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‘Sorry,’ said Israel.
‘Thank you,’ said Ted.
‘We are getting a new van, though,’ said Israel determinedly.
‘We’re not getting a new van,’ said Ted, more determinedly. ‘We are not going to England, we’re not going to some daftie wee librarian conference—’
‘The Mobile Meet,’ corrected Israel.
‘And we’re not getting a new van.’
‘But—’
‘They’ll not get rid of this van,’ said Ted. ‘If they want to get rid of this van they’ll have to get rid of me first.’
‘Don’t say that, Ted.’
‘The van’s staying.’
‘Ted!’
‘And so am I. Here! In Norn Iron. And we are not getting a new van.’
‘We are, Ted,’ said Israel.
‘We’re not.’
‘We are.’
‘We’re not. I’m telling you now,’ said Ted, turning across to look at Israel, and gripping the steering wheel so tight that Israel thought he might actually choke it and throttle the whole vehicle. ‘Again. We. Are. Not. Getting. A. New. Van! We’re not going anywhere. We’re staying put! D’ye understand me?’ When Ted raised his voice it was like someone hitting you around the ears.
‘Please?’ said Israel quietly.
‘No!’ yelled Ted.
Israel was worried that Ted might have a heart attack or a stroke and they’d end up swerving and crashing and they’d both die, and they’d make the front page of the Impartial Recorder: ‘Librarians killed in tragic mobile library crash’, with a grainy black and white photo. And a few words of tribute from Linda Wei. Which was not the way Israel would have wished to be remembered.
Ted had lost his temper, and Israel had no other means of persuasion. He was reduced to pathetic pleading.
‘Please, Ted. A new van? A trip over to England? Seize the day. Carpe diem and all that.’
‘Aye, and who’s he when he’s at home?’
‘Carpe diem? It means—’
‘Of course I know what carpe diem means, ye fuckin’ wee shite!’
Ted punched the steering wheel. Which was never good. It made the whole front of the dashboard wobble.
‘Listen!’ said Ted. ‘Let me make meself perfectly plain. Do not patronise me. Do not try to talk me round. And do not try to appeal to my better nature!’
‘No, Ted. No, I wouldn’t dream of…appealing to your…’
That gave Israel an idea. They drove on in silence for a few minutes longer, Israel flicking through the programme of events for the Mobile Meet.
‘At the Mobile Meet they have all these competitions, you know.’
‘Hmm,’ said Ted.
‘Driver of the Year.’
‘Hmm.’
‘State of the Art Vehicle.’
‘Hmm.’
‘Best Livery.’
Israel thought he could just detect a slight interest in Ted’s ‘hmm’s. This could be it. He tried to utilise his advantage. Counter-intuitive was the way to go with Ted; there was no point setting out premises and establishing arguments. There was absolutely no point arguing with Ted, or appealing to his better nature. Cunning—that’s what was called for.
‘This old thing probably wouldn’t stand a chance, of course, at that sort of competition level.’
‘Don’t ye get started into the van again now.’
‘No, no, I’m not. I mean, she just wouldn’t, though, would she, realistically, stand a chance of winning a prize at the Mobile Meet? With that, you know, all that competition. Not a chance.’
‘Ach, of course she’d stand a chance.’
‘I don’t think so, Ted. Not up against all those English vans.’
‘Ach,’ said Ted.
‘Not a chance of winning. Not in a million years. If you look at these categories. Concours D’Elégance.’
‘What?’
‘Concours D’Elégance means, you know, the best-looking van there on the day.’
‘Ach, well, if she was there, she’d definitely win that. Best van, no problem.’
‘No?’ said Israel. ‘Do you really think so?’
‘Of course she would!’
‘Well, I suppose if you pimped her up a bit and—’
‘Wee bit of work, no problem,’ said Ted. ‘Definitely she’d win it. She’s a beauty,’ said Ted, affectionately stroking the dashboard. ‘Aren’t you, girl?’
He had found Ted’s Achilles heel; his underbelly; his soft spot; his weakness; his fatal Cleopatra. Pride.
‘I tell you what,’ said Israel. ‘Do you want to have a bet on it?’
‘A what?’ said Ted. ‘A bet?’
‘Yes, a bet, on you winning the Concours D’Elégance at the Mobile Meet.’
‘With you, a bet?’ said Ted.
‘Yes.’
‘Ach,’ said Ted. ‘I’m good living. I don’t gamble.’
‘Oh,’ said Israel. He knew that in fact Ted did gamble; the week of the Cheltenham Gold Cup he’d talked about nothing else. Israel had had to cover for him every day. Then again, Ted also claimed he didn’t drink. And didn’t smoke. And he did. And he did.
‘I don’t gamble,’ repeated Ted. ‘Unless I know I’m going to win.’
‘Ha ha,’ said Israel.
Israel could see a glint in Ted’s eye.
‘A bet,’ Ted said to himself. ‘The van to win the…What did you call it?’
‘Concours D’Elégance.’
‘Concord De Elephants,’ repeated Ted.
‘That’s it,’ said Israel.
‘Are ye serious?’
‘Yes, absolutely I’m serious.’
Israel could see Ted thinking through the proposition. ‘Well?’ he said gingerly.
‘I tell you what, son,’ said Ted, pausing dramatically. Big pause. ‘Seeing as you’ve asked.’ Another pause. ‘You’re on.’
‘No. Really? Honestly?’
‘Yes,’ said Ted.
‘Really?’ said Israel.
‘I said yes.’
‘Great!’ said Israel. ‘How much? A couple of pounds?’
‘Couple of pounds!’ said Ted, bellowing with laughter. ‘Couple of pounds! Ach, ye’re a quare geg. No, no, no. No. If I’m going all the way over to the mainland I want to get my money’s worth out of you. We’ll do it properly. I’ll get JP to open up a book on it.’
‘JP?’
‘The bookie on Main Street. He’ll see us right.’
‘Erm.’
‘Yer bet’s definitely on now; ye’re not going to back out?’
‘No. Definitely. Absolutely,’ said Israel. ‘Game on.’
‘You don’t want to change yer mind?’
‘Nope.’
‘Ye know ye don’t back out of a bet, now?’
‘Quite.’
Ted reached a hand across. ‘Five hundred pounds,’ said Ted.
‘Five hundred pounds!’ said Israel.
‘You’re right,’ said Ted. ‘Five hundred’s not enough. One thousand says we win the…What did you call it?’
‘Concours D’Elégance. But I haven’t got one thousand pounds, Ted. The van’s not worth a thousand pounds.’
‘I thought you wanted a bet?’
‘I do, but—’
‘Aye, right, that’s typical, so it is. You’re trying to wriggle out of it now.’
‘No, I am not trying to wriggle out of it.’
‘Ach, you are, so you are. Ye’re not prepared to put your money where your mouth is. Typical Englishman.’
‘I am not trying to wriggle out of it, Ted.’
‘Well, then, are youse in, or are youse out?’
‘All right,’ said Israel, trying to suppress a grin. ‘One thousand pounds says you won’t win the Concours D’Elégance at this year’s Mobile Meet.’ He knew his money was safe.
The rest of the journey continued in silence, with Israel elated and exhausted from his negotiations and Ted already planning the few little tweaks and alterations he needed to get the van into top condition. Eventually, Ted pulled up outside the Devines’ farm, where Israel was a lodger, and Israel clambered down wearily from the van.
‘Hey!’ called Ted, as Israel was about to shut the door. ‘Did ye not forget something?’
‘No,’ said Israel, patting his pockets, patting the seat. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘I think you did,’ said Ted.
