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.

'Mmm,' said Brownie, tucking in. 'Thanks, Granda.'

'Yes, thank you,' said Israel. 'This looks…lovely.'

Brownie was already eating.

'Grace!' said the old man.

'Sorry, Granda.'

'May the Lord Bless This Food to Us.'

'Amen,' said Brownie.

'Amen,' said Israel.

The two Irishmen tucked in.

'Erm. Could you just give me a guide here?'

'Mmm,' said Brownie, his mouth full. 'Yes, sorry. Pork chop.'

'Right.'

'Sausages.'

'Yep.'

'Bacon. Black pudding.'

'White pudding,' added the old man.

Israel had forgotten to mention that he was a vegetarian: maybe now was not the time.

'And that's potato bread,' said Brownie, pointing out a cardboardy squarey thing.

'Ah, right,' said Israel, delighted-something he could eat. 'Yes, I know potato bread. Lovely. My father'd call it boxty.'

'Really?'

'Yes. He was Irish, my dad.'

'Really?'

'Yes.'

'Wow,' said Brownie, in between mouthfuls. 'So it's like coming home for you really?'

'Erm. Yes. Kind of. I never made it over with him when he was alive-'

'Ah,' said the old man, as if this explained something. 'Boxty, is it? The auld Free State,' he said, to himself.

'And this,' continued Brownie, 'is soda bread.'

'Yes, of course,' said Israel, his fork poised over a hard, pointy, blackened, fat-soaked triangle.

'And where would your late father have hung his hat on a Sunday, if you wouldn't mind me asking?' said the old man, with an apparent lick of the lips.

'Sorry?' said Israel.

'Would he have been of the Catholic persuasion?'

'Well,' said Israel, hovering over a bursting pork sausage. 'You see, my mother's Jewish so-'

'Ah,' said the old man again, as if all the pieces were falling into place. 'Consider Abraham.'

'Sorry?' said Israel. The bacon looked pretty good too actually.

'He believed God and it was credited to him as righteousness.'

'I see.'

'Galatians.'

'Leave him alone, Granda. It's only seven o'clock in the morning.'

'Watch therefore: for ye know not what hour your Lord doth come.'

Israel pushed the bacon and sausage around on his plate, warding off temptation and damnation and started in on the soda bread and potato bread.

'So how are you finding things so far?' asked Brownie, polishing off a wide, glistening disc of black pudding.

'Erm.'

'You can be honest. It's a culture shock. I get it every time I come home. You're probably already missing good coffee and cinemas and-'

'Bagels.'

'Precisely.'

'Bookshops.'

'There you are. But you get used to it.'

'Do you?'

'Sure. Of course.'

'I don't think I want to get used to it.'

'It has its advantages.'

'Really? Like what?'

Israel was having to mash the soda bread in brown sauce in order to soften it enough to be edible.

'It's quiet. You can get a lot of reading done.'

'Well. Yes. That's one good thing, I suppose.' He took a mouthful of brown and black mush: it wasn't bad. 'I'm only going to be here a few weeks anyway, just to get things up and running and what have you.'

'Oh,' said Brownie, finishing off a pale fried egg. 'I thought you were a permanent appointment.'

'Well. You know,' said Israel, tapping his nose. 'I've got a few things lined up back home in London.'

'Yes. Of course. It'll be more like a wee holiday for you really then.'

'Yes. That's what people keep telling me.'

The old man scowled in his Union Jack apron at his end of the table. 'When are yous reopening up the library then?' he asked, mopping up brown sauce with a slice of wheaten bread.

'Well,' said Israel automatically. 'The actual library has closed, I'm afraid, sir. We are, though, shortly going to be relaunching the mobile library…'

Israel was amazed to find himself suddenly speaking on behalf of the Department of Entertainment, Leisure and Community Services: proof, he realised, if it were needed, of the thesis of Daniel Goldhagen's Hitler's Willing Executioners.

'Disgrace,' said the old man. 'Young people today-'

'That's fantastic,' interrupted Brownie.

'I'm glad you're excited about it,' said Israel. 'There's not any more of the soda bread, by any chance, is there?'

'No,' said the old man.

'Right. Never mind.'

'I'd never have managed my exams without the old mobile library,' said Brownie. 'They should never have got rid of it. It was a lifeline. I was stuck up here all the time with my sister.'

'George?'

'That's right.'

'So she basically runs the farm then?'

'Yep. That's her idea of fun.'

'Right.'

'Not mine though,' said Brownie, finishing his final sausage.

There was a funny smell permeating the kitchen, Israel noticed. Animals, no doubt: he sensed dogs.

'D'you not want that?' asked the old man, pointing to Israel's uneaten pile of black-fried pig parts.

'No. I'm absolutely-' Israel patted his 'Niggers With Attitude' T-shirted stomach, and before he could finish his sentence the old man had whipped the plate away from him and was scraping Israel's leftovers onto his own.

'That was great, thanks, Granda,' said Brownie.

'Keep us going another half hour,' agreed the old man.

'What have you got planned for today then, Israel?'

'That's a good question. I've…Sorry, can you smell something?'

Brownie and Israel both glanced then simultaneously at the Rayburn, where Israel's trousers were quietly scorching on a hotplate.

'Oh shit!' shouted Israel.

'Excuse me!' said the old man.

'My!…'

Brownie had already whipped the trousers off the hotplate and thrown them in the sink.

'…Trousers.'

'Sorry,' said Brownie.

'That's…OK,' said Israel. He fished inside the pockets of his burnt, soaking, manured trousers and took out a couple of handfuls of slightly crinkled credit and debit cards and some wet paper and started to separate them out on the table-top.

'My cards,' said Israel.

'You'll have to get new ones,' agreed Brownie, as Israel held up a far too flexible credit card.

'Oh, God.' He paused then for a moment and took a large gulp of his cold tea. 'All my instructions from Linda.'

'Oh dear. Can you remember what it is you're supposed to be doing today?'

'Erm. I'm supposed to be meeting Ted, I think, at the library.'

'Ted Carson?' said Brownie.

'The Big Wee Man,' said the old man.

'Yeah.'

'Yeah, of course, right,' said Brownie. 'He used to be the driver of the library, didn't he, Granda, do you remember, until they stopped the service?'

'Aye.'

'Have you met Ted then, Israel?'

'Yes,' said Israel, restraining his 'alas'. 'He gave me a lift here last night.'

'Aye. He was a tight wee fighter in his time,' said the old man. 'Rough enough and damn the scars. Terrible temper on him.'

'I guess he'll be showing you the ropes,' said Brownie.

'I guess so,' said Israel, wishing now he'd had a sausage.