulp – because he would never have done anything like that himself; he’d always been a completionist; he had to finish a book once he’d started it; it seemed like bad manners not to, like not finishing the food on your plate.

Rosie was a breath of fresh air.

‘Why do people read all this rubbish?’ he’d complain when they were issuing books.

‘Relax, Is,’ she would say. She always called him Is – and he liked that too. ‘Who cares?’

‘Do people not want to improve themselves though?’ he’d say.

‘Not necessarily. People don’t just read books to improve themselves.’

‘Well, they should do. They should be reading Emerson or Thoreau or something.’

‘Why?’ she’d say. ‘What did they write?’

‘Books!’ he’d say. ‘Important books!’

‘And are they dead?’

‘Yes, of course!’

‘Well, there you are then. No one wants to read books by dead people.’

‘What?’

‘It’s depressing.’

‘It’s not depressing. It’s…that’s…Two thousand years of human civilisation.’

‘Live and let live,’ Rosie would say. ‘You can read Everton and Throw if you want.’

‘Emerson and Thoreau.’

‘Yeah. Right. Tea?’ she’d say.

And, ‘OK, yeah,’ he’d say, defeated, and that would be that.

He liked the way Rosie drank her tea and coffee. He liked her broad swimmer’s shoulders, and her hippyish kind of dresses. He liked the way she tucked her thick dark hair behind her ears, and the way sometimes when he arrived for her in the van she still had the towel around her head where she’d washed her hair, and she’d come anyway, drying her hair as they went. He liked the way they’d be sitting in the van and waiting for a borrower, and they’d just talk and time would pass. And he liked…Well, he liked her a lot.

Not that there was anything between them. There was absolutely nothing between Israel and Rosie. It was important to make that clear. Rosie had an ex, the father of her son, Conor, and Israel had Gloria – who was coming over to stay next weekend, coming all the way over, finally, finding time in her busy schedule.

Israel and Rosie were just good friends.

He glanced at his watch, pulled on a T-shirt and his old tank-top, which he noticed was becoming a little ruched around the waist – it needed a wash – and as he shrugged on his duffle coat and did up his old brown brogues he had to admit maybe it wasn’t such a bad life.

He was paid to drive around beautiful, rural, coastal Irish countryside, with a van full of books and pleasant female company. Maybe life as an English, Jewish vegetarian, corduroy-wearing mobile librarian on the north coast of the north of Northern Ireland wasn’t so bad after all.

Look at yourself, Armstrong, he told himself, with a last glance in the mirror: you have nothing to complain about. Really, you don’t.

And he didn’t.

Until, that is, the disappearance of Mr Dixon from the Department Store at the End of the World.

It started with an argument. It was too early for an argument, far, far too early.

‘What d’ye think yer doin’?’

‘Sorry?’ It caught Israel off-guard.

‘Ye deaf, or what?’

‘No,’ said Israel. ‘No. I am not deaf.’

‘Well then.’

‘Sorry?’

Israel had the window wound down, and was staring the man full in the face, and the man did not look happy. Indeed, Israel guessed the man might never look happy; he had a profoundly unhappy kind of a look about him: it was the shaven head and the pierced eyebrow and the nicotine lips and the cigarette tucked behind his ear, and the Manchester United football shirt pulled tight over a hard-looking, family-haggis-sized pot-belly, and the dark, cynical look in his eyes. He looked like a man who woke up angry and went to bed incandescent.

‘Look, you’ve totally lost me I’m afraid,’ said Israel.

‘ What. Do. You. Think. You. Are. Doing ?’

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