The Delegates' Choice aka The Book Stops Here

17

They were driving back through England in silence.

Driving through England meant nothing.

Driving through England felt to Israel like driving through his own loss and ignorance. He understood nothing about England. In Israel's mind, calling himself an Englishman meant taking no notice of what it meant to be English. His identity as an Englishman was non-existent. Yet he had no other national identity: he was hardly European. And he certainly wasn't Irish. He was, notionally, Jewish, but he had effectively reduced all his allegiances down to himself. And now, without Gloria, he was not even a couple. He was an example only of himself. There was nothing to be elaborated or extrapolated from him: he was Israel Armstrong, and that was all.

'Ye're thinking very loudly,' said Ted. 'Ye want to stop yer blertin' there. I can't hear me own ears here.'

'What?'

'Something on yer mind?'

'Mmm.'

'Ye're thinking about?'

'The future,' said Israel.

'What about it?'

'I despair of the future.'

'Well, it speaks very highly of you,' said Ted.

'Let's go home,' said Israel.

'You are home,' said Ted.

'Not anymore,' said Israel.

'I don't know what ye're coming back for. Ye'll be resigning anyway, when we get back, eh?'

'I guess.'

'Shall we stop off at a service station for a coffee and something to eat?' said Israel's mother. 'Watford Gap?'