The Delegates’ Choice

‘Women, thank you,’ said Linda. ‘This is the twenty-first century. Anyway, maybe you two…gentlemen…can talk it over between yourselves? And let me know whether we can go ahead with our plans and book your tickets over to England?’

3 (#ulink_f1418570-94b3-5f0b-b0a5-7c4a6351ed7d)

The meeting had ended, as was traditional at Mobile Library Steering Committee meetings, amidst argument, dissolution and general disarray—‘Don’t forget the Booker Prize longlist, announced in August!’ cried Eileen. ‘That’s August!’; ‘PR!’ Ron was saying. ‘New van! Great PR!’; and ‘Some reports of discrepancies in cataloguing!’ Linda was reminding Ted and Israel; and ‘What?’ said Chi-Chi; and ‘What?’ said Chang-Chang—and then it was the long drive home in the van with Ted silent and sulking and Israel flicking through the fat, plush brochures and the programme for the Mobile Meet, the UK’s, quote, Premier Mobile Library Event. Unquote.

It was an uncomfortable, damp, sweaty summer’s evening; tempers were frayed; temperatures high; and Israel knew that he was going to have to do something pretty special to persuade Ted to go with him over to England. This was his opportunity to ensure himself a free trip back home: the prospect of leaving Tumdrum was the best thing that had happened to him since arriving.

‘There’s some really good stuff on at this Mobile Meet thing,’ he said casually.

‘Huh,’ said Ted.

‘Look. A Guide to Electronic Self-issue,’ said Israel.

‘Bullshit,’ said Ted.

‘Supplier-Select Book-Buying For Beginners,’ said Israel.

‘Bullshit.’

‘Bibliotherapy,’ said Israel.

‘What?’

‘Bibliotherapy,’ repeated Israel.

‘Bullshit.’

‘Honestly, 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!’