and cleaned and waxed the van, polishing her and buffing her until her red and cream livery was all ice cream and municipal bright once again, the words ‘Mobile Library’ and ‘The Book Stops Here’ picked out gorgeously in a honey gold and crisp forbidding black. The chrome looked chromey, and the headlights clear, and all dirt had been washed from the windows. The van had had a makeover. She looked—and Israel actually thought this for a moment, a weird J.G. Ballard moment—she looked, he thought, the mobile library, she looked sexy. She looked absolutely fantastic. She looked flushed, and noble and come-hitherish. She looked good enough to eat. She looked—and again, this is what he thought, he couldn’t help it—she looked like Marilyn Monroe.
Israel knew in that instant of recognition, in that perverse, momentary gaze upon the van’s pouting, polished, peach-like beauty, that she would win the category for Concours D’Elégance at the Mobile Meet, and that all was lost. He knew that Tumdrum would never get a new mobile library, and that Ted would triumph and would demand his pound of flesh, and that he, Israel, would have to beg for a loan to pay off the bet, would have to beg from Mr Mawhinney, probably, the manager of the Ulster Bank on Main Street in Tumdrum, who borrowed to his limit from the library every week, biographies, mostly, and military history, so perhaps Israel could borrow to his limit from the bank in return? ‘I need the money,’ he would have to explain, ‘because Marilyn Monroe melted the hearts of the mobile library judges at the annual Mobile Meet.’ And Mr Mawhinney would say, ‘What?’ and Israel Armstrong would be ruined and ridiculed by beauty, by this great curvaceous ambulant thing. He’d be condemned to life with Ted on the mobile library for ever. He’d be ruined. He’d lose the duffle coat off his back, and the brogues from his feet, his corduroy trousers; everything.
But, then, on closer inspection it seemed that Israel’s dignity and his money were perhaps safe; on closer inspection you could still see the many little rust spots that Ted’s primping couldn’t cover, and the scuffs and the scrapes and the scratches on the chrome, the little dints on the windscreen, the horrible filthy dirt-brown exhaust. The van was not a movie star; Marilyn was a person. The van was real. Some of the paintwork looked as though it might have been touched up using ordinary household emulsion. And the hand that had painted ‘The Book Stops Here’ could perhaps have been steadier. Even Ted couldn’t work miracles in just a few days. A makeover could not make new.
Buoyed, confused, excited and relieved, Israel rapped loudly and rang at Ted’s door.
He was greeted first from inside with the sound of irritable growling from Muhammad, Ted’s little Jack Russell terrier, and then with irritable shushings and hushings as Ted quieted the dog, and opened up the door with a scowl. Or at least, not literally with a scowl. Ted opened the door literally with his hand, obviously, while scowling, but when Ted scowled it was overwhelming; whatever it was Ted did while scowling became an act of scowl; the scowl became constitutive. He scowled often when they were out on the van, and in meetings with Linda Wei, and often unexpectedly and for no good reason at all in mid-conversation. Ted’s mouth would be saying one thing—‘How can I help you, madam?’ or ‘Yes, we can get that on inter-library loan’—but his scowl at the same time would be clearly saying something entirely different, something like ‘Ach,’ usually, or ‘Away on,’ or ‘Go fuck yourself, ye wee runt, ye.’ This last was the scowl now facing Israel. He’d only been to Ted’s bungalow once before, and Ted clearly wished that Israel wasn’t here now. Ted did not believe in franertising—his word—with work colleagues. Franertising was extremely frowned—scowled—upon. Ted held the door open only a crack and Israel could just about see the room behind him, with its drab sofa and the yelping dog.
‘Ted,’ said Israel.
‘That’s correct,’ said Ted. ‘Quiet, Muhammad!’
‘Are you ready?’
‘No.’
‘Oh. You were supposed to be ready.’
‘Aye,’ said Ted.
‘Well, look, hurry up, we need to go, the ferry’s at six.’
‘Aye.’
‘We’ve not got much time. I can wait outside if you’d rather. But we do need to hurry.’
‘Hurry is as hurry does.’
‘What?’
‘It’s just a—’
‘Saying, right, fine. Whatever. We need to get going here. Do you want me to load your bags in the van? You’re all packed?’
‘No.’
‘No, you don’t want me to load your bags, or no, you’re not packed?’
‘I’m not packed.’
‘What do you mean you’re not packed? We’ve only got a couple of hours before the ship sails.’
‘I’m not coming.’
‘What?’
‘I’m not coming.’
‘What do you mean, you’re not coming? Of course you’re coming.’
‘I’m not. Coming.’
‘All right, yeah, stop muckin’ about now, Ted. We’ve got to go.’
‘I’m not coming.’
‘But we’ve a bet on.’
‘I’ve changed my mind.’
‘You said you couldn’t change your mind once you’d made a bet.’
‘I’ve changed my mind.’
Well, no.
On this occasion Israel could not afford to have Ted change his mind. He had already had just about enough of Northern Irish intransigence, and stubbornness and self-righteous inconsistency for the past eight months, and now he was pumped and ready to go, and Ted was holding him back.
So, no. No, no, no.
‘No,’ he said, using his considerable weight to push against the door. ‘No. That’s it. I’m not having this, Ted.’
Israel stood staring up at Ted’s scowl, wedged between the door and some old green cans containing peat. ‘You’ve mucked me about with this enough already,’ he said. ‘I’m getting on that boat to England this evening whether you like it or not.’
He was trying to squeeze into the bungalow. Muhammad was going crazy. Israel was a bona fide intruder.
‘Aye, right, you go on ahead, son,’ said Ted, pushing Israel back out of the door, with little effort. ‘Because I’m not going. You.’ Shove. ‘Can.’ Shove. ‘Go.’ Shove. ‘Yerself.’
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