by Ian Sansom
Ben was already up out of his seat. 'The planning, honestly, it would drive you-'
'You've got to leave it to the ladies,' said Danny.
'I'll maybe catch up with you again before you go?' said Ben, more as a question than a promise.
'Sure, yeah,' said Israel. 'And congratulations again, on the wedding. Send my love to Louise.'
'Yeah.'
And then Ben turned his back and was gone, still texting.
Which left Israel with Danny. Maybe Danny could help him to work out what to do about the van. And about Gloria. Maybe Danny would understand.
'Are you putting on weight, or is it my imagination?' said Danny.
'Actually,' said Israel, feeling a headache coming on, 'I've got to get back too.'
'But I haven't told you about my book yet.'
'Yeah, sorry. Maybe next time.'
'Okay,' said Danny, 'suit yourself.' It didn't seem to bother him in the slightest. He'd already switched from under-table phone to on-the-table BlackBerry.
'Bye then,' said Israel.
Danny was already deep into scanning his e-mails. 'Yeah,' he said, without looking up. 'Sure.'
Walking back home, Israel no longer observed the dramas unfolding around him. His head was down, and his heart, and he felt like shit, and indeed when he reached his street he noticed that the pavement outside his mother's house seemed to have been smothered in what he thought at first was green and white paint, Jackson Pollock-style, but which on closer inspection he realised was in fact pigeon shit, in a kind of Off-White and Heritage Green, the Heritage Green the green of drawing rooms in gentlemen's clubs and of old libraries and leather armchairs, and the Off-White a white somewhere between the white of fine china and the white-blonde hair of beautiful women; and stepping around these colours and associations, and into the gutter, onto the sleeping policeman, inches from the oncoming traffic, and yards from his childhood home, only reminded Israel once again of the many lives he did not lead, and the friends he no longer had.
Frankly, he might as well have been rubbing his nose in it.
He texted Gloria.
No reply.
13
'This is madness,' said Ted.
'This,' said Israel, fingers thrumming on the steering wheel, 'is the "Road to Hell".'
'What?'
'"The Road to Hell", Chris Rea? It's a song, isn't it, about the M25?'
'I've never heard of it,' said Ted.
'Of course you have! "This ain't no…something something something,"' sang Israel, uncertainly, in his best unfiltered-cigarettes-and-alcohol kind of voice, '"This is the road to hell."'
'No, never heard of it,' said Ted, gazing out of the window. 'Doesn't sound like much of a song to me.'
'Well, it is.'
'Aye. Right. What do you call this road? The M5?'
'The M25,' said Israel. 'It's famous. Like Route 66.'
'Aye. Well, it might be famous where you come from, but I tell ye, word of it's not reached us boys in County Antrim.'
'I'll bet it was built by Irish navvies,' said Israel.
'Aye, and you'd know, would ye?'
'No, I'm just saying. A lot of roads in England were built by Irishmen, weren't they? They all lived in Kilburn?'
'Aye. And they all wore shamrocks in their hair and carried shillelaghs and played harps and rode in donkey carts.'
'No! Don't be silly, I didn't say that.'
'Ach, you and your blinkin' stereotypes.'
'Me?'
'Yes, you.'
'Me and my stereotypes? What about you and your homophobic-'
'I'm not getting into the whole homophonic thing again!' said Ted.
'Homophobic,' corrected Israel.
'Aye. I've got nothing against 'em. And anyway you're the one always going on about poster modern identity-'
'Postmodern, Ted. Postmodern! God!'
'Aye, right. Well, He's of the same opinion as me.'
'Who?'
'The Good Lord.' Ted shook his head. 'Homophonic! And you think all the Irish do is sit around playing bodhrans and building your English roads?'
'No.'
'You racist English b-'
'Ted! I'm just saying, it's a fact. A lot of English roads were built by Irishmen.'
'Aye, well,' said Ted, looking out of the window of the Mini at the solid traffic. The M25 was full; as far as Ted could tell, England was full. 'Fat lot of good it's done ye. Look at it. I don't know how you cope with all this.'
