The Case of the Missing Books

‘It’s all right,’ said Brownie. ‘I’ll lend you some of mine, sure. You’ll starve of the cold out there. You warm yourself by the stove. I’ll only be a wee minute.’

Brownie left the room, leaving Israel alone with the old man.

‘So,’ Israel ventured, struggling to think of some useful conversational gambit to get things going. ‘Is it your farm, then, Mr…?’

‘My farm?’ said the old man, fixing Israel with a suspicious stare.

‘Yes.’

‘Of course it’s my farm.’

‘Right.’ That was the end of that conversation then.

‘It was my farm,’ continued the old man, as if Israel was in some way to blame for this apparently sudden and parlous state of affairs.

‘Right. It’s a lovely…’ Israel tried to think of the right adjective to describe a farm. ‘Erm. Big farm.’

‘Not really.’

‘No,’ agreed Israel. ‘Of course. It’s not that big.’

‘Fifty acres.’

‘Fifty? That’s quite a lot, isn’t it. I mean an acre is…’ He had no idea how big an acre is. ‘Quite a size.’

‘We had five hundred at one time.’

‘I see.’

‘Had to sell ’em all. To survive.’

Israel nodded.

‘Developers,’ said the old man. ‘From down south. And the mainland.’ He spoke this last word with some menace. ‘Now we’ve just the fifty. Far barn’s gone.’

‘Well, I suppose fifty’s better than nothing,’ said Israel nonsensically.

‘Hmm. All George’s now. Signed over to her.’

‘I see. And how…long have you been farming here yourselves?’

‘Since 1698.’

At which point, thankfully, Brownie re-entered the room.

‘The boy here prefers his books to proper work,’ said the old man, nodding at Brownie.

‘Right,’ said Israel, struggling to find some possible change of subject, his agricultural chat having proved predictably inadequate. ‘Are you a student then?’

‘Yep,’ agreed Brownie, proffering a T-shirt, and trousers and socks, and a towel.

‘Thanks. What are you studying?’

‘Philosophy actually.’

‘Oh right. My goodness. Very good. Where?’

‘Cambridge.’

‘Oh really? I was at Oxford.’

‘Wow. What college?’

‘It was the, er, other place actually.’

‘What?’

‘Oxford Brookes.’

‘Oh, right. Is that the old poly?’

‘Yes. Yes, it is…’

‘It’s got a very good reputation, hasn’t it?’

‘Yes…’

Israel quickly changed the subject, his less than illustrious academic career not being a subject he wished to dwell upon: he should have got a 2:1 at least.

‘Can I change into these somewhere?’

‘Aye. Come on.’

‘And I wondered if you had a telephone I could use at all. My mobile…’

‘Ach, aye, the coverage here is terrible.’

‘Yes.’

‘No problem.’

‘And, er, sorry to be a bother and everything…’

‘Yes?’

‘But you wouldn’t have any headache tablets at all, would you?’

‘Granda?’ said Brownie.