The Book Stops Here: A Mobile Library Mystery (11 page)

'Really?' said Ari. 'Information services? I'd be very interested to know about that. I'm kind of in information services myself.'

'Ari works in financial PR,' said Israel's mother.

'Oh,' said Ted.

'He's very successful.'

'Oh,' said Ted.

'Paprika chicken, Ari? And Ted, perhaps I can tempt you?'

For someone who was very successful Ari ate as though he hadn't eaten in a long time—or maybe that's just how very successful people eat, like tramps or emperors; determined, heedless. Ari paused from stuffing himself only to heap absurd, lavish praise upon Israel's mother's cooking, and to provoke and dominate conversation, and to share sly whispered asides with Israel's sister. Israel had fantasised for months about returning to his family. And this was it. This was his family. This was home.

Oh God.

'So, Israel, you followed this business in Lebanon?' said Ari, mid-forkful. 'What do you think?'

'I don't know,' said Israel. 'What do you think?'

Ari knew full well what Israel would think. And Israel knew full well what Ari would think.

'You get the news okay over there then?' said Ari.

'We manage,' said Israel. He didn't want to admit that he was mostly listening to BBC Radio Ulster and reading the
Impartial Recorder
.

'I'm trying to wean your mother here off the
Daily Mail
.'

'I like Melanie Phillips,' said Israel's mother.

'My aunt knows Melanie Phillips,' said Ari.

'Yes, his aunt knows Melanie Phillips,' said Israel's mother.

'I like to read
The Times
, the
Telegraph
and the
FT
every day. To get a rounded view of things,' said Ari, who didn't talk so much as make statements and request information.

'I'm sure you do,' said Israel.

'I read the
Telegraph
,' said Ted.

'That's the
Belfast Telegraph
,' said Israel.

'Oh,' said Ari.

'So, Israel, you haven't answered the question, what should we do in Lebanon?' said Deborah.

'I think we should pull out, of course,' said Israel.

'Well, well,' said Deborah. 'There's a surprise.'

'And I think all Israelis should come out and protest.'

'Like that'd help,' said Deborah.

'It'd be a show of solidarity.'

'Now, I hope we're not getting into politics?' said Israel's mother.

'It's not politics, Mum,' said Israel.

'I do apologise, Eva,' said Ari.

'That's okay, Ari,' said Israel's mother. 'More chicken?'

'Yes, please. Delicious.'

'Are there any more mushrooms?' asked Israel.

'No, sorry,' said his mother.

'Ted,' said Ari. 'I'm sure you must have an interesting perspective on things, coming from Northern Ireland.'

'On mushrooms?' said Israel.

'On the situation in Lebanon. Obviously,' said Deborah.

'One man's terrorist is another man's freedom fighter,' said Israel's mother. 'That's what your father used to say.'

Ted picked at his chicken bones.

'Ted?' said Ari.

'I…' began Ted, blushing.

'How anyone could think it was okay to plant a bomb and kill people,' said Israel's mother.

'As they're drinking a cup of coffee or on their way to work,' said Deborah.

'Exactly,' said Israel's mother. 'Disgraceful.'

Ted was flushed, and coughed, and adjusted himself awkwardly in his chair.

'Are you okay, Ted?' said Israel's mother.

'Fine, thank you.'

'I blame Tony Blair,' said Israel.

'Tony Blair?' said Ari. 'For Lebanon?'

'Evil man,' said Israel.

'Evil?' said Ari. 'He's not evil.'

'He is evil.'

'What, the same as Hitler or Stalin or Saddam Hussein were evil?' said Ari.

'No, of course not,' said Israel.

'So in what sense evil?' said Ari, stroking his luxuriant hair. 'Like who? Like Jeffrey Dahmer was evil?'

'Don't be silly,' said Israel.

'Israel, please, treat our guests with respect,' said his mother.

'I am treating him with respect,' said Israel. 'He's not—'

'It's okay, Eva,' said Ari. 'I hardly think Israel and I are ever going to agree over the Middle East.'

There was a suggestion here in what Ari said, and the way in which he said it—coolly and calmly—that this was in some way Israel's fault.

'It's just, I'm very'—Ari continued, spearing another chicken thigh—'very suspicious of this whole anti-Israel lobby.'

'I'm not anti-Israel,' said Israel.

'Really?'

'And I'm not part of a lobby. I just think people should be allowed to criticise Israel when it's made a mistake. Like, for example, going into Lebanon and committing atrocities.'

