‘Fine. Just jump.’
‘My head hurts.’
‘It’ll hurt even more if you don’t shut up and get on with it,’ said Ted reasonably. ‘Jump!’
And lowering himself over the gap, supporting himself by his arms, Israel did.
And ‘Aaah!’ he cried, as he landed awkwardly on his ankle inside the mobile library.
‘Ach, God alive, Laurence Olivier, that’s enough of your dramatics now,’ said Ted. ‘Open the door.’
‘I’ve hurt myself,’ called Israel from inside the van.
‘Ah’m sure,’ said Ted. ‘But come and open the door first.’
‘I’ve hurt my ankle,’ shouted Israel. ‘I don’t think I can walk.’
‘Well, crawl.’
‘I think I might have broken it!’
‘If you’ve broken your ankle then I’m the Virgin Mary,’ said Ted.
Israel stood up. ‘I can’t walk!’ he cried.
‘I tell you, if you was a horse I’d shoot you. Now stop your blethering and open this door before I lose the head and batter the thing in on top of you.’
Israel hopped down the bus and, after some fiddling with catches and locks, managed to open up the side door.
Ted entered.
‘Ah,’ he said. ‘At last. Smell that.’ It was not the smell of a library – books, sweat, frustrated desire, cheap but hard-wearing carpets. It was more the smell of a backalley garage – the smell of warm corroding metal and oil. ‘That’s beautiful, sure,’ said Ted, sweeping his arm in an expansive, welcoming kind of gesture. ‘Welcome home.’
Maybe in her day the mobile library had been beautiful: maybe in her day she’d have been like home. These days, however, she was no longer a vehicle any sane person could possibly be proud of, unless you were Ted, or a dedicated mobile library fancier, or a scrap-metal merchant, and she wouldn’t have been a home unless you were someone with absolutely no alternative living arrangements; also, crucially, and possibly fatally for a mobile library, there were no shelves.
‘There are no shelves,’ said Israel, astonished, still rubbing his head, and staring at the bare grey metal walls inside the van.
‘No.’
‘None at all.’
‘Aye,’ agreed Ted.
‘Well, I don’t want to sound all nit-picky, but shelves are pretty much essential for a library.’
‘True.’
‘Essential.’
‘You could stack books on the floor,’ said Ted.
‘Yes. We could. But generally, we librarians prefer shelves. It’s, you know, neater.’
‘All right. Don’t be getting smart with me now.’
‘Right. Sorry. But there are no shelves. And no books, as far as I can see. So…the books?’
‘The books?’
‘The library books?’
‘Ach, the books are fine, sure. You don’t want to worry about the books. They’ll be in the library.’
‘This is the library.’
‘Not this library. The old library.’
‘The one that’s shut?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re sure the books are there?’
‘Of course I’m sure. There’s been books there since before Adam was a baby.’
‘Really.’
‘We’ll take a wee skite over later on, sure.’
‘A what?’
‘A skite. And we’ll get Dennis or someone to knock us up some shelves.’
‘Who’s Dennis?’
‘He’s a plumber.’
‘Right.’ Then Israel thought twice. ‘What?’
‘He’s a joiner. What do you think he is, if he builds shelves? I mean, in the name of God, man, catch yerself on. I’ll give him a call later. So, do you want to try her?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Try her? Start her? For flip’s sake, d’they not speak any English where you come from?’
‘Yes. Of course they speak English. I am English!’
‘Ah’m sure. And you can drive, can you? Or do they not teach you that over there on the mainland either?’
‘Of course I can drive,’ said Israel, grabbing the keys from Ted’s hands.
Israel could drive – sort of. He had a licence. He’d passed his test. But he was a rubbish driver. And he was tired and he had a headache and what he really needed now was a lie down in a darkened room, preferably at home in lovely north London, rather than attempting to drive a clapped-out old mobile library under the scrutiny of a half-mad miserable minicab driver in the middle of the middle of nowhere. Nonetheless, he wasn’t going to lose face, so he climbed into the thinly padded driver’s seat, the foam coming out of the leather-effect PVC, put the key in the ignition, turned the key and…
Nothing.
Thank goodness.
‘Oh well,’ he said, ‘we can always come back—’
Ted’s heavy hand fell on his shoulder.
‘It’ll only be the battery,’ said Ted. ‘I’ll take a look.’
It was the battery. And the alternator. And the air filter. And the fuel filter. And a lot of other things Israel had only ever heard rumour of – the gasket, the plug circuit, wiring looms, cylinder barrels. Ted spent a long time examining the engine.
‘No. We’ll have to get her into the workshop to get the guts of it done,’ he concluded.
‘Oh dear,’ said Israel. ‘That is a shame.’
‘Aye,’ said Ted. ‘Offside coil spring,’ he continued, to himself. ‘Brake drums.’
‘Right,’ said Israel, as if he had any idea what Ted was talking about, which he didn’t. ‘My foot’s fine, by the way, thanks for asking. And my head.’
