good. Very good. There was an immediate sensation of light and space. In the ground-floor saloon, three of the walls were covered with pine planking and white plaster; the fourth was in natural brick. The flooring was of a black-and-green chequer pattern. The long, red-topped bar of light and dark wood stretched down much of one side, fronted by its row of bar stools. Along the other walls was the familiar bench seating, with round, glass-topped tables and a few individual chairs in yellow and black. A number of naval prints already hung on the walls; there were also model ships in glass cases, and a larger model of a Britannia airliner suspended as if in flight.
Mr Carter beamed happily. ‘Splendid, isn’t it? You’ll have trouble keeping me away from this place for the next six months. A little bit of Blighty transported over to boring old Bruxelles.’
He led Thomas upstairs. The Britannia was two-storeyed, and the upper floor contained a large reception room for private parties, together with a smaller bar or Exhibitors’ Club. These rooms were carpeted in black and orange, with fixed seating as well as armchairs in black leather. There not being much to see here, Mr Carter took Thomas out onto the projecting upper deck, with its planking in naval fashion, its hand rails, lifebuoys and shaded verandah. From here you could view the whole of the terrace below, soon to be thronged with visitors, strolling between James Gardner’s British Government pavilion and the Industries pavilion, or sitting at tables beneath the brightly coloured sun umbrellas. Beyond, amid the trees, was the ornamental lake, and at its far end a great steel mast pointing proudly but irrelevantly towards the sky.
Mr Carter walked towards the railing at the edge of the verandah and leaned against it, looking out over the lake. Thomas spent a moment or two inspecting the carpentry on the supporting pillars, then joined him.
‘This is going to be some shindig, isn’t it?’ said Carter, gazing across the lake and through the trees on the other side, where more trucks and lorries could be seen trundling backwards and forwards along the Avenue des Trembles . ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything quite like it.’ He turned to Thomas. ‘Cigarette?’
‘Very decent of you, old man.’ They lit up, sharing a match. ‘People are starting to say they’re bad for you, you know.’
‘Oh, they’ll say that about anything. Rotten spoilsports, the lot of them. So . . .’ (he inhaled deeply, and gave Thomas a more appraising glance than he had given before) ‘the COI are sending you over to keep an eye on this place, are they?’
‘Something along those lines,’ said Thomas. ‘I dare say there’s no need. Probably a colossal waste of time and money.’
‘I wouldn’t be so sure about that,’ said Mr Carter. ‘Have you met mine host?’
‘Mr Rossiter, the landlord? Not yet. I was rather hoping to meet him today.’
‘You can. He’s down in the cellar. We’ll go down in a tick.’
‘Anything I should know about him?’
‘I wouldn’t want to spoil your first impression. So, how did they manage to single you out for this mission – if you don’t mind my asking? Six months in Belgium. Did you draw lots in the office, and end up with the short straw?’
‘It’s not that bad, is it?’
Mr Carter reflected for a moment. ‘Oh, of course, it could be worse. I’ve been with the Council nearly ten years and had some pretty hairy postings. Amman. Bergen. All sorts of places. The worst you can say about the Belgians is that they tend to be on the eccentric side.’
‘Eccentric?’
‘Surrealism is the norm here, old man,. They pretty much invented it. And the next six months are going to be wackier than most.’
‘Ah yes. Anneke – the hostess – was saying something about that. Putting the Americans and the Russians right next to each other. She said it was a Belgian joke.’
‘Hmm,’ said Mr Carter, stubbing his
Mr Carter beamed happily. ‘Splendid, isn’t it? You’ll have trouble keeping me away from this place for the next six months. A little bit of Blighty transported over to boring old Bruxelles.’
He led Thomas upstairs. The Britannia was two-storeyed, and the upper floor contained a large reception room for private parties, together with a smaller bar or Exhibitors’ Club. These rooms were carpeted in black and orange, with fixed seating as well as armchairs in black leather. There not being much to see here, Mr Carter took Thomas out onto the projecting upper deck, with its planking in naval fashion, its hand rails, lifebuoys and shaded verandah. From here you could view the whole of the terrace below, soon to be thronged with visitors, strolling between James Gardner’s British Government pavilion and the Industries pavilion, or sitting at tables beneath the brightly coloured sun umbrellas. Beyond, amid the trees, was the ornamental lake, and at its far end a great steel mast pointing proudly but irrelevantly towards the sky.
Mr Carter walked towards the railing at the edge of the verandah and leaned against it, looking out over the lake. Thomas spent a moment or two inspecting the carpentry on the supporting pillars, then joined him.
‘This is going to be some shindig, isn’t it?’ said Carter, gazing across the lake and through the trees on the other side, where more trucks and lorries could be seen trundling backwards and forwards along the Avenue des Trembles . ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything quite like it.’ He turned to Thomas. ‘Cigarette?’
‘Very decent of you, old man.’ They lit up, sharing a match. ‘People are starting to say they’re bad for you, you know.’
‘Oh, they’ll say that about anything. Rotten spoilsports, the lot of them. So . . .’ (he inhaled deeply, and gave Thomas a more appraising glance than he had given before) ‘the COI are sending you over to keep an eye on this place, are they?’
‘Something along those lines,’ said Thomas. ‘I dare say there’s no need. Probably a colossal waste of time and money.’
‘I wouldn’t be so sure about that,’ said Mr Carter. ‘Have you met mine host?’
‘Mr Rossiter, the landlord? Not yet. I was rather hoping to meet him today.’
‘You can. He’s down in the cellar. We’ll go down in a tick.’
‘Anything I should know about him?’
‘I wouldn’t want to spoil your first impression. So, how did they manage to single you out for this mission – if you don’t mind my asking? Six months in Belgium. Did you draw lots in the office, and end up with the short straw?’
‘It’s not that bad, is it?’
Mr Carter reflected for a moment. ‘Oh, of course, it could be worse. I’ve been with the Council nearly ten years and had some pretty hairy postings. Amman. Bergen. All sorts of places. The worst you can say about the Belgians is that they tend to be on the eccentric side.’
‘Eccentric?’
‘Surrealism is the norm here, old man,. They pretty much invented it. And the next six months are going to be wackier than most.’
‘Ah yes. Anneke – the hostess – was saying something about that. Putting the Americans and the Russians right next to each other. She said it was a Belgian joke.’
‘Hmm,’ said Mr Carter, stubbing his
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