The case of the missing books (30 page)

The real star of the show at Zelda's meanwhile was the food–they had really pushed the boat out with the food. There wasn't a drop of coronation chicken in sight. It was a meat- and poultry-free feast that would have warmed the heart of even the most red-in-tooth-and-claw of carnivores, let alone a short, chubby, vegetarian librarian from north London.

Israel was seated, broken-nosed and puffy-eyed, at the head table overlooking the vegetarian proceedings, Minnie on his left, George on his right. He'd polished his brown brogues and had borrowed Mr Devine's three-piece tweed suit again, and he was wearing Ted's purple tie. He liked to think he had a certain rakish charm. He didn't, in fact, but he had the glow of someone who knew that the end was near. His old brown suitcase was already packed.

Dishes kept arriving before them, as if by magic, although actually served up by the raggedy-nailed and not entirely clean hands of a troop of fat and miserable-looking schoolchildren in their white school shirts and blouses, employed specially for the evening by Zelda. There was more couscous and fried aubergine than Israel had ever seen.

'It's like the
Satyricon
,' he said jokingly.

'Surely,' said Minnie. 'Wasn't that on the telly? We had to send to Belfast for those,' she said, indicating a plate of deep-fried sweet potatoes. 'And the…Och, what do you call this stuff?' she asked George.

'What stuff?' said George irritably.

'Och, the whitey stuff there that looks a wee bit like tripe?'

'I don't know.'

'Come here, Israel,' said Minnie, even though Israel was already there. 'What's those sort of wee lardy lumps?'

'Tofu?'

'Aye, right. That's from Derry, that is.'

'Londonderry,' said George.

'Och, don't be so silly,' said Minnie. 'One of them healthy food shops up there.'

'Right,' said Israel, heading off an argument. 'Well, thank you anyway.'

'Don't thank me. Thank Zelda,' said Minnie. 'It was her idea. She wanted to give you a big send-off. Sure, it's not been easy for you.'

'I'm sure he can't wait to get back home,' said George, grinning unpleasantly at Israel.

Well, yes, Israel had to admit…It had been a busy couple of days.

Unfortunately it had turned out that P. J. Bullimore was
not
responsible for the theft of the missing library books: the police had searched his premises thoroughly but to no avail, so Israel's hunch, like just about all his other notions, had turned out to be entirely wrong. But then again it appeared that Bullimore
was
responsible for having stolen numerous items of furniture from Pearce Pyper and other locals: his Antiques and Collectables Treasure Trove was a trove of other people's treasure. Bullimore was currently helping police with their enquiries.

So Israel may not have recovered the stolen library books and there was still the small matter of the ongoing investigation into his suspected breaking and entering of Bullimore's premises, but he was a local hero, the most famous librarian, probably, in Tumdrum's history. He'd had his picture in the
Impartial Recorder
again, this time with Pearce Pyper, handing back an Art Deco clock that Pearce thought he'd merely mislaid and which in fact P. J. Bullimore had stolen, along with dozens of other priceless items. People had been queuing up to reclaim their fancy reupholstered chairs and their stripped farmhouse pine dressers which had been painted in green gloss the last time they'd seen them and which Bullimore had been selling off at prices they'd never have been able to afford. In recognition of his services to the community, Linda Wei and the Department of Entertainment, Leisure and Community Services had decided that Israel should be released immediately from his contract. He was free to go.

There was a distinctly festive spirit then that night at Zelda's. Christmas was only a week away, and there was a tree, and decorations and much sipping of Shloer and wine and beer and at the point at which the desserts were being served–a range of pavlovas and banoffee pies to rival those in any mid-range provincial pub or bistro–Zelda swept out of the kitchens and through the room as if on the crest of a wave, hair high and erect, chatting to guests, laughing with them, dangling mistletoe as she went.

Minnie leant over to Israel, mid-pavlova.

'She's kept her ankles, you know,' she said.

'Her ankles?' said Israel.

'Aye. In the old days you couldn't have beat her legs in County Antrim. Look.'

Israel tried to catch a glimpse of Zelda's ankles between the tables: he couldn't quite make them out.

'See?'

