The Delegates’ Choice. Ian Sansom
Читать онлайн книгу.
right. To the books. And…’
God, what else would appeal to Ted?
‘Our responsibility to the clients.’
‘The clients?’
‘Yes,’ said Israel, without conviction.
‘Are ye having me on?’
‘No,’ said Israel. Clearly an appeal to their responsibility to readers wouldn’t work. It wouldn’t have worked with him either.
‘You’re not even half interested though?’ said Israel tentatively. ‘I mean, they’re giving us carte blanche, Ted. We could go for the full works. Anything we want. You know, like a mobile Internet café. “Would you like an espresso with your Catherine Cookson, madam?” We could have our own blog! Honestly, it’d be amazing.’
‘No,’ said Ted. ‘It wouldn’t be amazing.’
‘Why?’
‘Because we’re not getting a new bloody van!’
‘Language, Ted.’
‘Don’t talk to me about my language, ye fuckin’ eejit!’
‘Sorry,’ said Israel.
‘Thank you,’ said Ted.
‘We are getting a new van, though,’ said Israel determinedly.
‘We’re not getting a new van,’ said Ted, more determinedly. ‘We are not going to England, we’re not going to some daftie wee librarian conference—’
‘The Mobile Meet,’ corrected Israel.
‘And we’re not getting a new van.’
‘But—’
‘They’ll not get rid of this van,’ said Ted. ‘If they want to get rid of this van they’ll have to get rid of me first.’
‘Don’t say that, Ted.’
‘The van’s staying.’
‘Ted!’
‘And so am I. Here! In Norn Iron. And we are not getting a new van.’
‘We are, Ted,’ said Israel.
‘We’re not.’
‘We are.’
‘We’re not. I’m telling you now,’ said Ted, turning across to look at Israel, and gripping the steering wheel so tight that Israel thought he might actually choke it and throttle the whole vehicle. ‘Again. We. Are. Not. Getting. A. New. Van! We’re not going anywhere. We’re staying put! D’ye understand me?’ When Ted raised his voice it was like someone hitting you around the ears.
‘Please?’ said Israel quietly.
‘No!’ yelled Ted.
Israel was worried that Ted might have a heart attack or a stroke and they’d end up swerving and crashing and they’d both die, and they’d make the front page of the Impartial Recorder: ‘Librarians killed in tragic mobile library crash’, with a grainy black and white photo. And a few words of tribute from Linda Wei. Which was not the way Israel would have wished to be remembered.
Ted had lost his temper, and Israel had no other means of persuasion. He was reduced to pathetic pleading.
‘Please, Ted. A new van? A trip over to England? Seize the day. Carpe diem and all that.’
‘Aye, and who’s he when he’s at home?’
‘Carpe diem? It means—’
‘Of course I know what carpe diem means, ye fuckin’ wee shite!’
Ted punched the steering wheel. Which was never good. It made the whole front of the dashboard wobble.
‘Listen!’ said Ted. ‘Let me make meself perfectly plain. Do not patronise me. Do not try to talk me round. And do not try to appeal to my better nature!’
‘No, Ted. No, I wouldn’t dream of…appealing to your…’
That gave Israel an idea. They drove on in silence for a few minutes longer, Israel flicking through the programme of events for the Mobile Meet.
‘At the Mobile Meet they have all these competitions, you know.’
‘Hmm,’ said Ted.
‘Driver of the Year.’
‘Hmm.’
‘State of the Art Vehicle.’
‘Hmm.’
‘Best Livery.’
Israel thought he could just detect a slight interest in Ted’s ‘hmm’s. This could be it. He tried to utilise his advantage. Counter-intuitive was the way to go with Ted; there was no point setting out premises and establishing arguments. There was absolutely no point arguing with Ted, or appealing to his better nature. Cunning—that’s what was called for.
‘This old thing probably wouldn’t stand a chance, of course, at that sort of competition level.’
‘Don’t ye get started into the van again now.’
‘No, no, I’m not. I mean, she just wouldn’t, though, would she, realistically, stand a chance of winning a prize at the Mobile Meet? With that, you know, all that competition. Not a chance.’
‘Ach, of course she’d stand a chance.’
‘I don’t think so, Ted. Not up against all those English vans.’
‘Ach,’ said Ted.
‘Not a chance of winning. Not in a million years. If you look at these categories. Concours D’Elégance.’
‘What?’
‘Concours D’Elégance means, you know, the best-looking van there on the day.’
‘Ach, well, if she was there, she’d definitely win that. Best van, no problem.’
‘No?’ said Israel. ‘Do you really think so?’
‘Of course she would!’
‘Well, I suppose if you pimped her up a bit and—’
‘Wee bit of work, no problem,’ said Ted. ‘Definitely she’d win it. She’s a beauty,’ said Ted, affectionately stroking the dashboard. ‘Aren’t you, girl?’
He had found Ted’s Achilles heel; his underbelly; his soft spot; his weakness; his fatal Cleopatra. Pride.
‘I tell you what,’ said Israel. ‘Do you want to have a bet on it?’
‘A what?’ said Ted. ‘A bet?’
‘Yes, a bet, on you winning the Concours D’Elégance at the Mobile Meet.’
‘With you, a bet?’ said Ted.
‘Yes.’
‘Ach,’ said Ted. ‘I’m good living. I don’t gamble.’
‘Oh,’ said Israel. He knew that in fact Ted did gamble; the week of the Cheltenham Gold Cup he’d talked about nothing else. Israel had had to cover for him every day. Then again, Ted also claimed he didn’t drink. And didn’t smoke. And he did. And he did.
‘I don’t gamble,’ repeated Ted. ‘Unless I know I’m going to win.’
‘Ha ha,’ said Israel.
Israel could see a glint in Ted’s eye.
‘A bet,’ Ted said to himself. ‘The van to win the…What did you call it?’
‘Concours D’Elégance.’
‘Concord De Elephants,’ repeated Ted.