Ian Sansom - The Delegates’ Choice

‘You’re getting carried away now,’ said Ted.

‘I am not getting carried away!’ said Israel.

Israel glanced around the café at all the old familiar faces. ‘Look!’ he said

‘What?’ said Ted.

‘Sshh! Behind you!’ said Israel.

‘What?’ said Ted, turning round.

‘No! Don’t turn around!’

‘Why?’

‘It’s her.’

‘Who?’

‘Mrs Onions.’

‘Aye,’ said Ted. ‘What’s wrong with her, sure?’

‘Oh, God, Ted. She’s another one.’

‘Another one of what?’

‘Another one who’s cracking me up!’

That was the third stop.

Mrs Onions: ‘D’ye have any books with those sort of suedey covers?’

Israel: ‘Erm. No, no, I’m afraid not. We’re right out of the…suede-covered books at the moment, I think.’

Mrs Onions: ‘You’ve plenty of other sorts of books.’

Israel: ‘Yes. We do. That’s true.’

Mrs Onions: ‘I could take one of those. But I like the old suede covers, ye see. My granny used to have one, when she lived on the farm down in the Mournes. The butter, honestly, beautiful it was.’

Israel: ‘Uh-huh.’

Mrs Onions: ‘Will ye be getting any in?’

Israel: ‘It’s possible, yes, that we will be getting in some suede-covered books in the future. I could certainly—’

Mrs Onions: ‘Ach, I’ll not bother for the moment. I’ve shopping to get here.’

Israel: ‘Good. Well, it’s lovely to…’

And there was more! Much, much more, every day: the man who’d come in and take out any books that he deemed were unChristian, and then claim that he’d lost them; the woman who used Sellotape as a bookmark; the creepy man with the moustache who was continually ordering gynaecology textbooks on inter-library loan. It was too much. Israel still found it hard to believe that he’d ended up here in the first place, and the longer he stayed the less he believed it, the more he felt like merely a vestigial presence in his own life, a kind of living, breathing Chagall, floating just above and outside the world, staring down at himself as librarian, as though this weren’t really him at all, not really his life, as if he were merely observing Tumdrum’s nether-world of inanities and bizarre and meaningless human exchanges. The longer he stayed in Tumdrum the more he could feel himself slowly withdrawing from the human world, becoming a mere onlooker, a monitor of human absurdities.

He took another bite of his scone.

‘I feel like a Chagall,’ he said.

‘He says he feels like a Chagall,’ said Ted to Minnie, who’d arrived with offers of another top-up of coffee.

‘He’d need to get himself smarted up first,’ said Minnie, winking; Israel was wearing corduroy trousers, his patched-up old brown brogues, and one of his landlady George’s brother Brownie’s old T-shirts, which read, unhelpfully, ‘Smack My Bitch Up’.

‘What?’ said Israel.

‘But anyway,’ said Minnie. ‘We’ll not have that sort of dirty talk in here, thank you, gents.’

‘I can’t go on, Ted,’ said Israel.

‘No?’ said Ted, reaching forward and taking Israel’s other half of scone.

‘Not the scone!’ said Israel. ‘I mean… this. Life! Here, give that back, it’s mine!’

‘Say please,’ said Ted.

‘Just give me the bloody scone!’

‘Steady now,’ said Ted, handing back the scone. ‘Temper, temper.’

‘Och, you’re like an old married couple, the pair of you,’ said Minnie.

‘Oh, God,’ said Israel, groaning.

‘Language,’ said Ted.

‘Coffee?’ said Minnie.

‘No. I don’t think so,’ said Israel, checking his watch. ‘Oh, shit! Ted!’

‘Language!’ said Minnie.

‘Sorry, Minnie.’

‘Ted!’

‘What?’

‘We’re late for the meeting!’

‘Aye,’ said Ted. ‘Behind like the cow’s tail.’

‘What?’

‘You’ll have to hand in your resignation after.’

‘He’s resigning?’ said Minnie.

‘Again,’ said Ted.

‘Yes!’ said Israel. ‘That’s right. I am. I’m handing in my resignation today. I was just distracted there for a moment.’

Ted winked at Minnie as they got up to leave.

‘See you next week then?’ said Minnie.

