The Delegates’ Choice

‘He says he feels like a Chagall,’ said Ted to Minnie, who’d arrived with offers of another top-up of coffee.

‘He’d need to get himself smarted up first,’ said Minnie, winking; Israel was wearing corduroy trousers, his patched-up old brown brogues, and one of his landlady George’s brother Brownie’s old T-shirts, which read, unhelpfully, ‘Smack My Bitch Up’.

‘What?’ said Israel.

‘But anyway,’ said Minnie. ‘We’ll not have that sort of dirty talk in here, thank you, gents.’

‘I can’t go on, Ted,’ said Israel.

‘No?’ said Ted, reaching forward and taking Israel’s other half of scone.

‘Not the scone!’ said Israel. ‘I mean…this. Life! Here, give that back, it’s mine!’

‘Say please,’ said Ted.

‘Just give me the bloody scone!’

‘Steady now,’ said Ted, handing back the scone. ‘Temper, temper.’

‘Och, you’re like an old married couple, the pair of you,’ said Minnie.

‘Oh, God,’ said Israel, groaning.

‘Language,’ said Ted.

‘Coffee?’ said Minnie.

‘No. I don’t think so,’ said Israel, checking his watch. ‘Oh, shit! Ted!’

‘Language!’ said Minnie.

‘Sorry, Minnie.’

‘Ted!’

‘What?’

‘We’re late for the meeting!’

‘Aye,’ said Ted. ‘Behind like the cow’s tail.’

‘What?’

‘You’ll have to hand in your resignation after.’

‘He’s resigning?’ said Minnie.

‘Again,’ said Ted.

‘Yes!’ said Israel. ‘That’s right. I am. I’m handing in my resignation today. I was just distracted there for a moment.’

Ted winked at Minnie as they got up to leave.

‘See you next week then?’ said Minnie.

‘I very much doubt it!’ said Israel. ‘Bye! Come on, Ted, quick, let’s go.’

And with that, Israel Armstrong went to resign, again, from his job as mobile librarian for Tumdrum and District on the windswept north coast of the north of the north of Northern Ireland.

2 (#ulink_b41d616c-3dd4-5db0-b12f-bc9225b9d80b)

‘Sorry, Linda,’ he said when they arrived. It was his customary greeting; he liked to get in his apologies in advance. ‘Sorry, everyone.’

‘Ah, Mr Armstrong and Mr Carson,’ said Linda. ‘Punctual as ever.’

‘Yes. Sorry.’

‘You are aware that the last Wednesday of every month at three o’clock is the Mobile Library Steering Committee?’

‘Yes,’ said Israel.

‘Always has been.’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘And always will be,’ said Linda.

‘Right.’

‘For ever and ever, Amen,’ said Ted.

‘And yet you, gentlemen,’ continued Linda, ignoring Ted, ‘somehow always manage to be late?’

‘Yes. Erm. Anyway, you’re looking well, Linda,’ said Israel, trying to change the subject.

‘Don’t try to change the subject, Mr Armstrong,’ said Linda. ‘This is not a fashion show.’

‘No. Sorry.’

‘Honestly!’ said Linda, playing up to the—very appreciative—rest of the committee. ‘You put a bit of lipstick on, and they can’t think about anything else. Typical man!’

‘Sorry,’ said Israel, sliding down lower and lower in his seat.

‘You’re all the same.’

‘Sorry. We had some trouble…with the van.’

They hadn’t had trouble with the van, actually, but they often did have trouble with the van, so it wasn’t a lie in the proper sense of the word; it wasn’t as if Israel were making it up because, really, the van was nothing but trouble. The van was an old Bedford, and Ted’s pride and joy—rescued, hidden and restored by him at a time when Tumdrum and District Council were scaling down their library provision, and resurrected and brought back into service only six months ago when Israel had arrived and taken on the role of mobile librarian. The van wasn’t merely a vehicle to Ted; it wasn’t just any old van; it wasn’t, to be honest, even a van in particular; the van was the epitome, the essence, the prime example of mobile library vans in general. To Ted, his van represented pure undiluted mobile library-ness. It was the Platonic van; the ur-van; the über-van; it was a totem and a symbol. And you can’t argue with symbols: symbols just are. Thus, in Ted’s mind, there was absolutely nothing—not a thing—wrong with the mobile library van. The corrosion in the engine, and the mould and mildew in the cabin, and the occasional seizure of the clutch, and some problems with the brake callipers, and the cables, and the wiring looms, and the oil filter, and the spark-plugs, and the battery—these were simply aspects of the van’s pure vanness, a part of its very being, its complete and utter rusty red-and-cream-liveried perfection.