Pants.
Israel’s ambitious programme of refurbishment for the coop had stalled some time ago—his most recent acquisition, an old sofa that he’d found in someone’s yard, was wedged tightly between the wardrobe and the Baby Belling cooker balanced precariously on a stool. The place clearly hadn’t been cleaned or tidied for quite a while.
‘He’d always the breath of a garlic-eater,’ said Ted, fanning his hand in front of his face, in a vain attempt to dispel the room’s fumes.
‘I don’t think he’s been eating much,’ said George.
‘No,’ said Ted, removing a spoon from an open jar of peanut butter.
‘Hey!’ said Israel. ‘Leave that alone! That’s mine!’
‘Shall I leave you boys to it, then?’ said George.
‘Yes,’ said Ted. ‘I think that’d be best.’
‘No problem,’ said George. ‘I thought it wise to get you in, Ted. I hope you don’t mind. We were all getting a wee bit worried about him. I wasn’t sure if I should have called the doctor.’
‘Don’t ye be worrying about him any more, my dear. No need for the doctor. I’ll soon have him sorted,’ said Ted.
George shut the chicken coop door behind her.
‘Right, ye brallion,’ said Ted, stepping briskly towards the side of Israel’s bed. ‘What are ye on, the auld loonie soup?’
‘What?’
‘What in God’s name d’ye think ye’re doing?’
‘I’m not feeling well,’ said Israel.
‘Aye, right, me elbow. Lying in yer bed when there’s work to be done—yer head’s a marlie.’
‘What?’ said Israel. ‘What are you talking about? Bob Marley?’
‘God give me strength,’ said Ted. ‘Right. Up. Come on. It’s no good you lying there.’
‘I can’t get up, Ted. I’m…cultivating my mind,’ said Israel, dreamily, stroking his beard. ‘Like Saint Jerome.’
‘Who?’
‘He’s the patron saint of libraries.’
‘Patron saint of my arse. You can cultivate your mind out in the van with me. Come on.’ He went to grab Israel’s arm. Israel shrank back.
‘Get off! I’m on holiday,’ said Israel.
‘Aye,’ said Ted. ‘Ye were. But ye’ve had your two weeks off and another week off sick.’
‘I’ve not been feeling well.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ said Ted. ‘Ye been in this stinking pit the whole time?’
‘More or less.’
‘Right. Good. Time to get out, then.’
Ted threw the bedcovers from Israel, scattering books and toppling wine bottles in the process—Merlot and Roberto Bolaño everywhere.
‘Hey!’
‘Up! Come on, let’s go.’
‘Leave me alone!’ said Israel.
‘That I shall not,’ said Ted. ‘Ye might be able to run rings round the others, but you can’t fool me.’
‘I’m not trying to fool anybody.’
‘“We were all a bit worried about him”,’ Ted said, mimicking George.
‘There’s no need to be worried about me, thank you,’ said Israel.
‘Good. Up and out yer stinking pit, then. Lyin’ in bed like a cripple—’
‘We don’t say “cripple” these days, Ted.’
‘Aye. Lying in like a woman—’
‘You can’t say—’
‘No wonder ye don’t know what end of you’s uppermost.’
‘What?’
‘Come on. Up and out, ye bedfast.’
‘Ted. Sorry. No. I’m staying here.’
‘Ye’re due in work, boy. Come on.’
‘Ted. Look. I really can’t be bothered.’
‘Can’t be bothered?’
‘No.’
‘Can’t be bothered to work?’ said Ted, incredulous.
‘That’s right.’
‘If a man work not, then how shall he eat?’
‘Yeah, all right, spare me the lecture,’ said Israel.
‘That’s not a lecture, ye fool, that’s the Bible. Now come on. Get yerself up and let’s go.’
‘Don’t talk to me like I’m a child, Ted.’
‘If you act like a child, then I’ll talk to ye like a child.’
‘Well, I would appreciate it if you could just moderate your language and talk to me in a calm and rational fashion.’
‘Calm and rational?’ said Ted. ‘Calm and rational? What do you want me to say? “Please come back, Israel. We all miss you on the mobile library”?’
‘Well, that might—’ began Israel.
‘Of course we don’t miss ye on the mobile library. Ye blinkin’ eejit. Ye’ve got a job to do. And you’re expected to do it, like anyone else. And don’t expect me to be covering for ye, because I’m not. Linda Wei’ll hear about this before ye know it, and ye’ll be out on yer ear.’
‘So?’ said Israel.
‘So? I’ll tell ye what’s so. I’m stepping outside here for a smoke and ye’ve got five minutes to get out of yer stinking bed before I lose my temper.’
Ted walked outside.
And Israel readjusted himself on the bed, pulling the quilt back up around him, plucking David Lean’s Great Expectations out from under the covers—he’d wondered where that had got to. He’d joined an online DVD postal delivery service, which was very good—unlimited DVDs, no late fee, £12 per month, delivered to the door of the farm—and he’d been steadily working his way through the British Film Institute’s Top 100 films. The Third Man, Brief Encounter, The Thirty-Nine Steps, Kes, The Red Shoes. Often he’d fall asleep in the coop to black-and-white images and then wake up in the morning to the sound of the shipping forecast on the World Service. Alfred Hitchcock, Dirk Bogarde, ‘And now the shipping forecast, issued by the Met Office on behalf of the Maritime and Coastguard Agency at 0520 today. There are warnings of gales in Rockall, Malin, Hebrides. The General Synopsis: low, Rockall, 987, deepening rapidly, expected Fair Isle 964 by 0700 tomorrow.’
Sometimes he didn’t know where he was. Or what year it was. It was like he’d come adrift in his life.
He thought maybe he’d try ringing Gloria on his mobile again. He’d only rung a couple of times so far today. She hadn’t answered the phone to him since he’d arrived back in Tumdrum.
Straight to voicemail.
He’d try again later.
He picked up Infinite Jest again. Laid it back down. Started flicking through a month-old Guardian.
He scanned the job ads. He was seriously thinking about retraining. Administration. There were always jobs in administration. Israel knew he would make a great administrator. He just needed the right thing to administrate. How difficult could it be, being an administrator? ‘Israel Armstrong is The