'There's lots of ankles, Minnie, I can't see them.'

'She was a mannikin, you know, when she was young.'

'A mannikin?'

'A model,' said George.

'Can't you tell?' said Minnie.

Israel looked and for a moment he could tell, he could tell what men might have seen forty or fifty years ago–a slight sway of the hips as she moved, and a certain way she had of fanning her dress out behind her to best advantage, a way of holding attention by using her body, the way the hair had been carefully arranged. He could tell that many, many years ago Zelda must have been fiercely, bitingly beautiful, even though the edge of that beauty was now concealed and obscured by the effects of age, and also by blusher, and concealer, and eye shadow, and eyeliner, and mascara, and lipstick, and powder. Zelda was still a beauty, but now she was a pantomime beauty.

'She's mink, you know. Upstairs. Mink coats. And pearls. She was amazing when she was young,' said Minnie. 'She was like our own local Katharine Hepburn, wasn't she, George?'

George couldn't hear her. 'What did you say?'

'Zelda, she was like Katharine Hepburn.'

George looked sceptical. 'I was too young to remember, Auntie.'

'Oh well. She was. She taught me everything I know, you know.'

George snorted.

'About what?' asked Israel.

'Och, you know, the way of the world,' Minnie laughed.

George snorted again.

'She taught me how to smoke: I hadn't even thought of smoking before.'

'You don't need someone to teach you how to smoke, do you?' asked Israel.

'Of course you do, if you're a lady. It's different if you're a fella. It's not as easy as it looks. You have to look bored, you know, if you're a lady, that's what she always said.'

'Right.'

'And you have to cock your head when someone's talking, like you're taking an interest in them. Feminine wiles, isn't it. She used to get it out of all these magazines, you know.'

'What happened after she was a model?'

'Well, she got married, and they lived all over–down south and what have you. Her husband had this canteen business, very successful. Supplying places across the border. And then her husband passed on…you know.'

'No.'

'Her husband was an RUC reservist,' said George. 'He was killed in his car. Shot in the back of the head.'

'Oh, God.'

'She was there in the car with him,' she added.

'God. That's terrible.'

'Och, well…' said Minnie, as if someone witnessing their husband being murdered in their car were the equivalent of catching a bad dose of the flu.

'How did she cope with that?'

'Same as everyone,' said George bitterly. 'She coped.'

'I had no idea.'

'Well, anyway,' said Minnie briskly. 'Sure, it was a long time ago.'

Zelda had gone to the front of the restaurant and was motioning for Israel to join her. But Israel did not move from his seat: he was thinking about Zelda's husband. Minnie prodded him. Then Ted and John Feely Boyd hoisted him up and out of the seat and up to the front, to the sound of much clapping and cheering.

He stood sheepishly in front of the counter, next to Zelda.

'Speech!' came the cry. 'Speech!'

'I really don't want to,' Israel whispered to Zelda.

'Don't be silly, boy,' said Zelda. 'And stand up straight,' she hissed. Israel noticed lipstick on her teeth. 'Come on! Smile! This is your moment.'

'Up!' she said. 'Head up!'

'Well,' said Israel.

'Speak up!' shouted someone from the back of the room. 'We can't hear you.'

Someone brought a chair for him to stand on.

'Well,' said Israel again, getting up on the chair.

'We still can't hear you!'

'Sorry,' said Israel.

'Stop apologising!' boomed the Reverend Roberts, to peals of laughter.

'Well,' started Israel again, more loudly and confidently, but wobbling slightly.

'Mind! You'll hurt yerself,' called Minnie.

Israel steadied himself.

'Sure he's nothing left to hurt,' said Ted, to more laughter.

'Well,' began Israel again, prodding his glasses, and trying to get a word in edgeways. 'I just want to say thank you to all of you for tolerating my presence among you for the past few weeks. It has been a…er…steep learning curve.'

'Steeper for us!' shouted Linda Wei.

'I am particularly grateful to Linda,' continued Israel, with some irony. 'And also to Ted. And to Zelda and Minnie, for arranging this lovely evening.'