'Coffee, actually, mostly,' said Israel, taking a sip from his insulated vacuum cup, which he'd had the foresight to bring when they'd set off from his mum's in the Mini early that morning. 'Speaking of which, if it's all right with you, I thought, seeing as we're, you know, down this way, I might just pop in and see some of my old friends at work.'
Israel was determined to find someone left in England who might want to talk to him.
'Oh, no, no, no,' said Ted. 'We're not mucking around here, boy. We're going to get the van and go. Where is it, anyway, Ongger?'
'Ongar,' said Israel. 'It's in Essex. I looked it up.'
'Sounds African to me,' said Ted. 'Anyway, it's the van we're after here, not a trip down memory lane. You can do that on your own time.'
'It's not a trip down…Lakeside is sort of on the way.'
'What is Lakeside?'
'It's the shopping mall place where I used to work in the bookshop. I've told you about it loads of times.'
'I don't think so,' said Ted.
'Yes, I have. The Bargain Bookstore? Where I used to work? I thought I might just pop in and say hello to people.'
'Waste of time,' said Ted.
'It's not a waste of time,' said Israel. 'It's…Something I'd like to do. You know, reconnect with people.'
'Ach,' said Ted. 'Reconnect!'
'Yes. Meet up with some of my old colleagues. We had some great times there. Honestly.' Israel sighed, remembering when he had a life in England. 'There was once, right, when it was a Harry Potter night-I think it was The Goblet of Fire-and we were doing a late opening, and we'd all gone to the pub, and we did this prank call to our manager, Simon, pretending we were from the police? Saying that there'd been a riot in the shop! And someone had stolen our whole consignment of Potters! Oh, God, that was fun.'
Ted did not deign to comment.
'Just ten minutes'll do it,' pleaded Israel. 'Pop in, say hello, we'll be back on the road again before you know it.'
'It's a bad idea,' said Ted.
'Well, I'm driving,' said Israel.
'In a manner of speaking,' said Ted.
'So I'm making an executive decision,' said Israel.
'Ha!' said Ted.
Israel indicated off left.
The road off the M25 and into Lakeside was like a merry-go-round, traffic being sucked in and down into a vast, empty, busy place that wasn't really a place at all.
'Now this is like hell,' said Ted, as Israel parked the car in a car park that stretched for miles.
'This is Lakeside,' said Israel.
Hundreds of people were flooding towards the main building.
'Where are they all going?'
'They're going shopping,' said Israel.
'On a nice day like today?'
'Of course. Come on.'
'It's like they're hypnotised,' said Ted, as people trailed past them towards the main mall.
'I suppose it is, yes,' said Israel. 'Hypnotised by consumerism.'
'Aye. All right, Siglund Freud. Let's just get you down memory lane and then get out of here. Muhammad, guard the car!'
'It's Sigmund,' said Israel. 'And you,' he said to the dog, 'don't shit all over the seats.'
Inside the shopping mall there were all the usual shops, spread out as far as the eye could see.
'An Argos!' said Ted. 'Look. There's not much you can't get out of Argos, I tell you.'
'What?'
'Argos. Great wee shop. We have one in Rathkeltair. There's one here
as well. I didn't realise it was all over.'
'Ted, Argos is like a huge national chain of shops.'
'Is it?' said Ted. 'I thought it was just a local.'
'No. No. It's-'
'Look! And a Clinton Cards,' said Ted. 'There's one of these in Ballymena. They're bringing all our shops over here.'
'Yeah, and in England we have Starbucks as well. And Hoovers. And Ford motor cars?' said Israel.
'Woolworths,' said Ted. 'This place has got everything.'
'Anyway…' said Israel. 'Moving on.'
They went up an escalator, passed something that was meant to be a sculpture and then they were outside the Bargain Bookstore.
'Oh,' said Israel.
The Bargain Bookstore was now called the Book Worm, the shiny new plastic shop fascia showing a huge fat yellow cartoon worm wearing a bib, with a knife and fork in its hands, tucking into a plateful of books and winking suggestively. The name might have changed but the window display looked pretty much the same as it did when Israel had worked there, showing discounted autobiographies and biographies by footballers, and models and sportsmen, and huge, useless cookbooks.
'This is it?' said Ted.
'Yes,' said Israel. 'They've changed the name.'
