The Delegates’ Choice. Ian Sansom
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as if you’d known them for years, when of course you hadn’t, you had no idea who the hell they were talking about, unless you’d lived here your whole life, which Israel hadn’t. Did Israel speak to people in Tumdrum endlessly and incessantly about his family and friends? Did he ever mention his sisters, or his cousins, including the successful ones, or his mother’s neighbours Mr and Mrs Krimholz, or the butcher, the baker and the candlestick makers of his own lovely little patch of north London? No, he did not. People in Tumdrum seemed to assume that the mere fact of living there instantly made you a local, as though you absorbed local knowledge of complex hereditary diseases and bloodlines by osmosis. I mean, how was he supposed to keep up with the progress of your mother’s sister’s urinary tract infection when he’d never even met your mother? It was a physical impossibility: he’d have had to be telepathic, and a qualified medical practitioner, and, also, he’d have to care, and he didn’t. He was not bothered. Am I bothered? Est-ce que je suis bovvered? Israel slathered a piece of scone with butter.
‘Was that the fella who used to go out with Zelda’s cousin’s husband’s sister?’ said Ted.
‘Ugh!’ said Israel.
‘What?’ said Ted.
‘That’s yer man,’ said Minnie.
‘Who?’ said Israel. ‘Who? Who are you talking about now?’
‘You know,’ said Minnie. ‘The big fella. They used to live down there at Lough Island Reevy, in Down.’
‘Hello?’ said Israel. ‘Excuse me! I don’t know what you’re talking about. Some of us were not born around here you know.’
‘No, pet,’ said Minnie pityingly, moving off to another table. ‘Never mind.’
‘God,’ said Israel.
‘Don’t,’ said Ted, wagging a finger.
‘What?’
‘You know what.’
‘Oh, God.’
‘I’ll not tell ye again,’ said Ted, who was a very vehement anti-blasphemer, unless he was doing the blaspheming.
‘Sorry,’ said Israel. ‘I’m going to have to bite the bullet, though,’ he continued, picking up his scone, trying to decide where to start.
‘Uh-huh,’ said Ted, who’d already started on his own. ‘She’s a fair junt of scone, but, isn’t she? And nice and warm.’
‘No, I mean with the job. I’m definitely going to resign.’
‘Mmm.’
‘Even if it means going back to working in the Bargain Bookstore.’
‘Good man ye are.’
‘In Thurrock.’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘In Essex,’ said Israel, convincing himself. ‘I still have plenty of friends there.’
‘Mmm.’
‘A man has to have his self-respect,’ said Israel.
‘Or what does he have?’ said Ted, finishing a mouthful.
‘Exactly!’ said Israel. ‘Take this morning.’
‘Why?’ said Ted.
‘Because,’ said Israel.
‘It wasnae a bad morning,’ said Ted.
‘Wasn’t bad!’ said Israel, using the scone gavel-like on the table; the crust did not give. ‘You see! That’s it!’
‘What’s it?’
‘That’s the problem.’
‘Is it? The scone?’
‘No! This morning wasn’t bad, you said?’
‘Aye.’
‘Wasn’t bad?’
‘Aye.’
‘Wasn’t bad?’
‘Yer right.’
‘No, it wasn’t bad! It was terrible!’
‘Ach,’ said Ted, picking a date out of his scone.
‘You’re just inured to it, Ted.’
‘Ee-what?’
‘Inured. It’s…Anyway, I’m young and you’re…’
‘What?’
‘Older.’
‘Aye.’
‘And look at us! We’re nothing more than errand boys!’
‘I don’t know about that,’ said Ted.
‘I’ve got a degree from Oxford you know,’ said Israel.
‘Uh-huh,’ said Ted, picking at his scone. ‘Oxford Brookes, wasn’t it you said?’
‘Which is in Oxford,’ said Israel. ‘I don’t know if you’ve been there?’
‘Can’t say I have,’ said Ted. ‘No.’
‘No!’ said Israel triumphantly. ‘Well then. I am a highly educated librarian. I shouldn’t be—we shouldn’t be—just doing errands for people.’
‘We’re not just doing errands for people.’
‘Yes, we are!’
‘We’re a service,’ said Ted.
‘A library service,’ said Israel. ‘A library service. Not a Tesco home delivery service! Picking up people’s groceries is not the kind of service I had in mind when I got into this job,’ said Israel. ‘It’s ridiculous.’
‘It’s not ridiculous.’
‘It is!’ said Israel. ‘Honestly. This morning…’
First stop of the day, up round the coast, and first in, a man in his seventies, not one of their regulars.
‘D’ye have the Impartial Recorder?’
‘Sorry?’ said Israel.
‘The paper? D’ye have the paper?’
‘No. No. I’m afraid not.’
‘The Tele then?’
‘No. Sorry. We don’t have any papers.’
‘You don’t sell any papers?’
‘No. Sorry.’
‘You sell books then?’
‘No, no, we don’t sell books either.’
‘D’ye not?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘We’re a library.’
‘Ach, aye. Second-hand books then.’
‘Erm…Well, yes. Sort of, I suppose.’
‘By the yard, or by the pound?’
‘Sorry?’
‘I saw a thing about it on the telly once. Books by the yard. Or the dozen. I don’t know. I can’t rightly remember.’
‘Right. Well, we don’t actually sell books here at all. You have to join a library. Like you do a video shop or…something. I need to see a utility bill, something with your name and address on it, and then I can—’
‘I’d not be showing you that, indeed; that’d be under the Freedom of Information Act, wouldn’t