'I see.'
'Had to sell ' em all. To survive.'
Israel nodded.
'Developers,' said the old man. 'From down south. And the mainland.' He spoke this last word with some menace. 'Now we've just the fifty. Far barn's gone.'
'Well, I suppose fifty's better than nothing,' said Israel nonsensically.
'Hmm. All George's now. Signed over to her.'
'I see. And how…long have you been farming here yourselves?'
'Since 1698.'
At which point, thankfully, Brownie re-entered the room.
'The boy here prefers his books to proper work,' said the old man, nodding at Brownie.
'Right,' said Israel, struggling to find some possible change of subject, his agricultural chat having proved predictably inadequate. 'Are you a student then?'
'Yep,' agreed Brownie, proffering a T-shirt, and trousers and socks, and a towel.
'Thanks. What are you studying?'
'Philosophy actually.'
'Oh right. My goodness. Very good. Where?'
'Cambridge.'
'Oh really? I was at Oxford.'
'Wow. What college?'
'It was the, er, other place actually.'
'What?'
'Oxford Brookes.'
'Oh, right. Is that the old poly?'
'Yes. Yes, it is…'
'It's got a very good reputation, hasn't it?'
'Yes…'
Israel quickly changed the subject, his less than illustrious academic career not being a subject he wished to dwell upon: he should have got a 2:1 at least.
'Can I change into these somewhere?'
'Aye. Come on.'
'And I wondered if you had a telephone I could use at all. My mobile…'
'Ach, aye, the coverage here is terrible.'
'Yes.'
'No problem.'
'And, er, sorry to be a bother and everything…'
'Yes?'
'But you wouldn't have any headache tablets at all, would you?'
'Granda?' said Brownie.
'What?'
'Headache tablets, for Israel here. Do we have any?'
'What for?'
'For a headache?'
'I wouldna thought so. We've TCP and some bandages just in the first-aid box.'
'That's no good.'
'It's OK,' said Israel, wishing he'd never brought it up in the first place. 'It's fine.'
'You sure?'
'Syrup of figs?' offered the old man.
'No, thanks. I'll be fine.'
'What's yon other stuff called?'
'What stuff?' said Brownie.
'Collis-Brown. That's it. Bind you rightly.'
'No. It's really OK,' said Israel.
'It'd not do you a button o' harm.'
'He's fine, Granda. Are you sure, Israel?'
'Yes. I'll be fine. And you've not got any-I really don't want to be a pain or anything-but you've not got any Sellotape, have you, by any chance? Just to fix my glasses?'
Israel took out the two halves of his spectacles from his pocket.
'Och dear. What happened there?'
'Well. It's a-'
'I'm sure we could fix them up, Granda, couldn't we? Sellotape or soldering iron or something?'
'Aye. P'rhaps.'
'And after that we'll maybe have some breakfast, Granda? No chance of a fry?'
'Aye.'
'Lovely. And you'll join us for breakfast, Israel, won't you? Room at the trough, Granda?'
'Aye.'
'Well, yes, thank you. That's very kind of you.'
Brownie then showed Israel into a dining room full of dark, miserable, heavy furniture, hung with cobwebs and family pictures, and with a large black Bible on the sideboard, open at the Book of Revelation, and an ancient grey dial telephone next to it. Israel slowly, painfully got changed out of his wet clothes and dried himself off underneath a photograph of men in robes and with drums outside an Orange Hall, looking for all the world as if they were fresh back from a lynching, and then he rang Gloria at home in London.
The phone rang for a long time before it was answered. Israel imagined the sound of it ringing in Gloria's lovely pale satinwood, soft-furnished, little-bit-of-the-Mediterranean-in-the-heart-of-the-city, inspired-by-the-World of Interiors-but-not-slavish-in-the-pursuit-of-fashion flat near Borough Market. He could almost smell the fresh bagels and orange juice.
'Hey!' shouted Israel, relieved and excited when Gloria finally picked up.
'__,' said Gloria indistinctly. It was a bad line.
'It's me,' explained Israel, his voice echoing round the room like a condemned man's in a prison cell.
'__.'
'Israel.'
'__.'
'Shit.'
'__.'
'Sorry. I forgot what time it was-'
'__.'
'I'm sorry.'
'__.'
'I said I was sorry.'
'__.'
'Sorry.'
'__.'
'I know. I tried. There's no coverage here.'
'__.'
'Oh. It was unbelievable.'
'__.'
'It's some farm in the middle of nowhere.'
'__.'
'No, not exactly.'
'__.'
'No. It's not a joke. It's terrible. There are chickens in my bed.'
'__.'
'Right. Yes. Ha, ha.'
'__.'
'No. But that's not the worst of it. You're not going to believe this…'
'__.'
'No, not that. I'm serious. There's no library.'
'__.'
'It's been shut.'
'__.'
'I know they can't.'
'__.'
'They want me to drive a mobile library instead.'
'__.'
'I'm glad you think it's funny.'
'__.'
'Yes, as a replacement.'
'__.'
'No, I told her I wouldn't accept it.'
'__.'
'It's not an opportunity.'
'__.'
'What do you mean? I can hold down a proper job.'
'__.'
'Anyway. I'm coming back in a couple of weeks' time.'
'__.'
'I can.'
'__.'
'No. You don't understand. This isn't a stepping stone. You haven't seen this place.'
'__.'
'Oh. You're not?'
'__.'
'I see. Why, where are you going?'
'__.'
'Right. Well, I'm sure you'll have a great time.'
'__.'
'No, of course not.'
'__.'
'Yes.'
'__.'
'Anyway, what else is happening there?'
'__.'
'Oh, really?'
'__.'
'No. That's great. No, you deserve it.'
'__.'
'Yeah, sure.'
'__.'
'But…'
'__.'
'Yeah, I'll try and ring you later.'
'__.'
'Yep. OK.'
'__.'
'No. I understand.'
'__.'
'Love you.'
'__.'
'OK, yeah. Bye.'
'__.'
'Bye.'
His head hurt.
It was not the most cheering and successful conversation Israel had ever had: discovering that his girlfriend was going skiing with friends on the proceeds of her more-than-generous Christmas bonus, and that there was a possibility she was about to get an unlooked-for but richly deserved promotion, while he was stood listening, shivering in a decrepit farmhouse in the middle of nowhere, staring at photographs of men in bowler hats and sashes with peculiar moustaches and glints in their eyes, while wearing someone else's combat trousers which were too tight and too short, and a hoodie, and a T-shirt saying 'Niggers With Attitude'.
He returned to the kitchen even more depressed than before.
Breakfast was on the table, Brownie and the old man patiently waiting-the old man now decked out in a festive-looking, fat-flecked Union Jack apron.
Israel was starving.
'Sorry I was so long. I…Something smells good.'
'Yep,' said Brownie. 'Clothes all right?'
'Thanks. Yes.'
'Good. Sit down.'
'Here,' said the old man, passing Israel his glasses, which had been fixed with masking tape.
'Thanks,' said Israel politely, putting them back on. 'How do they look?' he asked Brownie.
'Fine,' said Brownie hesitantly.
'They feel a bit…'
'Let's eat,' said Brownie.
Israel adjusted his wonky glasses as best he could.
The plate of food in front of Israel was of such extraordinary, all-encompassing shapes and sizes that it could have fed about a dozen deeply curious meat-eating men-although a vegetarian, alas, might have struggled to find much to interest and sustain him.
'Knock it into you,' said the old man, pouring out mugs of tea.