The case of the missing books (7 page)

He'd been so cold in the night that he'd got up and unpacked all his clothes from his old brown case and piled them in layers on top of himself, a kind of clothes sandwich, but that hadn't worked: the clothes had all just slid off, leaving him cold again, so in the end he'd got dressed again; shirt and jumper and his best brown corduroy suit, including the trousers ankle-deep in shit which he'd had to roll up past his knees, two pairs of socks, and the duffle coat to weigh him down. He'd used his pyjamas rolled up as a pillow–the pillow had got soaked through with melted choc-ice.

So now he was lying there again, fully dressed, warm and comfortably immobilised, and just beginning to drop off when he heard what sounded like an explosion outside.

And there was then what sounded like licking flames–that pffung! and whoosh! of flames–and so he had to raise himself again–bloody hell!–and quickly put on his shoes and…

Bloody hell!
That's
where his glasses were; he'd tucked his glasses inside his shoes last night before he fell asleep, he remembered it now, as he felt a snap underfoot.

'Aaggh!' he yelled, and, 'Oh shit!'

And then he remembered that the building he was unfortunate enough to be staying in was now possibly on fire, so he wrenched open the door and hobbled outside, half-crippled, into the darkness.

There was no fire.

The lashing sound of the flames was in fact coming from a man with his back to him, dressed in yellow all-weather jacket and trousers, who was using a big humming power hose to clean the farmyard, not taking care to miss wooden doors, metal milk urns and other unsecured items, hence the clatter and the whoosh.

'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.'

'No problem. We'll just put them on the Rayburn here. That'll do it. And what happened to your eye?'

'It was just an…accident,' said Israel, remembering now why his whole head hurt, and why he couldn't see properly.

'You've a rare 'un there,' said Brownie. 'Should have seen the other fella though, eh?'

'Yes.'

'It's an absolute beauty.'

'Right.'

'Like a big ripe plum so it is.'

'Yes.'

'Does it hurt?'

'Yes. Thanks. Well. I'll just pop and get some spare trousers and what have you.'

'It's all right,' said Brownie. 'I'll lend you some of mine, sure. You'll starve of the cold out there. You warm yourself by the stove. I'll only be a wee minute.'

Brownie left the room, leaving Israel alone with the old man.

'So,' Israel ventured, struggling to think of some useful conversational gambit to get things going. 'Is it your farm, then, Mr…?'

'My farm?' said the old man, fixing Israel with a suspicious stare.

'Yes.'

'Of course it's my farm.'

'Right.' That was the end of that conversation then.

'It
was
my farm,' continued the old man, as if Israel was in some way to blame for this apparently sudden and parlous state of affairs.

'Right. It's a lovely…' Israel tried to think of the right adjective to describe a farm. 'Erm. Big farm.'

'Not really.'

'No,' agreed Israel. 'Of course. It's not that big.'

'Fifty acres.'

'Fifty? That's quite a lot, isn't it. I mean an acre is…' He had no idea how big an acre is. 'Quite a size.'

'We had five hundred at one time.'

'I see.'

'Had to sell 'em all. To survive.'

Israel nodded.

'Developers,' said the old man. 'From down south. And the mainland.' He spoke this last word with some menace. 'Now we've just the fifty. Far barn's gone.'

'Well, I suppose fifty's better than nothing,' said Israel nonsensically.

'Hmm. All George's now. Signed over to her.'

'I see. And how…long have you been farming here yourselves?'

'Since 1698.'

At which point, thankfully, Brownie re-entered the room.

'The boy here prefers his books to proper work,' said the old man, nodding at Brownie.

'Right,' said Israel, struggling to find some possible change of subject, his agricultural chat having proved predictably inadequate. 'Are you a student then?'

'Yep,' agreed Brownie, proffering a T-shirt, and trousers and socks, and a towel.

'Thanks. What are you studying?'

'Philosophy actually.'

'Oh right. My goodness. Very good. Where?'

'Cambridge.'

'Oh really? I was at Oxford.'

'Wow. What college?'

'It was the, er, other place actually.'

'What?'

'Oxford Brookes.'

'Oh, right. Is that the old poly?'

'Yes. Yes, it is…'

'It's got a very good reputation, hasn't it?'

'Yes…'

Israel quickly changed the subject, his less than illustrious academic career not being a subject he wished to dwell upon: he should have got a 2:1 at least.

'Can I change into these somewhere?'

'Aye. Come on.'

'And I wondered if you had a telephone I could use at all. My mobile…'

'Ach, aye, the coverage here is terrible.'

'Yes.'

'No problem.'

'And, er, sorry to be a bother and everything…'

'Yes?'

'But you wouldn't have any headache tablets at all, would you?'

'Granda?' said Brownie.

'What?'

'Headache tablets, for Israel here. Do we have any?'

'What for?'

'For a headache?'

'I wouldna thought so. We've TCP and some bandages just in the first-aid box.'

'That's no good.'

'It's OK,' said Israel, wishing he'd never brought it up in the first place. 'It's fine.'

'You sure?'

'Syrup of figs?' offered the old man.

'No, thanks. I'll be fine.'

'What's yon other stuff called?'

'What stuff?' said Brownie.

'Collis-Brown. That's it. Bind you rightly.'

'No. It's really OK,' said Israel.

'It'd not do you a button o' harm.'

'He's fine, Granda. Are you sure, Israel?'

'Yes. I'll be fine. And you've not got any–I really don't want to be a pain or anything–but you've not got any Sellotape, have you, by any chance? Just to fix my glasses?'

Israel took out the two halves of his spectacles from his pocket.

'Och dear. What happened there?'

'Well. It's a—'

'I'm sure we could fix them up, Granda, couldn't we? Sellotape or soldering iron or something?'

'Aye. P'rhaps.'

'And after that we'll maybe have some breakfast, Granda? No chance of a fry?'

'Aye.'

'Lovely. And you'll join us for breakfast, Israel, won't you? Room at the trough, Granda?'

'Aye.'

'Well, yes, thank you. That's very kind of you.'

Brownie then showed Israel into a dining room full of dark, miserable, heavy furniture, hung with cobwebs and family pictures, and with a large black Bible on the sideboard, open at the Book of Revelation, and an ancient grey dial telephone next to it. Israel slowly, painfully got changed out of his wet clothes and dried himself off underneath a photograph of men in robes and with drums outside an Orange Hall, looking for all the world as if they were fresh back from a lynching, and then he rang Gloria at home in London.

The phone rang for a long time before it was answered. Israel imagined the sound of it ringing in Gloria's lovely pale satinwood, soft-furnished, little-bit-of-the-Mediterranean-in-the-heart-of-the-city, inspired-by-the-
World of Interiors
-but-not-slavish-in-the-pursuit-of-fashion flat near Borough Market. He could almost smell the fresh bagels and orange juice.

'Hey!' shouted Israel, relieved and excited when Gloria finally picked up.

'__,' said Gloria indistinctly. It was a bad line.

'It's me,' explained Israel, his voice echoing round the room like a condemned man's in a prison cell.

'__.'

'Israel.'