The Bad Book Affair

‘Ach, Jesus. Fine.’

At which Ted walked over to the bed, bent down, locked his knees and grabbed hold of the bed frame.

‘I’ll tell ye what,’ he huffed. ‘Take stock.’ Huff. ‘Of.’ Huff. ‘This!’

And he stood, flinging the metal frame up as he stood.

Israel fell on to the floor, only the quilt protecting him from serious injury and a thousand cuts from the smashed wine bottles.

‘What the hell are you doing, you madman!’ screamed Israel, leaping up, winceyette-pyjama-clad, from the floor. ‘I could have broken my back!’

‘Your back!’ said Ted, straightening up. ‘Your back! I could have broken my blinkin’ back, ye eejit!’

‘Yes, but—’

‘Ahh!’ said Ted, painfully.

‘Are you all right?’

‘Of course I’m not blinkin’ all right, ye eejit! Aahh!’

‘Shall I get George, or—’

‘No, ye shall not,’ said Ted, drawing himself up stiffly to his not inconsiderable shaven-headed height. ‘What ye’ll do is get dressed in the van is what ye’ll do, or I’ll—’

‘What?’ said Israel.

‘Ahh!’ said Ted.

‘Are you sure you’re all right?’

‘Yes. Just, some of these joints haven’t been moved in a while, that’s all. Now. Where were we?’

‘You were just—’

‘Ach, aye. Yes. In the van, come on. Now.’

‘Or?’ said Israel.

‘Or,’ said Ted, ‘I’ll ring your mother.’

‘No—’ said Israel. ‘You wouldn’t.’

‘Yes,’ said Ted, hobbling towards the door. ‘I would.’

Israel’s mother had recently made a brief and disastrous visit to Tumdrum, where, as a loud, extravagant, wildly hand-gesturing, menopausal, scarf-wearing, middle-aged north London Jew, she had made quite an impact on the local dour, largely Presbyterian, muttering community. She and Ted had formed an unnaturally close bond, and Ted had spent much time with her, taking her to visit Northern Ireland’s supposed tourist attractions—the place where the Titanic was built, for example, and the colourful sectarian murals of Belfast—leaving Israel to single-handedly man the mobile during the day and having to sit up waiting for their return late in the evenings, flushed and smelling suspiciously of cigarettes and drink. Israel’s mother had successfully managed to embarrass Israel the entire length and breadth of Tumdrum, including at an agonising dinner at the Devines’, the farm where Israel stayed as a lodger, during which she had flirted outrageously with old Mr Devine, and had spent all evening urging George to adopt a rigorous daily beauty routine.

‘And I’ll tell ye what,’ said Ted, gesturing towards the debris in the coop. ‘When she hears about all this auld nonsense she’ll be over on the next flight.’

‘No!’ said Israel. ‘You wouldn’t—’

Ted had his mobile phone in his hand.

‘Five minutes,’ he said. ‘In the van. And don’t ye dare waste another moment of my precious time.’

Five minutes later, Israel was in the van.

‘There we are, then,’ said Ted.

‘Humpff,’ said Israel, miserably.

‘I tell ye what, son, ye want to learn to count your blessings,’ said Ted, as he slammed the van into first and pulled out of the Devines’ yard.

‘What?’

‘Ouch!’ said Ted.

‘You OK?’

‘My back. Never mind it. Yer blessings. Ye want to count them.’

‘Right. All right, Ted, thank you. I’m here, all right? I don’t want to hear any more—’

‘Go on, then.’

‘What?’

‘Count ’em.’

Israel sighed.

‘Go on,’ repeated Ted. ‘Count ’em.’

‘Ted. I’m really not in the mood. I have a headache and I’m really not well.’

There was a pause of a few seconds.

‘Ye counted ’em?’

‘I am not counting my blessings, Ted. Thank you.’

‘How many d’ye get?’

‘I’m not counting blessings!’

‘Aye. Because ye’re scared.’

‘What? Scared of what?’