'Israel, Israel,' said Ari patriarchally. 'You know, it's funny, I do often find it's self-hating Jews who make these wild accusations about the—'

'They're not wild accusations,' said Israel. 'And maybe I am a self-hating Jew, because—'

'You're not a self-hating Jew,' said Deborah. 'You're a self-hating person.'

'Children!' said Israel's mother. 'Ted doesn't want to hear this, do you, Ted?'

Ted smiled, non-committally.

'Coffee everyone?'

Israel helped his mother take the dishes through to the kitchen, leaving Ted to battle it out alone over Lebanon with Ari and Deborah.

'So, where's Gloria?' she asked, when they were alone together in the kitchen.

'She's just texted,' said Israel. 'She's having to finish some work.'

'But she knew you were coming back tonight?'

'Yes, it's just something she couldn't get out of.'

'I see.'

'Mother, let's not get started on Gloria.'

Israel's mother didn't trust Gloria.

'I'm not getting started on anything. So, you've not met any nice girls over in Ireland?'

'Mother!'

'I'm only asking.'

'Well, anyway, no, I haven't. Not really.'

'Not really? Does that mean yes?'

'No!'

'Well. He's lovely, though, isn't he?' said Israel's mother.

'Who? Ari?'

'No! Ted.'

'Ted?' said Israel.

'Yes,' said Israel's mother. 'I think he's very charming.'

'Ted? Charming?' Israel thought back to when he'd arrived in Tumdrum and Ted had physically threatened him on a number of occasions. 'Ted is certainly a lot of things, Mother,' he said, 'but I hardly think charming is one of them.'

'I do like his accent.'

'His accent?'

'It's very cute, isn't it?'

'He's Northern Irish.'

'Yes, I know. Reminds me of your father.'

'Dad was from Dublin.'

'Well, it's the same sort of thing, isn't it? It's all an accent.'

'Mother! It's not the same thing at all.'

'He's a big hog of a man, though, isn't he?'

'What?' said Israel.

'Ted. How old is he, do you know?'

'No! I've got no idea how old he is. Seventy?'

'Don't be silly, Israel, he's not seventy. I'd place him early sixties. So he'd be about the same age as me, maybe a little older. He's really very well preserved, isn't he?'

'Mother!'

'He reminds me of Leo Fuld.'

'Who?'

'The singer. "Wo Ahin Soll Ich Geh'n".'

'I'm sorry, I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about.'

'I don't know,' said Israel's mother. 'Young people. Where did we go wrong?'

'Maybe you've just got old?'

'Thank you.'

'Don't mention it.'

'Anyway, come on, make yourself useful and take this tray.'

They returned with coffee—proper coffee!—and dessert. Israel's mother's desserts were much better than her main courses.

There was a good reason for this.

'This is delicious,' said Ted, once they'd started in on dessert. 'What is this?'

'Baklava,' said Israel.

'Ba-whatter?' said Ted.

'Baklava,' repeated Israel.

'Aye. Right. What is it?'

'It's pastry, with pistachios,' said Israel.

'No,' said Ari. 'It's not pistachios. It's almonds.'

'I always thought it was pistachios,' said Israel.

'You can have either almond or pistachio,' said Deborah.

'I've had walnut, actually,' said Ari.

'Sounds lovely,' said Israel's mother.

'Walnut?' said Israel.

'Uh-huh.'

'I've never had walnut,' said Israel. 'And I've had a lot of baklava.'

'It's filo pastry,' said Deborah, explaining to Ted.

'Aye. Nice.'

'It was on a business trip to New York I had the walnut baklava,' said Ari.

'And the sticky stuff is—what's the sticky stuff, Mother?' said Deborah.

'Orange-blossom water.'

'Ah, that's right.'

'Are you sure it was walnut?' said Israel.

'Of course I'm sure.'

'What?' said Ted.

'It's lovely baklava, Mum,' said Israel. 'Did you make it?'

'Israel!' said Deborah.

'What?'

'You never ask a lady if she's made a dish.'

'Do you not?'

'No.'

'Do I look like I have time to make baklava?' said Israel's mother.

'Erm.' Israel looked at his mother's French-polished nails. 'So where's it from?'

'Israel!' said Deborah.

'It's from Israel?' said Ted.

'It's from Jacob's, on the High Street, where we've been buying our baklava for thirty years,' said Israel's mother.

