Ian Sansom - The Delegates’ Choice

Well, actually…

He sipped at his coffee and took a couple of Nurofen. The coffee was as bad as ever. All coffee in Tumdrum came weak, and milky, and lukewarm, as though having recently passed through someone else, or a cow. Maybe he should take up smoking, late in life, as an act of flamboyance and rebellion: a smoke was a smoke, after all, but with a coffee you couldn’t always be sure. The coffee in Tumdrum was more like slurry run-off. He missed proper coffee, Israel—a nice espresso at Bar Italia just off Old Compton Street, that was one of the things he missed about London, and the coffee at Grodzinski’s, round the corner from his mum’s. He missed his friends, also, of course; and his books; and the cinema; a nice slice of lemon drizzle cake in the café at the Curzon Soho; and the theatre; and the galleries; and the restaurants; it was the little things; nothing much; just all the thriving cultural activities of one of the world’s great capital cities…

‘Just remind me,’ he said to Ted, once Minnie had gone off for the scones. ‘Why do we come here?’

‘It’s the only place there is,’ said Ted.

‘Yes,’ said Israel, amazed. ‘I know, but…it’s, like…’ He took another sip of his coffee. ‘They don’t even serve proper coffee.’

‘I think the machine’s broken,’ said Ted.

‘The machine’s always broken.’

‘Mmm.’

‘It’s that sort of chicory stuff, isn’t it,’ said Israel, licking his lips, trying to figure out what it was, the unpleasant burnt taste and the feral, sicky smell, like something someone had just brought up. ‘That’s what it is. I think it’s that…what do you call it?’

‘What?’

‘Ersatz coffee.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Ted. ‘I had a cappuccino once in Belfast.’

‘What?’

‘They have coffee bars down there everywhere now. It’s like the Continent.’

‘Oh, God,’ said Israel.

‘What?’ said Ted.

‘No,’ said Israel, shaking his head. ‘No.’

‘No what?’

‘No. Just no. It’s no good, I can’t drink this,’ said Israel, drinking his coffee.

He was thinking now about Gloria: whenever he started thinking about London his thoughts turned quickly to Gloria.

Gloria was the Eros in Israel’s Piccadilly Circus, the Serpentine in his Hyde Park, the St Paul’s in his City, the Brick Lane of his East End…her dark hair cascading down over her shoulders, her piercing brown eyes, his hand in hers, their bodies entwined…

‘Scones!’ said Minnie, interrupting Israel before the point of no return, and placing a couple of enormous steaming chunks of hot scone down on the plastic gingham-look tablecloth.

‘I was wrong,’ she said.

‘Sorry?’ said Israel. ‘Wrong? About what?’

‘It’s not Zelda’s nephew at Portora.’

‘Right.’

‘It’s her other nephew.’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘Zelda’s other brother’s boy—Niall, the fella who’s the computer-whizz?’

‘Right,’ said Israel.

What? Who? Niall? The nephew? The other nephew? Why on earth did people in Tumdrum go on like characters in Russian novels, insisting on talking about their friends and family members as if you’d known them for years, when of course you hadn’t, you had no idea who the hell they were talking about, unless you’d lived here your whole life, which Israel hadn’t. Did Israel speak to people in Tumdrum endlessly and incessantly about his family and friends? Did he ever mention his sisters, or his cousins, including the successful ones, or his mother’s neighbours Mr and Mrs Krimholz, or the butcher, the baker and the candlestick makers of his own lovely little patch of north London? No, he did not. People in Tumdrum seemed to assume that the mere fact of living there instantly made you a local, as though you absorbed local knowledge of complex hereditary diseases and bloodlines by osmosis. I mean, how was he supposed to keep up with the progress of your mother’s sister’s urinary tract infection when he’d never even met your mother? It was a physical impossibility: he’d have had to be telepathic, and a qualified medical practitioner, and, also, he’d have to care, and he didn’t. He was not bothered. Am I bothered? Est-ce que je suis bovvered? Israel slathered a piece of scone with butter.

‘Was that the fella who used to go out with Zelda’s cousin’s husband’s sister?’ said Ted.

‘Ugh!’ said Israel.

‘What?’ said Ted.

‘That’s yer man,’ said Minnie.

‘Who?’ said Israel. ‘Who? Who are you talking about now?’

‘You know,’ said Minnie. ‘The big fella. They used to live down there at Lough Island Reevy, in Down.’

‘Hello?’ said Israel. ‘Excuse me! I don’t know what you’re talking about. Some of us were not born around here you know.’

‘No, pet,’ said Minnie pityingly, moving off to another table. ‘Never mind.’

‘God,’ said Israel.

‘Don’t,’ said Ted, wagging a finger.

‘What?’

‘You know what.’

‘Oh, God.’

‘I’ll not tell ye again,’ said Ted, who was a very vehement anti-blasphemer, unless he was doing the blaspheming.

‘Sorry,’ said Israel. ‘I’m going to have to bite the bullet, though,’ he continued, picking up his scone, trying to decide where to start.

‘Uh-huh,’ said Ted, who’d already started on his own. ‘She’s a fair junt of scone, but, isn’t she? And nice and warm.’

‘No, I mean with the job. I’m definitely going to resign.’

‘Mmm.’

‘Even if it means going back to working in the Bargain Bookstore.’

‘Good man ye are.’

‘In Thurrock.’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘In Essex,’ said Israel, convincing himself. ‘I still have plenty of friends there.’

‘Mmm.’

‘A man has to have his self-respect,’ said Israel.

‘Or what does he have?’ said Ted, finishing a mouthful.

‘Exactly!’ said Israel. ‘Take this morning.’

‘Why?’ said Ted.

‘Because,’ said Israel.

‘It wasnae a bad morning,’ said Ted.

‘Wasn’t bad!’ said Israel, using the scone gavel-like on the table; the crust did not give. ‘You see! That’s it!’

‘What’s it?’

‘That’s the problem.’

‘Is it? The scone?’

‘No! This morning wasn’t bad, you said?’

‘Aye.’

‘Wasn’t bad?’

‘Aye.’

‘Wasn’t bad?’

‘Yer right.’

‘No, it wasn’t bad! It was terrible !’

‘Ach,’ said Ted, picking a date out of his scone.

‘You’re just inured to it, Ted.’

‘Ee-what?’

‘Inured. It’s…Anyway, I’m young and you’re…’

‘What?’

‘Older.’

‘Aye.’

‘And look at us! We’re nothing more than errand boys!’

‘I don’t know about that,’ said Ted.

‘I’ve got a degree from Oxford you know,’ said Israel.

‘Uh-huh,’ said Ted, picking at his scone. ‘Oxford Brookes, wasn’t it you said?’

‘Which is in Oxford,’ said Israel. ‘I don’t know if you’ve been there?’

‘Can’t say I have,’ said Ted. ‘No.’

‘No!’ said Israel triumphantly. ‘Well then. I am a highly educated librarian. I shouldn’t be— we shouldn’t be—just doing errands for people.’

‘We’re not just doing errands for people.’

‘Yes, we are!’

‘We’re a service,’ said Ted.

‘A library service,’ said Israel. ‘A library service. Not a Tesco home delivery service! Picking up people’s groceries is not the kind of service I had in mind when I got into this job,’ said Israel. ‘It’s ridiculous.’