George couldn't hear her. 'What did you say?'

'Zelda, she was like Katharine Hepburn.'

George looked sceptical. 'I was too young to remember, Auntie.'

'Oh well. She was. She taught me everything I know, you know.'

George snorted.

'About what?' asked Israel.

'Och, you know, the way of the world,' Minnie laughed.

George snorted again.

'She taught me how to smoke: I hadn't even thought of smoking before.'

'You don't need someone to teach you how to smoke, do you?' asked Israel.

'Of course you do, if you're a lady. It's different if you're a fella. It's not as easy as it looks. You have to look bored, you know, if you're a lady, that's what she always said.'

'Right.'

'And you have to cock your head when someone's talking, like you're taking an interest in them. Feminine wiles, isn't it. She used to get it out of all these magazines, you know.'

'What happened after she was a model?'

'Well, she got married, and they lived all over-down south and what have you. Her husband had this canteen business, very successful. Supplying places across the border. And then her husband passed on…you know.'

'No.'

'Her husband was an RUC reservist,' said George. 'He was killed in his car. Shot in the back of the head.'

'Oh, God.'

'She was there in the car with him,' she added.

'God. That's terrible.'

'Och, well…' said Minnie, as if someone witnessing their husband being murdered in their car were the equivalent of catching a bad dose of the flu.

'How did she cope with that?'

'Same as everyone,' said George bitterly. 'She coped.'

'I had no idea.'

'Well, anyway,' said Minnie briskly. 'Sure, it was a long time ago.'

Zelda had gone to the front of the restaurant and was motioning for Israel to join her. But Israel did not move from his seat: he was thinking about Zelda's husband. Minnie prodded him. Then Ted and John Feely Boyd hoisted him up and out of the seat and up to the front, to the sound of much clapping and cheering.

He stood sheepishly in front of the counter, next to Zelda.

'Speech!' came the cry. 'Speech!'

'I really don't want to,' Israel whispered to Zelda.

'Don't be silly, boy,' said Zelda. 'And stand up straight,' she hissed. Israel noticed lipstick on her teeth. 'Come on! Smile! This is your moment.'

'Up!' she said. 'Head up!'

'Well,' said Israel.

'Speak up!' shouted someone from the back of the room. 'We can't hear you.'

Someone brought a chair for him to stand on.

'Well,' said Israel again, getting up on the chair.

'We still can't hear you!'

'Sorry,' said Israel.

'Stop apologising!' boomed the Reverend Roberts, to peals of laughter.

'Well,' started Israel again, more loudly and confidently, but wobbling slightly.

'Mind! You'll hurt yerself,' called Minnie.

Israel steadied himself.

'Sure he's nothing left to hurt,' said Ted, to more laughter.

'Well,' began Israel again, prodding his glasses, and trying to get a word in edgeways. 'I just want to say thank you to all of you for tolerating my presence among you for the past few weeks. It has been a…er…steep learning curve.'

'Steeper for us!' shouted Linda Wei.

'I am particularly grateful to Linda,' continued Israel, with some irony. 'And also to Ted. And to Zelda and Minnie, for arranging this lovely evening.'

He hadn't rehearsed a speech. He thought for a minute that he would say something about how libraries were important to communities, how they brought people together, and represented all that was good about mankind's striving for knowledge and self-understanding. But then he changed his mind. There was no point him telling people what they already knew. Also, unexpectedly, he found himself getting rather choked up as he spoke. So he just said a quick thanks and got down off the chair. He had to dab a few tears from his eye.

There was a rousing chorus of 'For he's a jolly good fellow!' and then a long couple of hours of banter and drinking, although of course Israel stuck strictly to the Shloer, having learnt his lesson now several times over, and eventually most everyone had gone and said their goodbyes-a lot of handshakes, and manly bear-hugs also from Ted and the Reverend Roberts-and then Israel stepped outside alone into the cold night air.

There was the bus stop and the concrete bus shelter, and the big empty flowerbeds, and the war memorial featuring the unknown soldier, whose rifle and whose plaque had long ago turned green, and the churches, and the shops, and the seagulls picking litter: the town centre just the same as usual, deserted now except for a few parked cars and the mobile library, which was sitting big and bold and proud as you like outside Zelda's, underneath a street light, the sea off in the distance, and hills to either side.

Israel went up to the van, to the rusty creamy red flanks of the van, and patted her, as though patting the rear of a cow-something he must have seen Ted do dozens of times, but not something that he himself had ever before had either the urge or intention to do, but which suddenly seemed to come naturally-and he opened her up and got into the driver's seat.

'Well, old girl,' he said to no one except himself and the van. 'Here we go.'

He drove out past the edge of town then, past Ted's Cabs and the First and Last, and up round onto the coast road, past the sign that said WATCH FOR FALLING ROCKS, past the grey exposed cliff face on the one side and the dark black sea on the other, following the coil of the road, sometimes high above the sea and sometimes right alongside, through the thin little patches of wood, dipping down and along through the pools of leaves and the run-off from the little gullies and streams that flowed down into all the blackness and nothingness below.

He drove over the bridge up by the Devines', and as he hit the bump and came down the van felt different; it felt heavier somehow. Israel reasoned it was maybe heaviness of heart. He couldn't honestly say that he'd come to love this place, and he couldn't honestly say he'd come to love the people, but…well, maybe it was just because he was leaving; he was the sort of person, after all, who could get nostalgic about yesterday's breakfast.

He thought he'd better check though, just in case it was a real rather than a merely sentimental or imaginary problem with the van, and he pulled over just by the second furze, where he'd made his first pick-up, and glanced around.

The shelves were in now: Dennis had fitted them the past few days, and they were beautiful; you could see the grain even in the moonlight. Linda Wei had gone absolutely mad at first when Israel had told her about the cost of the shelves-she had exploded, a quake of Pringles and Diet Coke-but then soon after he'd been hailed as a local hero and she'd calmed down. So the shelves were a success; the shelves looked great.

And now, tonight, on every one of those beautiful grainy shelves there were books-hardbacks, paperbacks, sitting like old friends gazing down at him in silent amusement.

They were back.

Israel pushed his glasses up high onto his forehead and swallowed hard.

Someone…Someone must have stocked the van while he was in Zelda's saying his goodbyes. The library was full. It was…It was…Well, it was unbelievable.

By the time he drove back to Zelda's the party was over. The last of the parked cars had gone. There was no one around. The door was still open though and he went through the restaurant, calling out-'Zelda! Minnie!'-past the tables-'Zelda! Minnie!'-past the counter-'Zelda! Minnie!'-past boxes in the hallway and on into the parlour. His voice died out. There was no one around.

He went back into the hallway and stood at the bottom of the stairs and called out, more quietly. 'Zelda? Minnie?'