17

While he drove to pick up Ted, Israel listened, as he always listened, to the news on BBC Radio Ulster. And, as always, it made no real sense to him: it was like news from some pointless elsewhere.

Except, alas, this pointless elsewhere was here.

“I was ten months’ pregnant,” a woman was saying.

“Ten months’ pregnant?” said Israel back to the radio.

“And I’m standing there, ten months’ pregnant, crying and gurning,” continued the woman, “and the traffic warden was horrible to me, so he was. I had to ring my mummy, and she had to come and get me. And me ten months’ pregnant. It’s a disgrace, so it is.”

“And now the farming update,” said the presenter. “Charolaises are up. Hoggets are down-”

“Oh god,” said Israel, to no one.

He drove as quickly as he could round the coast road to Ted’s house, which sat looking out to sea and the A2. He parked, took a deep breath, and knocked at the door.

When Ted eventually opened the door, Israel was surprised by a strong waft of…what seemed to be curry. Which was not a smell he associated with Ted. It was not at all an unpleasant smell. In fact-since he’d rather got into the habit of skipping breakfast-Israel found the smell rather piqued his morning appetite.

“Mmm,” he said.

“What do ye want?” said the curiously currified Ted, who was wearing his apron. He had a tea towel over his shoulder, and his Jack Russell terrier at his feet.

“Woof!” said the dog.

“Quiet,” said Ted.

“What are you cooking?” asked Israel. “It smells like-”

“Curry,” said Ted. “You’ve had enough of yer lady friend then, have ye?”

“Yes, thank you,” said Israel.

“Ach, she’s a false face if ever there was one.”

“Do you think?”

“Ach. Wise up. Ye wouldn’t trust her with one half of a bad potato.”

“Well, no one’s asking you to trust her with a half of a bad potato.”

“Good. Because I wouldn’t,” said Ted.

“Fine.”

“Not even one half of a half.”

“A quarter,” said Israel.

“Exactly,” said Ted.

“Anyway,” said Israel. “Lovely to see you. As always. Are you ready?”

“For what?”

“For work.”

“Aye, well,” said Ted, “ye were that late I’d given up on ye. Thought ye’d mebbe decided to take to your sickbed again.”

“Sorry,” said Israel. “I was at the doctor’s.”

“The doctor’s?”

“Yes.”

“What in God’s name’s where ye doing at the doctor’s?”

“I had to get a sick note for Linda.”

“Why?” said Ted. “Is she not well?”

“No, for me.”

“Aye. Right. What, ye looking to swing the leg again, are ye?”

“No,” said Israel. “I need a sick note for when I was off last week.”

“Ah, well. Where’d ye go? The health center?”

“Yes.”

“Who’d ye see?”

“Dr. Withers?”

“Ach, for goodness’ sake. What d’ye go and see him for?”

“I didn’t have a choice.”

“He’s a complete header.”

“Really?”

“Aye. Of course. They’re all the same. He give you anything for it?”

“For what?”

“For the stress and strain of being Israel Armstrong?”

“Yes, he did actually.”

“Good. Mind ye, much longer ye won’t be need of it.”

“Why not?”

“’Cause ye’ll have disappeared completely. Sight of ye! Good feed’s what ye need, never mind medicine.”

“Anyway,” said Israel. “Much as I enjoy your hilarious craic and banter, Ted, shall we go? Are you ready?”

“Do I look ready?” said Ted, indicating his apron and tea towel.

“No…Not really.”

“Well then. I need to turn off my curry.”

“Shall I come in and wait?” asked Israel.

Ted huffed.

“It is quite cold out here, actually,” said Israel, putting on his best shivery face.

Ted huffed again but allowed him to enter.

“Mmm,” said Israel as he stepped across the threshold and the curry wafts became all-embracing waves. “That really is curry.”

“Aye,” said Ted. “And what’s wrong with curry?”

“Nothing. I like curry.”

“Good. Because you’re not having any.”

“No, I don’t want any, it’s fine,” said Israel. “But do you often have curry for breakfast?”

“It’s for my tea, ye eejit. D’ye not plan ahead?”

Israel didn’t, actually, plan ahead at all. Gloria had always planned ahead. She worked out everything in accordance with a great scheme-as if she had been born with a ready reckoner in one hand and a five-year day-to-view diary in the other. Gloria planned not just weeks or months but years in advance. If she wanted to be doing something in, say, two years’ time, she simply worked backward, step by step to the present, and worked it into a grid. It was like the mind of God. If God was a highly organized young lawyer. Which, clearly, he wasn’t. What God needed was a wife. God needed Gloria. So did Israel. If he’d planned ahead properly he’d be living in a brownstone in Brooklyn, going for breakfast with Paul Auster. He certainly wouldn’t be picking up Ted in a mobile library van in the middle of the middle of nowhere and discussing his curry making.

“Good idea,” he said wistfully. “Planning ahead.”

“It’s not exactly rocket science,” said Ted.

“No,” said Israel. “I didn’t really have you down as a curry kind of a man, though.”

“Aye, well you might want to reexamine your prejudices, then, eh?”

Ted disappeared into his kitchen. Israel followed. The kitchen was spotless and ancient: a shrine to wipe-clean Formica. There was a small table in the middle of the room, set neatly with breakfast things: a loaf of bread, butter, jam, a brown teapot.

“Sorry to hear about yer man Pearce,” said Ted, dessert-spooning up a testing mouthful of curry.

“Yes,” said Israel.

“When’s the funeral?” said Ted, shaking corrective pepper into the pot.

“Friday, I think.”

“Is the house open?”

“How do you mean?”

“So people can call in and pay their respects.”

“I don’t know,” said Israel.

“I tell ye what,” said Ted, spooning a second testing mouthful of curry.

“What?” said Israel.

“Perfect!” said Ted, referring to the curry. “It’s a reminder to us all, isn’t it?”

“What is?”

“Yer man Pearce. If ye can put yer elbows out in the morning and ye don’t touch wood, ye’re doing OK.”

“What?”

“If ye…Never mind. Anyway,” said Ted. “While I get myself ready, could ye-”

But Israel was over at the stove inspecting the curry.

“The smell’s lovely,” he said. “How do you make your curry?”

“How do ye think?” said Ted.

“I don’t know. I’ve never made curry,” said Israel.

“Never made curry.” Ted shook his head, as though this confession was tantamount to admitting to never having had a bath. Israel hadn’t had a bath recently either, actually.

“Do you have a recipe?”

“I do not,” said Ted, appalled.

“Is it lamb?” said Israel, peering in.

“Mincemeat,” said Ted. “Half a pound of mincemeat, some carrots, some onions. Potatoes.”

“Really?”

“Aye.”

“It doesn’t sound like curry, actually,” said Israel.

“Does it not?”

“No,” said Israel. “That sounds more like shepherd’s pie.”

“And then I add some curry powder,” said Ted.

“Ah.”

“Curry,” said Ted decisively, turning off the heat and putting a lid over the saucepan.

Before his recent listlessness Israel’s repertoire had been slowly expanding. He had perfected a number of simple recipes: sautéed mushroom on toast, tomatoes on toast, cheese on toast, cream cheese on toast, beans on toast. He was particularly fond of toast flavored lightly with salt and pepper. It was, admittedly, a largely toast-based repertoire, but it served its purpose. It was all going well until the toaster broke: it was a blow to him. There was a burning smell, and the toaster stopped working. He’d changed the fuse. No good. It must have been the element. He didn’t know how to fix the element.