Read Online Expo 58: A Novel by Jonathan Coe - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jonathan Coe
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thank you very much.’
He drank deeply from his pint glass, an action which caused a good deal of foam to cling to each end of his gingery moustache. This moustache, Thomas could not help thinking, was a most impressive creation: it sprung out at a perfect horizontal, and each half must have been getting on for two inches long. Its extremities were quite free-standing, having no contact with Mr Rossiter’s face at all. The face itself was ruddy, marked with innumerable networks of tiny red veins. The nose was purple. It was tempting to draw the conclusion that Mr Rossiter’s vocation as a landlord was well chosen, if constant proximity to liquor was his object.
‘The fact is,’ Mr Rossiter continued, ‘that these Belgian types don’t know their arses from their elbows, if you ask me – not about beer, and not about anything else. I know what I’m talking about. I almost lost a leg at El Alamein and spent two years of the War in a hospital sort of place near Tonbridge. There were a couple of Belgians in there with me for a few months and I can tell you now, they were the queerest, craziest types I ever encountered. Mad as coots, the pair of them.’
‘Part of the purpose of this fair, as I understand it,’ said Mr Carter, ‘is that the peoples of the different nations will be living alongside each other for a period of time, and thereby coming to understand their differences, and similarities, and perhaps reaching a greater understanding –’
‘Well, that’s poppycock,’ said Mr Rossiter. ‘No offence intended, but there you have it. I’m a plain-speaking man, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. I dare say that what you propose is fine in theory – but it won’t work out like that, I can tell you. Six months from now we’re all going to be packing up with no better understanding of each other than when we started. On the other hand, if the people in charge want to chuck away a few million setting up this crazy fair, good luck to them. I’m quite happy to lend a hand in exchange for a decent cut.’
Mr Carter shot a rather embarrassed glance in Thomas’s direction.
‘Of course, you know the capacity in which Mr Foley will be working here . . .’
‘He can start behind the bar. At the moment the only other person engaged to work here is my niece, Ruthie. I’ve told the brewery many times that we’re going to be short-staffed and I’m pleased to hear that they’ve finally taken some notice.’
‘I don’t think you quite understand,’ said Mr Carter. ‘Mr Foley is not a barman. He works for the COI.’
‘The what?’
‘The Central Office of Information.’
Mr Rossiter looked from one man to the other.
‘I don’t get it.’
‘The fact is,’ Thomas began, speaking in as reasonable tone as he could, ‘that this very fine pub, besides having an existence . . . in its own right, as it were, is also part of the British exhibit at the fair. And so, my superiors thought it was appropriate – I think this was all explained to you in a letter – that someone from the COI should be in residence here, for the duration, to . . . to –’
‘To keep an eye on me, I suppose,’ said Mr Rossiter, finishing the sentence phlegmatically.
‘That wouldn’t be my way of putting it,’ said Thomas. It sounded lame even to him.
‘So you’re not here to help at all? You’re just going to be snooping around and looking over my shoulder?’
‘My father was a publican,’ said Thomas. ‘I know a good deal about it. I shall be happy to help you out in a practical capacity, whenever you need it.’
Mr Rossiter was not convinced, and was not happy. Grudgingly, after his two guests had taken a few more sips of their beer, he showed them over the rest of the premises: the kitchens, in particular, where the Britannia’s restaurant manager, Mr Daintry, would be preparing his menu of ‘traditional English fare’ (Thomas caught Mr Carter’s eye as this phrase was mentioned, and saw him make the
He drank deeply from his pint glass, an action which caused a good deal of foam to cling to each end of his gingery moustache. This moustache, Thomas could not help thinking, was a most impressive creation: it sprung out at a perfect horizontal, and each half must have been getting on for two inches long. Its extremities were quite free-standing, having no contact with Mr Rossiter’s face at all. The face itself was ruddy, marked with innumerable networks of tiny red veins. The nose was purple. It was tempting to draw the conclusion that Mr Rossiter’s vocation as a landlord was well chosen, if constant proximity to liquor was his object.
‘The fact is,’ Mr Rossiter continued, ‘that these Belgian types don’t know their arses from their elbows, if you ask me – not about beer, and not about anything else. I know what I’m talking about. I almost lost a leg at El Alamein and spent two years of the War in a hospital sort of place near Tonbridge. There were a couple of Belgians in there with me for a few months and I can tell you now, they were the queerest, craziest types I ever encountered. Mad as coots, the pair of them.’
‘Part of the purpose of this fair, as I understand it,’ said Mr Carter, ‘is that the peoples of the different nations will be living alongside each other for a period of time, and thereby coming to understand their differences, and similarities, and perhaps reaching a greater understanding –’
‘Well, that’s poppycock,’ said Mr Rossiter. ‘No offence intended, but there you have it. I’m a plain-speaking man, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. I dare say that what you propose is fine in theory – but it won’t work out like that, I can tell you. Six months from now we’re all going to be packing up with no better understanding of each other than when we started. On the other hand, if the people in charge want to chuck away a few million setting up this crazy fair, good luck to them. I’m quite happy to lend a hand in exchange for a decent cut.’
Mr Carter shot a rather embarrassed glance in Thomas’s direction.
‘Of course, you know the capacity in which Mr Foley will be working here . . .’
‘He can start behind the bar. At the moment the only other person engaged to work here is my niece, Ruthie. I’ve told the brewery many times that we’re going to be short-staffed and I’m pleased to hear that they’ve finally taken some notice.’
‘I don’t think you quite understand,’ said Mr Carter. ‘Mr Foley is not a barman. He works for the COI.’
‘The what?’
‘The Central Office of Information.’
Mr Rossiter looked from one man to the other.
‘I don’t get it.’
‘The fact is,’ Thomas began, speaking in as reasonable tone as he could, ‘that this very fine pub, besides having an existence . . . in its own right, as it were, is also part of the British exhibit at the fair. And so, my superiors thought it was appropriate – I think this was all explained to you in a letter – that someone from the COI should be in residence here, for the duration, to . . . to –’
‘To keep an eye on me, I suppose,’ said Mr Rossiter, finishing the sentence phlegmatically.
‘That wouldn’t be my way of putting it,’ said Thomas. It sounded lame even to him.
‘So you’re not here to help at all? You’re just going to be snooping around and looking over my shoulder?’
‘My father was a publican,’ said Thomas. ‘I know a good deal about it. I shall be happy to help you out in a practical capacity, whenever you need it.’
Mr Rossiter was not convinced, and was not happy. Grudgingly, after his two guests had taken a few more sips of their beer, he showed them over the rest of the premises: the kitchens, in particular, where the Britannia’s restaurant manager, Mr Daintry, would be preparing his menu of ‘traditional English fare’ (Thomas caught Mr Carter’s eye as this phrase was mentioned, and saw him make the
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