'The Book Worm?' said Ted. 'Appealin'.'
'Well. Anyway. This is it. The old firm.'
'You made it sound like the British blinkin' Library,' said Ted. 'There's a shop like this in Coleraine.'
'No, no. Similar maybe,' said Israel. 'But not the same. This was a special place to work. Honestly. A lot of very interesting people work here.'
'Aye,' said Ted. 'I'm sure.'
'No, really. Great camaraderie. Each year we used to go on a day trip to Alton Towers.'
'Sounds amazing,' said Ted. 'Whatever Alton Towers is.'
'It's a theme park,' said Israel. 'Where they have this great water-'
'Let's hurry up then, shall we?' said Ted, striding into the shop. 'I'd like to get the van back this year, if possible.'
* * *
Inside the shop, Israel approached a woman who was wearing a shapeless red T-shirt with the words, 'The Book Worm!' emblazoned across her chest, the hungry worm on her back. She was unpacking a box of books.
'Hi!' said Israel. 'You're new here.'
'No,' said the woman.
'Newish?' said Israel.
'Can I help you?'
'Yeah. It's just, I used to work here myself, and I wondered if Simon was around.'
'Who?'
'Simon. The manager?'
'No. It's Justin who's the manager.'
'Right. Erm. Is Justin around then?'
'Yeah. Justin!' the woman shouted over a shelf. 'Justin!'
'What?' came a call back.
'Bloke here looking for a job.'
A Book Worm-T-shirted fat man with designer glasses emerged from behind some shelves.
'Yeah?' he said.
'Hi!' said Israel. 'I'm-'
'We're not taking anybody on at the moment,' said Justin. 'You need to write to head office for an application form. They'll keep it on file.'
'Erm. Sorry. I wasn't looking for a job. I used to work here. I was just looking for Simon.'
'Simon left six months ago,' said Justin, in a monotone.
'Oh, right. Did he?'
'Yeah. Sold his children's book for half a million pounds.'
'Did he?'
'Yeah.'
'Wow. Right. Gosh. The one about the forgotten world of dinosaurs underneath Lakeside, which is discovered by children who then embark on a magical journey of self-discovery?'
'Yeah, that one.'
'Wow. I never thought he'd…I mean, I knew, of course, he was…What about Amy?'
'Don't know any Amys.'
'Charlie?'
'Nope.'
'I see. What about Dwayne?'
'Bloke from Tottenham?'
'Yeah, that's right.'
'No, he's gone as well.'
'Oh, well, I'll-'
'Sorry. I've got a customer.'
'Right. Sure. Well. Say hello to Simon if you…'
Justin was already at the tills, ringing through a full-colour giant-size diet pasta cookbook.
Ted and Israel left the shop.
'Well,' said Ted. 'They certainly welcomed you back with open arms.'
Israel was silent.
'What was it you said to me the other day?' said Ted. 'Something about having to "embrace change" and try to move forward? Hoist by your petard and left danglin' by your-'
'Ted?'
'What?'
'Shut up.'
* * *
They drove for a long time in silence round the M25, and then onto the M11, deep into Essex.
'So,' said Ted, unable to restrain himself. 'Still planning to resign and move back here and pick up your old job at the shop again? Hook up with all your auld mates?'
'I'm not talking about it,' said Israel.
'Embrace change and try to move forward!' said Ted, chuckling. 'Isn't it? That's your advice.'
'I said I'm not talking about it.'
'All right,' said Ted. 'I'm only keepin' you goin'. Where are we now?'
'Harlow,' said Israel.
'Harlow!' said Ted, laughing.
'Yes, Harlow,' said Israel, unamused. 'What's funny about Harlow?'
'Harlow!' said Ted again. 'What sort of a name for a place is that?'
'Harlow? What's wrong with Harlow?'
'Harlow!' said Ted. 'Oh, hello, Har-low,' he said, in a Leslie Phillips kind of a voice. 'Hell-o, Har-low! Named after the platinum blonde?'
'Sorry?'
'Jean Harlow? The actress.'
'I don't think so. Although my knowledge of the origin of Essex place names is not exactly-'
And then they picked up the first signs for Ongar.
'Look! Look!' said Ted. 'There we are! Ongaa! Oogabooga-Ongaa.'
