Read Online Expo 58: A Novel by Jonathan Coe - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jonathan Coe
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cigarette out on the balcony rail. ‘I wonder what the punchline will be. One thing’s certain – both those pavilions are going to be crawling with spies. Come on, then, let’s go and meet the Wing Commander.’
With this enigmatic comment, he led Thomas back down to the ground floor and then towards a wide trapdoor which was standing open in one of the recesses behind the bar. From here a set of wooden steps led down to a capacious, brightly lit cellar. The two men clattered down the steps and found themselves confronted by many long rows of metal stillions, all awaiting the arrival of beer barrels. In front of one of them, a confused argument was taking place. A tall, swarthy man, very sweaty in his short-sleeved white flannel shirt, was protesting in French; opposite him, with his back towards Thomas, stood a stouter, shorter man with his hands on his hips. The back of his neck showed red and angry above the line of his stiff white collar.
Thomas knew enough about pub management to be able to follow the argument. The tall French-speaking man was from the company which had been responsible for providing the stillions and the other man was complaining about the automatic tilting system that had been installed with them. He said that the action was jerky and was liable to set the beer swaying in the barrels. If this happened, the beer would be cloudy when it was pulled up through the pipes into the bar. Why not tilt the barrels with simple wooden scotches instead, he wanted to know. The French-speaking man said that this was a very old-fashioned method. The other man didn’t seem to understand his answer. Eventually the French-speaking man gave up the attempt to explain his position and walked away up the wooden steps, muttering to himself and making an angry, dismissive gesture before disappearing altogether.
It was only then that the landlord of the Britannia noticed his two visitors.
‘Good afternoon, gents,’ he said, warily. ‘Er . . . bonsoir, mes amis . Comment . . . I mean, what can I do for you?’
‘Carter,’ said Mr Carter with a bland smile, holding out his hand. ‘From the British Council. We met yesterday.’
‘Ah, yes! I do recall,’ said the landlord – who clearly didn’t.
‘This is Mr Foley,’ said Mr Carter. ‘I was telling you about him. He’s going to be working here as well.’
‘Ah, capital!’ said the landlord, shaking Thomas by the hand. ‘Rossiter’s the name. Terence Rossiter. Aha!’ He took Thomas’s tie between thumb and forefinger of one hand, and drew it towards him for a closer inspection. ‘Now this I recognize. Radley College, isn’t it? Or is it Marlborough? Tell me it’s a school tie, anyway, and I’m not making a complete chump of myself.’
‘It is a school tie, yes. Leatherhead Grammar.’
‘Ah. My mistake. Grammar-school boy, eh? Well, stands to reason, what would an old Radleian be doing working in a pub? Come upstairs, gents, I’ll see what we’ve got on hand to slake your thirst.’
They sat at one of the glass-topped tables in the first-floor saloon, and Mr Rossiter fetched three pint bottles of pale ale, apologizing for the lack of beer on draught. Whitbread had created a special new brew for the Expo – a strong, dark bitter known inevitably as Britannia – but they were still awaiting delivery of the first barrels.
‘It won’t be here until a week before we open,’ Mr Rossiter explained. ‘I’d hoped to get the tilting issue resolved before that, but I have no idea what that Froggy fellow was on about, to be honest. It doesn’t half complicate things when you find yourself dealing with a whole lot of foreigners.’
‘I think he was saying,’ Thomas ventured, ‘that he considered your suggestion of wooden stocks to be rather old-fashioned.’
‘Old-fashioned, is it? Well, it was good enough for the Duke’s Head in Abingdon, which was my domain for eleven years after the War, with no complaints from the customers,
With this enigmatic comment, he led Thomas back down to the ground floor and then towards a wide trapdoor which was standing open in one of the recesses behind the bar. From here a set of wooden steps led down to a capacious, brightly lit cellar. The two men clattered down the steps and found themselves confronted by many long rows of metal stillions, all awaiting the arrival of beer barrels. In front of one of them, a confused argument was taking place. A tall, swarthy man, very sweaty in his short-sleeved white flannel shirt, was protesting in French; opposite him, with his back towards Thomas, stood a stouter, shorter man with his hands on his hips. The back of his neck showed red and angry above the line of his stiff white collar.
Thomas knew enough about pub management to be able to follow the argument. The tall French-speaking man was from the company which had been responsible for providing the stillions and the other man was complaining about the automatic tilting system that had been installed with them. He said that the action was jerky and was liable to set the beer swaying in the barrels. If this happened, the beer would be cloudy when it was pulled up through the pipes into the bar. Why not tilt the barrels with simple wooden scotches instead, he wanted to know. The French-speaking man said that this was a very old-fashioned method. The other man didn’t seem to understand his answer. Eventually the French-speaking man gave up the attempt to explain his position and walked away up the wooden steps, muttering to himself and making an angry, dismissive gesture before disappearing altogether.
It was only then that the landlord of the Britannia noticed his two visitors.
‘Good afternoon, gents,’ he said, warily. ‘Er . . . bonsoir, mes amis . Comment . . . I mean, what can I do for you?’
‘Carter,’ said Mr Carter with a bland smile, holding out his hand. ‘From the British Council. We met yesterday.’
‘Ah, yes! I do recall,’ said the landlord – who clearly didn’t.
‘This is Mr Foley,’ said Mr Carter. ‘I was telling you about him. He’s going to be working here as well.’
‘Ah, capital!’ said the landlord, shaking Thomas by the hand. ‘Rossiter’s the name. Terence Rossiter. Aha!’ He took Thomas’s tie between thumb and forefinger of one hand, and drew it towards him for a closer inspection. ‘Now this I recognize. Radley College, isn’t it? Or is it Marlborough? Tell me it’s a school tie, anyway, and I’m not making a complete chump of myself.’
‘It is a school tie, yes. Leatherhead Grammar.’
‘Ah. My mistake. Grammar-school boy, eh? Well, stands to reason, what would an old Radleian be doing working in a pub? Come upstairs, gents, I’ll see what we’ve got on hand to slake your thirst.’
They sat at one of the glass-topped tables in the first-floor saloon, and Mr Rossiter fetched three pint bottles of pale ale, apologizing for the lack of beer on draught. Whitbread had created a special new brew for the Expo – a strong, dark bitter known inevitably as Britannia – but they were still awaiting delivery of the first barrels.
‘It won’t be here until a week before we open,’ Mr Rossiter explained. ‘I’d hoped to get the tilting issue resolved before that, but I have no idea what that Froggy fellow was on about, to be honest. It doesn’t half complicate things when you find yourself dealing with a whole lot of foreigners.’
‘I think he was saying,’ Thomas ventured, ‘that he considered your suggestion of wooden stocks to be rather old-fashioned.’
‘Old-fashioned, is it? Well, it was good enough for the Duke’s Head in Abingdon, which was my domain for eleven years after the War, with no complaints from the customers,
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