The Case of the Missing Books

‘Right.’

‘Pringle?’

‘Thanks,’ said Israel. ‘But no. Thanks.’

Linda leaned to one side slightly in her chair then, and smiled, and audibly passed wind.

Oh, God.

It would probably be safe to say that the mobile library is not considered by many people in the know to be at the pinnacle of the library profession. At the pinnacle of the library profession you might have, say, the British Library, or the New York Public Library, or the Library of Congress, or of Alexandria. Then coming down from those Parnassian heights you have university libraries, and private research libraries, and then maybe the big public libraries, and then district and branch libraries, and school libraries, hospital libraries, libraries in prisons and long-term mental institutions. And then somewhere off the bottom of that scale, around about the level of fake red-leather-bound sets of the Reader’s Digest in damp provincial hotels and dentists’ waiting rooms is the mobile library.

The mobile library is to the library profession what, say, chiropody is to medicine, or indoor carpet bowls to professional sport.

‘No,’ repeated Israel.

‘I have some Tayto cheese and onion, if you’d prefer?’ said Linda Wei, who was busy licking her palms.

‘No. I am not going to drive a mobile library,’ said Israel.

‘No, no, no!’ said Linda, snapping back to attention. ‘Ach. Of course not. Silly! We’ll give you a driver for that. To show you the ropes. At least at first.’

‘No thanks.’ Israel got up to leave. ‘I’m not going to be a mobile librarian.’

‘Outreach Support Officer,’ corrected Linda Wei.

‘Sorry?’

‘We don’t call them mobile librarians any more. You’d be an Outreach Support Officer.’

‘Oh.’

‘We’re hoping to offer people assistance with IT, and digital photography, surfing the net, family history, that sort of thing.’

‘And books?’

‘Books?’

‘In the mobile library?’

‘Oh, books,’ said Linda dismissively, ‘there’d be plenty of them as well of course, lots and lots of books. Everything, we’re going to have.’

‘In a mobile library?’

‘We’ll squeeze it all in, sure: it’s just a question of storage. It’s like with your kitchen corner cupboards: it’s amazing what you can get in a small space. I’m just after having my kitchen done. Honestly, it’s like the Tardis.’

‘Right, well,’ said Israel, making towards the door. ‘That’s all very interesting, and good luck to you, but I’m really not going to be an Outreach Support Officer on a mobile library, sorry.’

‘Mobile learning centre!’ corrected Linda.

‘Right. Whatever it is you want to call it. I’m not going to be running a mobile library, thank you. I was employed to run a branch library. So, thanks and what have you. And, er.’ There was no nice way of saying this. ‘Goodbye.’

‘No!’ said Linda, as Israel was about to open the door. ‘No. No you don’t!’

Israel stopped.

‘Good, now. Ahem. Don’t go. Sit down. Come on. Come on! Sit!’

Israel, who was too tired to do otherwise, did as he was told.

‘Good. Now. Now. I think if you check your’ – Linda coughed, crisps caught in her throat – ‘your contract, you will find that your role is to fulfil all the duties as required by the Department of Entertainment, Leisure and Community Services.’

She handed him a copy of his contract and tapped it with a Biro. The relevant passage had already been circled. Israel read it once. Then twice. He attempted to think of all the ways the words could be interpreted and reinterpreted. But the contract was tight. She was right.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘I’m sorry, but I’m really not interested. I’m going to have to resign from the position before I’ve begun.’

‘Ah. Ergh. Excuse me!’ Linda took a quick swig of Coke and motioned for Israel to pat her on the back, which he did, leaning across the desk, and which seemed to do the trick. ‘Ah, that’s better,’ she said. ‘Sorry. Crisp.’

‘Right.’

‘What were you saying?’

‘I’m not taking the job.’

‘Well, you have, strictly speaking, already taken the job.’

‘Yes. But I resign.’

‘Ah. You can’t.’

‘I can.’

‘You can’t.’

‘I can,’ said Israel slowly. ‘And I do. I am. Right now. I resign. Now. This minute.’

Filled with sudden overwhelming despair and rage and a desire to get out, and with no feasible or logical means of expressing his discontent in this small beige office, Israel snatched up Linda’s Biro, and reached for his contract, on which he began to write the words, in capitals, ‘I RES,’ but before he got to the ‘I’ Linda had snatched the pen back from his hand.

Thank. You.’

She stared at Israel.

He stared back.

Now he might have had a headache and he might have had a long journey, but you didn’t argue with Israel Armstrong: he had an Irish father and a Jewish mother, and three sisters, and had therefore a long childhood of often heated debate and disputation behind him, plus another three years of rigorous training in the discipline of English and American Studies at one of the best former polytechnics turned universities in the country. His body was round but his mind was honed: he could carry his weight.

But nor did you argue with Linda Wei: she was a Northern Irish Chinese Catholic with a secure job at the council.

It was a stand-off.