'Ongar,' said Israel. 'It's just called Ongar.'
'On guard!' said Ted. 'On guard!'
'All right, Ted, knock it off, will you.'
'Stupit English names.'
'I have trouble with Irish place names,' said Israel.
'Northern Irish,' said Ted.
'Yeah, whatever,' said Israel. 'Ballythis and Ballythat.'
'At least we don't have places called-what's that?' He pointed to another sign.
'Chelmsford.'
'Chelms-ford,' said Ted, sounding like Noël Coward. 'Charmed to meet you, Chelms Ford.'
When eventually they arrived in Ongar, which seemed to be several places under one name-'Chipping Ongar!' roared Ted, 'High Ongar! Oh, Holy God! You English!'-Israel got out and asked at a petrol station if they knew where the travellers might be.
'Crusties?' said the man behind the counter.
'Erm, possibly,' said Israel.
'Bloody everywhere. There's some of them out by Willingale, up past Fyfield there,' said the man.
'Willingale?' said Israel.
'That's it,' said the man. 'Little village, just.'
They drove on, past huge old houses with high brick walls built up all around them, and fields, and barns, and honeysuckle-covered cottages.
'Quite bucolic round here, isn't it,' said Israel. 'Not like I thought it would be.'
'Bit like North Antrim,' said Ted.
'A bit,' said Israel.
'Except not as nice,' said Ted. 'We nearly there?'
'Yeah,' said Israel. 'We've just got to look out for some sort of, I don't know, encampment sort of thing, I suppose.'
'Gypsy wagons and that,' said Ted.
'I don't think it'll be Gypsy wagons as such,' said Israel.
'The big old wooden wheels and the wee stove, and the jangling horse brass.'
'What d'you know about travellers exactly, Ted?'
'Gypsies?'
'I don't think they're the same as Gypsies, no. These are more like…travellers, according to the second-hand-car bloke.'
'Well, he was a…Gyps
ies, I'm looking for.'
'I don't know if you're actually allowed to say Gypsies these days, Ted.'
'Why not?'
'Because, it's not…you know. They're all called travellers now, I think.'
'I call them Gypsies.'
'Well, a Gypsy is…'
'I know what a Gypsy is,' said Ted. 'Sean's a Gypsy.'
'Who?'
'In Tumdrum. Drinks in the First and Last.'
'Oh, him, right, yes. You wouldn't call him a Gypsy, though, would you?'
'No. I'd call him a tinker.'
'I don't think we call them tinkers these days either, Ted.'
'Lot of nonsense,' said Ted.
Willingale came and went, and they searched the horizon, looking out for signs of an encampment.
Then, 'Smoke!' called Ted suddenly, as they passed a little wooded area. 'Pull over! Pull over!'
Israel pulled the car drastically over to the verge.
'Where?' said Israel.
'Two o'clock!' said Ted, jumping out of the car.
'Hold on! Where?' said Israel, following him.
'There!' Ted pointed out a thin wisp of smoke.
'I can't see anything.'
'There! Up yonder, past them big oak trees.'
'Is that smoke?'
'Of course it's smoke.'
'Do you think that's them?' said Israel, who was starting to feel a little nervous.
'Gypsies love a fire.'
'They're not Gypsies, Ted.'
'I reckon that's them all right.'
'Really? D'you think?'
'Only one way to find out,' said Ted, who was already bounding up the lane towards the smoke. 'Bloody thieving Gypsies!'
The encampment was shaded by oak trees. There were about a dozen vehicles-buses, coaches, caravans-parked in a sort of horseshoe arrangement around a large fire. Everywhere on the ground there were tarpaulins, and paint pots, and scraps of wood, and engine parts, and despite the mess it all felt curiously prosperous and festive. There was washing strung up between trees and children running around.
'And lots of dogs,' Israel whispered, mostly to himself.
'Can I help you?'
'Aaaghh!' Israel gave a little yelp and twisted round in shock. There was a man standing directly behind him. He had a long plaited beard, multiple face-piercings and was dressed in a black vest, black combat trousers and wore no shoes.
'Ah! God, you gave me a fright.'
'Are you okay?' said the man.