That’s one way of looking at it,’ said Israel. ‘Or, I know…a tree flake.’ Oh God. ‘Yes! That’s it, that’s what books are. Tree flakes. Little parts of the body of a tree, you see, that have been…Like pork scratchings…It’s not something alive, anyway. If you turn it over in your hand.’ He turned over the supersized Red Ted on the Shelf in his hand. ‘Here we are, then,’ he said. ‘Listen! Can you hear it saying anything?’ He held the book up to his ear. ‘Hello, Mr Book? Red Ted? Anybody there? No? No. That’s because a book is not a disembodied voice. Can you hear it, children?’
Tony Thompson was shaking his head.
The children were leaning forward in their seats.
A hand shot up.
‘Yes?’
‘I can hear it, Mr Armstrong.’
‘No. No. You can’t. That must be a…voice in your…head. You can’t hear the book,’ continued Israel, changing tack. ‘Because a book can’t speak. Because a book is not…a person.’
‘Is it imagination?’ asked Laura.
‘Yes. Well, not exactly. A book is not itself imagination, or an idea, or anything like that. It’s just…A book is basically…I mean, literally of course a book is just…paper covered in ink, like lots of…little black…maggots crawling around on a big…white sheet, or snow, or…’
‘Thank you, Mr Armstrong,’ interjected Tony Thompson. ‘I think that’s enough this morning. Thank you very much for your little talk. As enlightening as ever.’
‘No, thank…you,’ said Israel.
‘Good to be back in the saddle, eh?’ said Ted, when Israel—mentally and emotionally drained, and dizzied by his ordeal—arrived back at the van.
‘You’re not meant to smoke in the van,’ said Israel.
‘Ach, wise up,’ said Ted. ‘Glad to be back in the swing of things, though, eh?’
‘No,’ said Israel.
‘Good,’ said Ted. ‘Go all right?’
‘It was horrific,’ said Israel.
‘No,’ said Ted. ‘Having no arms and legs would be horrific.’
‘Right,’ said Israel. ‘Yes. Of course. I forgot. I am lucky to have the use of my arms and legs.’
‘Exactly,’ said Ted. ‘Count your blessings.’
Israel counted his blessings all the way to the visitors’ car park at the Myowne mobile home park, their last stop of the week, 1 p.m.-5 p.m., the traditional rush as Tumdrum’s many mobile home dwellers changed their books for the weekend.
‘So,’ said Israel, staring out at the grey expanse of the strand.
‘So,’ said Ted, producing his ancient orange-coloured Tupperware lunchbox. ‘Back to normal, then.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Israel.
‘Do you no good, lying in yer bed,’ said Ted.
‘No,’ agreed Israel, for the sake of peace and quiet.
‘Weather’s not looking the best,’ said Ted, tucking into the first of his customary two-ham-sandwich lunch. ‘It’s autumn, mind. So what do you expect?’ In the absence of anyone else to actually argue with, Ted enjoyed arguing with himself. He was pretty much self-sufficient, conversationally.
‘What are books, do you think, Ted?’
‘What are books?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you losing your mind?’ said Ted, with sandwich poised.
‘No. I’m just…interested.’
‘Ye’re not eating right,’ said Ted. ‘Your mother’d be on to me if she knew.’
‘Right.’
‘What are ye eatin’? Weetabix and lettuce? D’ye want a bite?’ He held out his sandwich between his fingers.
‘No, thank you.’
Ted then proceeded to peel open the two slices of white bread and peer carefully inside, as though he were Howard Carter uncovering the entrance to the tomb of Tutankhamen.
‘They’re ham.’
‘I know they’re ham. You have ham every day, Ted. You have eaten a ham sandwich every lunchtime ever since I’ve known you. You only eat ham sandwiches at lunch.’
‘Aye, well, and I’m offering you a bite, seeing as the condition ye’re in, but it’s an offer I’ll not make again in all pobability, given your attitude.’
‘Probability,’ said Israel.
‘Exactly,’ said Ted.
‘You’re offering me a bite of your ham sandwich?’
‘Aye.’
‘Well, I would accept, under normal circumstances,’ said Israel, wearily, ‘but as you well know, Ted, I’M A VEGETARIAN.’
The vegetarian conversation was another one of the conversations that Ted and Israel had had at least once a day every day since Israel had arrived in Tumdrum—along with the conversation about Israel resigning, and why there were no longer any great Irish boxers—yet the memory of it seemed to leave no trace with Ted, like the taste of tofu, or Quorn. Ted took a long and very noisy slurp of tea from the plastic cup of his old tartan Thermos flask.
‘Aye, well, the vegetenarianism’d be yer problem. Ye’ve the skitters, have ye?’
‘What?’
‘Aye, all them there fruit and vegetables, skittering the guts out of ye. It’s a wonder ye’re not on the po the whole time.’
‘I have been vegetarian for many years, Ted. And my digestive system remains in good working order, thank you.’
Ted finished one sandwich and then slid another from under the firmly elastic-banded lid of his lunchbox.
‘So ye’re just off yer food, are ye?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Ye frettin’ about yer birthday, eh? And the girl?’ Ted spoke with his mouth full, pointing at Israel with the sharp end of the sandwich.
‘No. I am not fretting about my birthday. And no, I am not fretting about Gloria.’
‘Well, it’s strange but, isn’t it, seeing as ye were a wee ball of lard when you were with her.’
‘I was
