The Case of the Missing Books. Ian Sansom
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‘Aaggh!’ said Israel, hopping slightly on his foot. ‘Hello?’
And ‘Uh?’ said the man, surprised, turning round suddenly with the hose, and completely soaking Israel from the waist down.
‘Aaggh! No!’ screamed Israel. ‘I’m! You’ve! Aaggh! I’m soaking!’
‘Sorry,’ laughed the man, who wasn’t in fact a man. It was George, scrubbed clean, looking quite unlike she had done the previous night – she was smiling now, for example.
‘I’m soaking!’
‘All right, Armstrong,’ she said. ‘Dry your eyes.’
‘What do you mean, dry my eyes? Dry my eyes? I am soaking wet. And…Ooowww!’
‘What’s the matter with you?’
‘My glasses! They were in my shoes!’
‘In your shoes?’
‘Yes! My! Shoes!’
He bent over and carefully took his left shoe off – his thin-soled, one and only best left brogue – and shook two separate pieces of what had been his glasses onto the concrete yard.
‘Look! My glasses! You’ve broken my glasses!’
‘I haven’t broken your glasses.’
‘You have broken my glasses! If you hadn’t been doing your…spraying thing, I wouldn’t have had to rush outside and…’ Israel was hopping and shaking his head in rage. ‘For Christ’s sake! What is this bloody place?’
‘What do you think it is? It’s a farm.’
‘Right. Yes. I noticed. And are you all totally stark raving mad?’
‘No.’
‘Right! Well, if you think I’m going to settle for this, this, chicken shed—’
‘Coop,’ corrected George.
‘Whatever! This coop as accommodation, you have got another think coming. I’ll be complaining to the council about this.’
‘Right you are.’
‘Fine.’
‘Good.’
‘And now, if you’ll excuse me, I had a rather long journey yesterday and I am sick and tired of you…people, and I would like to go back to sleep for an hour or two. If you wouldn’t mind’ – he gestured towards the machines – ‘keeping the noise down a little…’
Israel turned away and began walking back to his room and immediately George turned the power hose back on again. Israel strode over to her and attempted to wrest the power hose from her hands. They struggled for a moment, cheek to cheek, hands clasped, staring at each other, like ancient warriors engaged in combat, except with a hose rather than broadswords, and in a farmyard, at six o’clock in the morning.
And in the end Israel simply let go and followed the power hose to where it met the wall, and turned off the tap.
And George marched over and switched the tap back on again. And now she was brandishing the nozzle of the hose like a gun at Israel.
‘This, Mr Armstrong,’ she said, ‘is the sound of work – not a sound you’re familiar with, clearly, although I dare say even librarians have to do something with their time to justify their wages. And if you don’t like it here, I suggest by all means that you start looking for somewhere else to stay.’
‘Well. Yes. I shall.’
‘Good.’
‘Today.’
‘Fine.’
‘Immediately.’
‘Good.’
‘Goodnight!’
‘Goodnight to you. And when you’re done with your carrying on,’ shouted George after his retreating figure, ‘if you go on into the house Brownie’ll help get your clothes dried off.’
‘Thank. You!’ said Israel. And he slammed the door of his room – his coop – behind him.
He hated losing his temper. He never usually lost his temper. He never usually had anything to lose his temper about. But this, this place was different: it made you lose your temper.
He surveyed his surroundings: a small broken-down chest of drawers, an old sink plumbed into one corner, attached to the brick wall with wooden battens. The rug on the concrete floor. The big rusty cast-iron bed…
And on the centre of the bed, four chickens, looking at him accusingly.
He slammed back out of the door, past George, who simply pointed at a door in a building on the other side of the farmyard.
Israel walked in.
‘Right!’ he called furiously. ‘Hello! Hello!! Good morning? Anyone about here? Anyone up in this nuthouse?’
He walked through to the kitchen, where there was a young man reading a newspaper, sitting at a scrubbed-pine table next to a dirty white Rayburn solid-fuel stove.
‘Hi,’ the young man said, in a disarmingly friendly manner, as Israel stormed in. ‘You must be Mr Armstrong.’
‘Yes. That’s right.’
‘Pleased to meet you,’ said the young man, holding out his hand towards the sopping wet, brown-corduroy mess of Israel. ‘Nice suit. I’m Brian. But everyone calls me Brownie. Hey, Granda?’ he continued, apparently shouting to a heap of filthy rags piled on a ratty old armchair on the other side of the Rayburn, and which turned out to be a stubbly old man wrapped up in pyjamas and jumpers. ‘This is Mr Armstrong. This is my granda, Israel. Granda, this is the fella who’s going to be staying with us…’
Israel was now regretting his rudeness – old people and polite people can do that to you, if you’re not careful.
‘It’s really very kind of you—’ he began.
The stubbly old man stared at Israel with beady, watery blue eyes for a moment before speaking.
‘Surely, doesn’t the Good Lord tell us that if you entertain a stranger you entertain Me.’
‘Right,’ said Israel. Oh, God.
‘And we’re being paid for it, Granda.’
‘Aye, well.’
‘He’s the librarian, Granda. Do you remember?’
‘He doesn’t look like a librarian. He looks as if he’s the blavers.’
‘Blavers?’ said Israel.
‘Ach, Granda,’ said Brownie scoldingly. ‘Can I get you some coffee, Israel?’
‘Erm, yes, thanks,’ said Israel, disarmed by the boy’s easy-going manner. ‘A cup of coffee would be great.’
‘Espresso? Cappuccino?’
‘Young people today,’ mumbled the old man, to no one in particular.
‘I’ll take an espresso if you have one—’ began Israel.
‘No, I’m joking,’ said Brownie. ‘It’s instant.’
‘Right. Well, whatever.’ He became conscious of his dripping onto the floor. ‘And I…erm. If you don’t mind, while you’re…The lady – erm – George?’
‘Yes.’
‘Right. Yes. George said you’d be able to dry off these clothes for me? They got a bit wet. Out in the farmyard there?’
‘Spot of rain?’
‘Yes,’ said Israel, abashed. ‘You could say that.’