'Oh,' said Israel. 'Of course. I was only asking.'

Soon after the baklava Ari and Deborah had to go: Ari had a big presentation the next day.

'
Big
presentation,' he said, slipping into his suit jacket, Israel's mother holding it out for him, like a personal valet. 'You know what it's like, Eva.'

'Hardly!' said Israel's mother, twittering.

'Ted, it's been a pleasure,' said Ari.

'Aye,' said Ted.

Ted and Israel and his mother cleared the remaining dishes and then sat around drinking coffee. There was still no sign of Gloria. Israel texted her again.

'Still no sign of Gloria then?' said Israel's mother.

'No,' said Israel.

'Surprise, surprise.'

'It's fine. She's probably…'

'You can always stay here tonight.'

'Well, I'll…'

'Your room's all made up.'

'Well…'

'Good. That's settled then,' said Israel's mother, opening another bottle of wine.

'Now,' she said, turning her attention to Ted. 'Did you say you were from Dublin?'

'Mother!' said Israel. 'I told you. He's from Northern Ireland.'

'I'm from Antrim,' said Ted.

'My late husband was from Dublin,' said Israel's mother dreamily.

'In Ireland doth fair Dublin stand,' said Ted. 'The city chief therein; and it is said by many more, the city chief of sin.'

'Oh!' said Israel's mother. 'That's very good. Did you make that up?'

'Ach, no,' said Ted.

'I have a couple of Van Morrison albums somewhere,' said Israel's mother, getting up.

'Aye, he's a Belfast lad,' said Ted.

'It's like name the famous Belgian, isn't it?' said Israel's mother, who'd gone over to the cupboard where Israel's dad had kept his records. 'Van Morrison. George Best. He's from your neck of the woods, isn't he?'

'Aye,' said Ted.

'Terrible waste,' said Israel's mother.

'D'ye know the joke?' said Ted.

'Which joke?' said Israel's mother.

'So,' said Ted. 'George Best is in the Ritz Hotel in bed with Miss World.'

'Right,' said Israel's mother, facing Ted, hand on hip, wineglass in the other.

'And the bed is covered with money—fifty pound notes. The waiter comes in with room service—another bottle of champagne.'

'Uh-huh,' said Israel's mother.

'And the waiter takes in the scene and shakes his head and he says, "Where did it all go wrong, George?"'

'Oh, that's very funny!' said Israel's mother, her face creasing up with laughter. 'That's very funny! Isn't it, Israel?'

Israel frowned. Ted had told him the joke several dozen times before.

'Yes,' said Israel.

'I don't think I know any other famous Northern Irishmen,' said Israel's mother.

'Wayne McCullough?' said Ted.

'Is he a singer?'

'He's a boxer,' said Ted.

'The Corrs?' said Israel's mother.

'They're from down south,' said Ted.

'Oh.'

'Liam Neeson,' said Ted.

'Really?' said Israel's mother. 'Oh, I like him. Did you ever see him in
Schindler's List
?'

'I don't think so,' said Ted.

'No? We've probably got it on video somewhere if you'd like to see it. Although you'd be better seeing it in a cinema really. We have wonderful cinemas here. I prefer the theatre myself.'

'Mother! You never go the theatre!'

'I went to see
Les Misérables
with my book group. And
Mary Poppins
—that wasn't awfully good actually; not nearly as good as the film. Do you remember the film, Israel? We used to watch it when you were children. We had that on video too. I don't know where all the videos are now. Anyway, how many have we got then, Ted, Northern Irishmen. Five?'

'Not far off,' said Ted.

'Israel?' said his mother.

'What?' said Israel, who was staring at his mobile phone, willing Gloria to ring.

'Famous Northern Irishmen?'

'Or women,' said Ted.

'Yes, of course,' said Israel's mother, who'd returned to rifling through the old LPs. 'We don't want to forget the women.'

'Certainly not,' said Ted. 'Mary Peters,' he added.

'Ah!' said Israel's mother, standing up triumphantly with a copy of
Moondance
. 'Who did you say, Ted?'

'Mary Peters.'

'Ah, yes. That dates us a little bit, though, doesn't it?'

'Who's Mary Peters?' said Israel.

'She was in the Olympics, wasn't she?' said Israel's mother.

'She was,' said Ted.

Israel's mother was fiddling around with the turntable.

'I can never get this right. Ted, would you mind?' she said.

Ted went over and stood beside her, taking the record from her hands.