The Delegates’ Choice

‘Yes, that’s a good one.’

‘No, that’s the idea, translation of the French.’

‘Uh-huh,’ said Israel dubiously.

‘Anyway, how are things on the mobile?’ asked Brownie.

‘Good! Yes. Excellent,’ said Israel. ‘Even better now, we’re going away for a few days.’

‘Oh, really? In the van?’

‘Yes. Yeah. Big conference thing over in England.’

‘Really?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Are you giving a paper or…’

‘No. No. I mean, they did ask me, of course, but I was…It’s difficult to fit it all in when you’re at the…’

‘Coalface?’ said Brownie.

‘Exactly. The library is the coalface of contemporary knowledge management.’

‘Right,’ said Brownie. It was something Israel had read in one of the brochures for the Mobile Meet.

‘Anyway. I was wanting to explain to George I wouldn’t be around, just so that she—’

‘Ah, right. I think she’s out with Granda in the vegetable patch if you want to catch them.’

‘Great.’

‘Good. Well, enjoy the conference.’

‘Thanks, you enjoy the…’

‘Levinas.’

‘Yeah. What was it called again?’

‘Totality and Infinity.’

‘Yeah. Great book. Great book.’

Israel’s reading had always been erratic and undisciplined; there were huge chunks missing in his knowledge, while other areas were grossly over-represented; it was like having mental biceps, but no triceps, or glutes, or quads, or forearms; he was a kind of mental hunchback; misproportioned; a freak. Graphic novels, for example, were ten a penny up in Israel’s mental attic, along with the novels of E.F. Benson and Barbara Pym—God only knows how they’d got there—piled up uselessly like old trunks full of crumbling paper, together with a whole load of Walter Benjamin, and Early Modernism, and books by Czechs, and the Oedipus Complex, and the Collective Unconscious, and Iris Murdoch, and William Trevor, and Virtual Reality, and Form Follows Function, and Whereof One Cannot Speak Thereof One Must Remain Silent, and The White Goddess, and William James, and Commodity Fetishism, and Jorge Luis Borges, and Ruth Rendell, and Jeanette Winterson, and Anthony Powell—Anthony Powell? What was he doing there? Israel had no idea. He had a mind like Tippings Auctions. His actual knowledge of philosophy proper, say, or eighteenth-century literature, or science, anthropology, geology, gardening, or geometry was…skimpy, to say the least.

And since arriving in Tumdrum his reading had become even more erratic and undisciplined; he’d had to cut his cloth to suit his sail. Or was it sail to suit his cloth? He was reading more and more of what they stocked in the van, which meant crime fiction, mostly, and books by authors whose work had won prizes or who were in some other way distinguished or remarkable; thus, celebrity biographies and books about people’s miserable childhoods. But it wasn’t as though he felt he’d lowered his standards. On the contrary. Scott Turow, Presumed Innocent, that was a great book, much better than most Booker Prize-shortlisted books, in his opinion. And The Firm, by John Grisham, that was pretty good too. He’d even started reading Patricia Cornwell from A to Z, but they seemed to go downhill rapidly, and he’d lost interest around about D. Cookery books also he liked: a man cannot survive on scrambled eggs alone. For the journey over to England, Israel was taking with him A Short History of Tractors in Ukrainian, The Purpose-Driven Life, and a couple of large-print crime novels. most of the library’s crime novels were large print. Israel had discovered a direct correlation between print size and genre: crime fiction, for example, came in big and small sizes, and also in audio, and in hardback, and in several kinds of paperback, and trailing TV tie-ins; literary fiction occasionally came with a different cover relating to a film adaptation. And poetry was just poetry: he’d never come across a book of large-print poems; for poetry you needed eyes like a pilot, with twenty-twenty vision, opposable thumbs, and never-ending patience; on the mobile library they stocked only Seamus Heaney, and derivatives.

To get to the vegetable patch Israel had to pass by the chickens, and he couldn’t help but feel a little guilty, having turned them out of their home. George had fixed them up with new runs using some old manure bags over wire netting, but Israel could tell they weren’t happy. They eyed him—gimlet chicken-eyed him—suspiciously as he hurried past.

George and old Mr Devine were indeed, as Brownie had suggested, in the vegetable patch, which was close by the main house, protected on one side by fruit trees and on the others by red-brick walls; it was a walled garden; or rather, it had been a walled garden. Like most things around the farm, it had seen better days; one might best now describe it as a half-walled garden.

‘George!’ Israel called as he entered through what was once a gateway, but which was now merely a clearing through some rubble.

George was kneeling down in among rows of vegetable crops. She ignored Israel, as usual.

‘George?’

‘What?’

‘Could I just—’

‘No, thanks. Whatever it is. We’re working here.’

‘Yes, sure. I see that. I just wanted to—’

‘Can you just let me finish here?’

‘Yeah, it’s just—’

‘Please?’

‘Sure.’

‘If you want to make yerself useful you could be thinning and weeding the onions.’

‘Yes, of course. I could…I’ll just…’

‘Over there.’

‘Where?’

‘There.’

He looked around him at vast muddy areas where plants were poking through. He didn’t recognise anything. He wasn’t sure which were the onions. He went over towards Mr Devine, who was sitting on a wooden bench, a rug across his legs.

‘Lovely day,’ said Israel.

‘It’s a bruckle sayson,’ said Mr Devine.

‘Is it?’

‘Aye.’

‘Yes, I thought so myself actually,’ said Israel. ‘Erm.’ He pointed towards some green shoots. ‘Onions?’

‘Cabbages,’ said Mr Devine.