He hadn't rehearsed a speech. He thought for a minute that he would say something about how libraries were important to communities, how they brought people together, and represented all that was good about mankind's striving for knowledge and self-understanding. But then he changed his mind. There was no point him telling people what they already knew. Also, unexpectedly, he found himself getting rather choked up as he spoke. So he just said a quick thanks and got down off the chair. He had to dab a few tears from his eye.

There was a rousing chorus of 'For he's a jolly good fellow!' and then a long couple of hours of banter and drinking, although of course Israel stuck strictly to the Shloer, having learnt his lesson now several times over, and eventually most everyone had gone and said their goodbyes–a lot of handshakes, and manly bear-hugs also from Ted and the Reverend Roberts–and then Israel stepped outside alone into the cold night air.

There was the bus stop and the concrete bus shelter, and the big empty flowerbeds, and the war memorial featuring the unknown soldier, whose rifle and whose plaque had long ago turned green, and the churches, and the shops, and the seagulls picking litter: the town centre just the same as usual, deserted now except for a few parked cars and the mobile library, which was sitting big and bold and proud as you like outside Zelda's, underneath a street light, the sea off in the distance, and hills to either side.

Israel went up to the van, to the rusty creamy red flanks of the van, and patted her, as though patting the rear of a cow–something he must have seen Ted do dozens of times, but not something that he himself had ever before had either the urge or intention to do, but which suddenly seemed to come naturally–and he opened her up and got into the driver's seat.

'Well, old girl,' he said to no one except himself and the van. 'Here we go.'

He drove out past the edge of town then, past Ted's Cabs and the First and Last, and up round onto the coast road, past the sign that said WATCH FOR FALLING ROCKS, past the grey exposed cliff face on the one side and the dark black sea on the other, following the coil of the road, sometimes high above the sea and sometimes right alongside, through the thin little patches of wood, dipping down and along through the pools of leaves and the run-off from the little gullies and streams that flowed down into all the blackness and nothingness below.

He drove over the bridge up by the Devines', and as he hit the bump and came down the van felt different; it felt heavier somehow. Israel reasoned it was maybe heaviness of heart. He couldn't honestly say that he'd come to love this place, and he couldn't honestly say he'd come to love the people, but…well, maybe it was just because he was leaving; he was the sort of person, after all, who could get nostalgic about yesterday's breakfast.

He thought he'd better check though, just in case it was a real rather than a merely sentimental or imaginary problem with the van, and he pulled over just by the second furze, where he'd made his first pick-up, and glanced around.

The shelves were in now: Dennis had fitted them the past few days, and they were beautiful; you could see the grain even in the moonlight. Linda Wei had gone absolutely mad at first when Israel had told her about the cost of the shelves–she had exploded, a quake of Pringles and Diet Coke–but then soon after he'd been hailed as a local hero and she'd calmed down. So the shelves were a success; the shelves looked great.

And now, tonight, on every one of those beautiful grainy shelves there were books–hardbacks, paperbacks, sitting like old friends gazing down at him in silent amusement.

They were back.

Israel pushed his glasses up high onto his forehead and swallowed hard.

Someone…Someone must have stocked the van while he was in Zelda's saying his goodbyes. The library was full. It was…It was…Well, it was unbelievable.

By the time he drove back to Zelda's the party was over. The last of the parked cars had gone. There was no one around. The door was still open though and he went through the restaurant, calling out–'Zelda! Minnie!'–past the tables–'Zelda! Minnie!'–past the counter–'Zelda! Minnie!'–past boxes in the hallway and on into the parlour. His voice died out. There was no one around.

He went back into the hallway and stood at the bottom of the stairs and called out, more quietly. 'Zelda? Minnie?'

There was still no reply.

Something seemed to compel him to walk up the stairs–either instinct or inspiration, or a growing sense of terror, but whatever it was it kept on compelling him so that when he reached the landing he stepped through the open door to the left, which led into a huge room which stretched the entire length of the building, overlooking the town square. There was an orangey glow from the street lights.

And all along the walls of this vast orangey empty room were bookshelves–row upon row of bookshelves. Empty bookshelves.

He walked back out into the hallway and took a deep breath. He didn't know what to think. He fumbled in his pocket for some Nurofen: he had none left.