‘I very much doubt it!’ said Israel. ‘Bye! Come on, Ted, quick, let’s go.’

And with that, Israel Armstrong went to resign, again, from his job as mobile librarian for Tumdrum and District on the windswept north coast of the north of the north of Northern Ireland.

‘Sorry, Linda,’ he said when they arrived. It was his customary greeting; he liked to get in his apologies in advance. ‘Sorry, everyone.’

‘Ah, Mr Armstrong and Mr Carson,’ said Linda. ‘Punctual as ever.’

‘Yes. Sorry.’

‘You are aware that the last Wednesday of every month at three o’clock is the Mobile Library Steering Committee?’

‘Yes,’ said Israel.

‘Always has been.’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘And always will be,’ said Linda.

‘Right.’

‘For ever and ever, Amen,’ said Ted.

‘And yet you, gentlemen,’ continued Linda, ignoring Ted, ‘somehow always manage to be late?’

‘Yes. Erm. Anyway, you’re looking well, Linda,’ said Israel, trying to change the subject.

‘Don’t try to change the subject, Mr Armstrong,’ said Linda. ‘This is not a fashion show.’

‘No. Sorry.’

‘Honestly!’ said Linda, playing up to the—very appreciative—rest of the committee. ‘You put a bit of lipstick on, and they can’t think about anything else. Typical man!’

‘Sorry,’ said Israel, sliding down lower and lower in his seat.

‘You’re all the same.’

‘Sorry. We had some trouble…with the van.’

They hadn’t had trouble with the van, actually, but they often did have trouble with the van, so it wasn’t a lie in the proper sense of the word; it wasn’t as if Israel were making it up because, really, the van was nothing but trouble. The van was an old Bedford, and Ted’s pride and joy—rescued, hidden and restored by him at a time when Tumdrum and District Council were scaling down their library provision, and resurrected and brought back into service only six months ago when Israel had arrived and taken on the role of mobile librarian. The van wasn’t merely a vehicle to Ted; it wasn’t just any old van; it wasn’t, to be honest, even a van in particular; the van was the epitome, the essence, the prime example of mobile library vans in general. To Ted, his van represented pure undiluted mobile library- ness. It was the Platonic van; the ur-van; the über-van; it was a totem and a symbol. And you can’t argue with symbols: symbols just are. Thus, in Ted’s mind, there was absolutely nothing—not a thing—wrong with the mobile library van. The corrosion in the engine, and the mould and mildew in the cabin, and the occasional seizure of the clutch, and some problems with the brake callipers, and the cables, and the wiring looms, and the oil filter, and the spark-plugs, and the battery—these were simply aspects of the van’s pure vanness, a part of its very being, its complete and utter rusty red-and-cream-liveried perfection.

‘So,’ the chairman of the Mobile Library Steering Committee, a man called Ron, an archetypically bald and grey-suited councillor, was saying, ‘Here we all are then.’ Ron specialised in making gnomic utterances and looking wise. ‘All together, once again.’

Also on the committee was Eileen, another councillor, a middle-aged woman with short dyed blonde hair who always wore bright red lipstick with jackets of contrasting colours—today, an almost luminous green—which made her look like the last squeezings of a tube of cheap tooth-paste. Eileen was a great believer in Booker Prize-winning novels. Booker Prize-winning novels, according to Eileen, were the key not merely to improving standards of literary taste among the adults in Tumdrum and District, but were in fact a panacea for all sorts of social ills. Booker Prize-winning novels, according to Eileen, were penicillin, aspirin, paracetamol and snake oil, all in one, in black and white, and in between hard covers. Eileen believed passionately in what you might call the trickle-down theory of literature; according to her, the reading of Booker Prize-winning novels by Tumdrum’s library-borrowing elite would lead inevitably and inexorably to the raising of social and cultural values among the populace at large. Even a mere passing acquaintance with someone who had read, say, Ian McEwan or Salman Rushdie could potentially save a local young person from a meaningless and empty life of cruising around town in a souped-up hot hatch and binge-drinking at weekends, and might very possibly lead them instead into joining a book group, and drinking Chardonnay, and learning to appreciate the finer points of the very best of metropolitan and middle-brow fiction.