He wandered over, pulled open the heavy door, and picked up the phone. He’d forgotten how heavy the handsets were, and how cold and gray. But miraculously, to his surprise, there was a dial tone: the phone was working.
He jangled the change in his pocket, just like he would when he was fifteen and desperate to talk to Leah, and he wondered for a moment whom he might possibly ring. Just for old times’ sake.
He could ring Leah, of course, but he’d no idea what had become of her. She’d gone to university and that was that. Had disappeared, in the way that people do. She was probably married by now. Career. Children. All the things that Israel had somehow failed to achieve. He feared it might be a rather one-sided conversation. A near-thirty-year-old man couldn’t really go around ringing up ex-girlfriends: it was weird. Leah existed now only in his mind. For a moment he thought he could smell her revolting, come-hitherish pineapple lip gloss.
There was always Gloria, of course. He could ring Gloria.
No need.
He found these days he only thought about Gloria once or twice a day.
Or, actually, maybe six or seven times.
Or a dozen.
In fact, he thought about Gloria all the time, even though they hadn’t actually spoken since he’d left London with Ted, months ago. When he’d arrived safely back in Ireland she’d sent him a single, solitary text, which read, “Sorry. Plse do not get in touch. Hope you understand.” He didn’t, and he’d tried ringing hundreds of times, but she was obviously screening his calls and never picked up. He’d tried writing letters. “Dear Gloria,” he would begin. “I am writing to you to…” but that was no good. It sounded as if he were writing to a solicitor asking about a point of probate. And “Dear Gloria, So?” Or “Dear Gloria, Why?” He just couldn’t find the words. She had struck him dumb.
He definitely wasn’t going to ring Gloria.
He rang the number.
And before he knew what was happening someone had picked up, and Israel was frantically pushing money into the slot and saying, breathlessly, “Hello, Gloria?”
“No,” said a man’s voice.
“Oh.” He couldn’t quite place the voice. “Who’s that?”
“Can I help you?”
“Yes. Can I speak to Gloria, please?”
The voice said, witheringly, “Who’s calling?”
“My name’s Israel. I’m a…friend of Gloria’s.”
Israel detected a slight pause, and the voice said, “I’ll just check if she’s here.”
He could hear voices in the background.
He stared deeply into the Plexiglas of the phone booth and thought about Gloria in the flat-their flat-and the mystery of this man’s voice. He had no idea…And then suddenly he did have an idea. He recognized the voice. It wasn’t anything he’d said; they’d only spoken for a moment. It was the intonation, the smart-arse, singsonging, pleading, wheedling intonation of a Bill Clinton or a Tony Blair or Bing bloody Crosby crooning his way carefully up and down and between the scales. It was Danny, his old friend from school. Danny! Danny the lecturer. Danny the author of the book Postmodern Allegories. Danny, a complete fraud and a show-off and an arrogant, selfish shit who thought Foucault was a major twentieth-century thinker…Danny, who was…what? Visiting?
Israel slammed the phone down and walked back to the van, leaned up against the front of it, took a deep breath, hung his head, and gave out a long, low moan of “No!”
At which point, Ted sauntered back from the toilet.
“Need the toilet?” said Ted.
“No,” said Israel, breathing deeply.
“Ye sure?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“All right, then, ye set?”
Israel was staring down at his broken-down brogues, his head resting against the cool flank of the mobile library.
“Hello?” said Ted. “Wakey wakey! Time to go?”
“Sorry,” said Israel. “What did you say?”
“Have you taken the strunt or what?”
“Taken the-”
“Strunt, for goodness’ sake. Somebody said something that’s upset ye?”
“No. I’m fine. I just feel a bit…queasy, that’s all.”
“Aye, well, whatever it is, ye’ll get over it.”
“I don’t know if I will, actually.”
“Aye, right. Heard it all before. Let’s get on. I want to be back home for my tea tonight, and I’ve choir practice later.”
“Right.”
Ted walked round to the passenger side of the van.
“What are you doing?” said Israel. “Where are you going?”
“You’re driving, remember?” said Ted.
“What?”
“Half and half is what we agreed.”
“Yes, but-”
“And I’ve already done more than my share.”
“Actually, Ted, I’m feeling a little bit…”
“Aye, right,” said Ted, walking back beside Israel, shaking his head. “I might have known. Always the blinkin’ same with you, isn’t it, eh?”
“No.”
“Aye. Ye shirker.”
“I am not a shirker.”
“Could have fooled me,” said Ted.
“I don’t mind driving,” said Israel, becoming agitated.
“Aye, right.”
“No, really, it’s fine, I’ll-”
“I’ll drive,” said Ted, walking round the other side of the van, toward the driver’s side.
“No, I’ll drive,” said Israel, catching up with him.
“I said, I’ll drive!” said Ted.
“I don’t-”
“Shut up and go and sit down,” said Ted. “And stop mucking me about. Ye give me the jandies, so you do.”
“The whatties?”
“Ach!”
Israel went and sat miserably in the passenger seat while Ted got back into the driver’s seat.
“Sorry,” said Israel, “I just-”
“I don’t want your apologies,” said Ted, starting up the engine and slamming the van into reverse. “I don’t know…What’s the point of having a dog and barking yerself, eh?”
“What?”
“Nothing. It’s a saying, just.”
“Right, well, I-”
“One of yer headaches, is it?” said Ted, without sounding in any way sympathetic.
“No, it’s…”
“Ye’d only be deedlin’ along at ten miles an hour, anyway.”
“Deedling?” said Israel.
“That’s right,” said Ted, flooring the accelerator as he pulled back out onto the main road.
“Is that a word?”
“Of course it’s a word. I just said it, didn’t I?”
“Is it a proper word, though?” said Israel.
“What do you think?”
“Well, I don’t know. I’ve just never heard it before. It’s like jandies, and-”
“What, ye’ve heard every word in the English language, have ye, Professor?”