Israel, embarrassed, bent down.
'That'll do, then,' said Dennis. 'What do you want them in, Ted?'
'I don't know,' said Ted. 'You know the council. They're going to want the cheapest, aren't they?'
'MDF then?'
'Aye, I s'pose.'
'You'd be better with something a wee bit more sturdy, like,' said Dennis, 'Even for the look of it just.'
'Aye, I know, but.'
'D'you want to come in the workshop, have a look at what I've got? I've maybe something recyclable.'
Dennis's workshop was a red brick outbuilding behind the tower, stuffed to overflowing, literally stuffed to overflowing, stuff coming out of the doors and windows, like it was making an escape for the wild across the gravelly yard: old broken-down bits of furniture, and tables, and chairs, and picture frames, and window frames, and doors, and planks, anything wooden, like something out of Walt Disney's Fantasia. Inside there was an overpowering smell of polish and sawdust.
'This is like an Aladdin's cave,' said Israel, noticing cartwheels and a rocking horse, and a couple of old shop display cabinets.
'Everybody says that.'
'Oh, sorry.'
'It's all right. It is like Aladdin's cave. I just get used to it, I suppose.'
'What's it all for? Do you collect it?'
'Ach, no. I do a bit of conservation, like. Restoration. You know.'
'Right,' said Israel.
'D'you have any waney-edge?' asked Ted, who was poking around in a pile of logs. 'Just, I'm thinking of putting up a wee bit of fencing, for the dog.'
'Maybe somewhere, Ted. I'll have to look around.'
'Right enough.'
'Here's the planks but,' said Dennis, pointing to a row of old and seasoned timber stacked against the wall.
'That oak?' said Ted, pointing to a beautiful big golden plank with silvery flashes.
'Aye,' said Dennis. 'That was off of a trawler I think, down County Down.'
'Lovely that, isn't it, Israel?' said Ted.
Israel did his best to show enthusiasm for the old plank. 'Mmm,' he said. 'Yes. That's lovely.'
'We've got more oak here,' said Dennis, moving along the row of planks, running his hand across the wood. 'More oak. Elm. Mahogany. Teak. Walnut. Ash. There's cupping on some, but, so you wouldn't get the full length.'
'Cupping?' said Israel.
'A wee bit bowed, just,' said Dennis. 'Well?'
'What do you think?' Israel asked Ted.
'You're the boss,' said Ted. 'But in my opinion-I'm biased, mind-the old girl deserves the best.'
In the end, with Dennis's guidance and Ted's encouragement, Israel chose some old beech which had apparently originally graced the floor of a dance hall down in Belfast that Ted had once been to: it certainly had a beautiful grain. And it was considerably more expensive than the MDF.
'You'll square that with Linda then, will you, Israel?' said Ted.
'Oh yes,' said Israel. 'I think I can handle Linda.'
'Aye,' said Ted. 'Ah'm sure.'
Before they left, Dennis fetched a carrier bag full of books from the tower.
'Blimey,' said Ted when Dennis handed them over. 'What have you got in there?'
'It's art monographs, mainly,' said Dennis. 'And I threw in a few spares in case. Exhibition catalogues and what have you.'
'Great,' said Israel. 'That's brilliant.'
'Have those shelves for you beginning of next week, Ted,' said Dennis.
'Aye. Right enough,' said Ted. 'Bye then.'
'This is you then. I'll set you down here,' said Ted, about ten minutes after they'd left Dennis. 'Last call. You're doing it yerself, remember? I've to get on to the BB. I'll drop the van in to the farm later.'
'Oh, yes. Sure.'
Israel went to get out of the van.
'It's just up yonder there. And when you're done, look, it's back down here and left down the rodden there, and you'll be back at the farm in ten minutes.'
'Right. OK. Whose house is this then?'
'Pearce Pyper, he's called. You'll like him. He's more your sort.'
'What's that supposed to mean?'
'Well, you know, he's a bit…'
'What?'
'Ach, Israel, I don't know. Nyiffy-nyaffy.'
'What? What does that mean?'
'It's a-'
'Saying?'
'Right. Bye! See you Monday.' And Ted leant over, pulled the door shut, and drove off.
Approaching Pearce Pyper's house up the long gravel drive in the dusk, Israel was immediately struck by what appeared to be examples of very, very bad decommissioned public art: large chunks of painted concrete lined the driveway, like giant discarded baubles, and there were also driftwood sculptures, resembling large, soft, melted Greek statues, and then closer towards the house were what appeared to be wonky totem poles set at intervals along the driveway, their wings and arms outstretched in welcome and benediction, bulbous, beastly heads nodding at the visitor's approach. It was like walking into a Native American reservation, except the totem poles seemed to have been crafted out of old railway sleepers rather than giant native sequoias, and fixed together with carriage bolts, and screws and nails, and painted with thick exterior gloss. The trees that flanked these curious, echt sculptures had been variously pleached, espaliered and cordoned, giving them the appearance of having been shaped out of old scraps of tanalised timber rather than having actually grown up naturally from the earth.
If the approach to the house was a little unusual, the house itself, when Israel finally reached it, was in comparison a welcome reassurance and really only in the mildest degree eccentric: an example of the late nineteenth-century baronial extended and renovated by someone with an interest in thirteenth-century Moorish palaces, and the Arts and Crafts movement, and Le Corbusier, and fretwork DIY. There was much use of rusted metal and carved oak, and palm trees, and concrete-rendered empty space. What was amazing was that it worked, after a fashion. It was a house that seemed to reflect the inner workings of a human mind, and the gardens surrounding the house did the same: there was black bamboo growing out of huge concrete boulders; and giant carved heads set with gaping mouths, half human, and half Wotan, spitting out ivy; and dozens of topiaried shrubs, perfect little nymphs and huntsmen and hares cavorting along the tops of hedges and the lawn in a shrubby kind of dance; and huge mosaic containers shaped like women bearing mosaic containers shaped like women bearing mosaic containers; and a pond shaped like a DNA double helix, its surface brilliant with algae. There was richness of colour and variety everywhere you looked, and over-sized, frivolous, brilliant plants, and for all the apparent chaos Israel had to admit it was one of the most beautiful, composed gardens he had ever seen: it was a pure act of human wilfulness and exuberance; it was the work of an artist.
Israel pulled at the big chain doorbell at the front door, which rang ominously. The big oak door was open, and there were cardboard boxes piled up inside the hall. But no one came. So Israel called out.
'Hello? Hello? Anybody in?'
He didn't like this at alclass="underline" calling unannounced at people's houses with Ted he'd found difficult enough; it seemed like bad manners. Back in London, if you wanted to see someone you texted or rang at least a week in advance and left a message on their mobile. Turning up at people's houses on spec in a beaten-up old van with Ted to collect library books was not what he'd imagined he'd be doing when he took on the job in Tumdrum: he felt like a book-vigilante, which is exactly how they'd been treated on some calls. Some places they'd gone to collect the books, children had been sent to answer the door.
'My mum's not in,' the little children would say, although you could clearly see their mums hiding in the kitchen, or in the front room, watching the telly.
'Tell your mum I'm no' the tick man or the coal man,' Ted would say. 'I'm from the library.'
It didn't look as though that approach was going to work on this occasion though, because there was no one around at all. The only sign of recent human activity seemed to be the cardboard boxes in the hall, and a Volvo estate parked outside the house.