some of this stuff looks really good,’ said Israel. ‘I think it’ll be really interesting.’
‘That’s because you’re a ragin’ eejit, like the rest of them.’
‘Thank you.’
‘My pleasure. Hirstle o’ blinkin’ eejits, the whole lot of youse.’
‘What’all of idiots?’
‘Ach, read a fuckin’ dictionary, Israel, will ye? I’m not in the mood.’
‘Right. Ted,’ said Israel soothingly, ‘not being funny, but you really shouldn’t take this personally.’
‘I shouldn’t take it personally?’
‘No. The whole van thing, you know. You need to see it as an opportunity rather than a threat.’
Israel could sense Ted’s neck and back—his whole body—stiffening in the van beside him, which was not a good sign. Ted was like a dog: he gave clear warnings before attacking. Israel’s softly-softly, soothing approach was clearly not working; he’d rubbed him up the wrong way.
‘An opportunity!’ said Ted, his shaven head glistening, his slightly shiny short-sleeved shirt shining, and his big hairy forearms tensing and tensing again. ‘An opportunity! The van I’ve tended like me own wean for the past…God only knows how many years, and they’re planning to throw on the scrap heap? And I should view that as an opportunity?’
‘Yes, no, I mean, just…You know, all good things must…and what have you—’
‘Ach!’
‘Plus,’ said Israel, trying an entirely other approach. ‘Yes! Plus! You could think of it as a nice holiday, you know. We’re going to get to go over to England, relax, choose a new van. It’ll be great fun.’
‘Fun?’
‘Yes.’
‘You are actually stupit, aren’t ye?’
Israel thought fast. ‘We could have air conditioning in the new van,’ he said, wiping the sweat dramatically from his brow. ‘You know how hot it gets in here sometimes. And with the rain, in the summer. You were complaining about it only yesterday. Dehumidification.’
‘We don’t need dehumimidifaction.’
‘For the…books, though.’
Maybe a clerkly appeal, an appeal to worthiness, to the ancient and high-minded principles of librarianship?
‘We can’t think of ourselves always, Ted. We’re librarians. We have to think of the good of the books. You know, that’s our first responsibility, as librarians, to the books, rather than to the van.’
‘To the books?’
‘That’s right. To the books. And…’
God, what else would appeal to Ted?
‘Our responsibility to the clients.’
‘The clients?’
‘Yes,’ said Israel, without conviction.
‘Are ye having me on?’
‘No,’ said Israel. Clearly an appeal to their responsibility to readers wouldn’t work. It wouldn’t have worked with him either.
‘You’re not even half interested though?’ said Israel tentatively. ‘I mean, they’re giving us carte blanche, Ted. We could go for the full works. Anything we want. You know, like a mobile Internet café. “Would you like an espresso with your Catherine Cookson, madam?” We could have our own blog! Honestly, it’d be amazing.’
‘No,’ said Ted. ‘It wouldn’t be amazing.’
‘Why?’
‘Because we’re not getting a new bloody van!’
‘Language, Ted.’
‘Don’t talk to me about my language, ye fuckin’ eejit!’
‘Sorry,’ said Israel.
‘Thank you,’ said Ted.
‘We are getting a new van, though,’ said Israel determinedly.
‘We’re not getting a new van,’ said Ted, more determinedly. ‘We are not going to England, we’re not going to some daftie wee librarian conference—’
‘The Mobile Meet,’ corrected Israel.
‘And we’re not getting a new van.’
‘But—’
‘They’ll not get rid of this van,’ said Ted. ‘If they want to get rid of this van they’ll have to get rid of me first.’
‘Don’t say that, Ted.’
‘The van’s staying.’
‘Ted!’
‘And so am I. Here! In Norn Iron. And we are not getting a new van.’
‘We are, Ted,’ said Israel.
‘We’re not.’
‘We are.’
‘We’re not. I’m telling you now,’ said Ted, turning across to look at Israel, and gripping the steering wheel so tight that Israel thought he might actually choke it and throttle the whole vehicle. ‘Again. We. Are. Not. Getting. A. New. Van! We’re not going anywhere. We’re staying put! D’ye understand me?’ When Ted raised his voice it was like someone hitting you around the ears.
‘Please?’ said Israel quietly.
‘No!’ yelled Ted.
Israel was worried that Ted might have a heart attack or a stroke and they’d end up swerving and crashing and they’d both die, and they’d make the front page of the Impartial Recorder: ‘Librarians killed in tragic mobile library crash’, with a grainy black and white photo. And a few words of tribute from Linda Wei. Which was not the way Israel would have wished to be remembered.
Ted had lost his temper, and Israel had no other means of persuasion. He was reduced to pathetic pleading.
‘Please, Ted. A new van? A trip over to England? Seize the day. Carpe diem and all that.’
‘Aye, and who’s he when he’s at home?’
‘Carpe diem? It means—’
‘Of course I know what carpe diem means, ye fuckin’ wee shite!’
Ted punched the steering wheel. Which was never good. It made the whole front of the dashboard wobble.
‘Listen!’
