by Jonathan Coe
He sat down again. Sir John stared across the table at him coolly.
‘Have you quite finished, Gardner?’ Taking his silence as consent, he added: ‘Might I remind you that at the entrance to this pavilion, which you propose to deface with this obscene display, visitors will find a portrait of Her Majesty the Queen?’
Gardner leaned forward. ‘And might I remind you, Sir John, that even her Majesty – even her Majesty . . .’
Sir John stood up, his brow furrowed with rage. ‘If you finish that sentence, Gardner,’ he said, ‘I shall have to ask you to leave this room.’ There was a tense, extended silence, as both men locked eyes across the table. When it became apparent that Mr Gardner was not going to add anything, Sir John slowly sat down again. ‘Now,’ he continued, ‘I expect you to forget all about this ludicrous idea, and concentrate on devising a display which does something to reflect not just the glory but the dignity of the people of these islands. Is that understood?’ Distinctly flustered, not pausing for an answer, he turned over his next sheet of paper and read the first few lines out quickly and automatically, without thinking about them: ‘Next – the ZETA project. “Proposal for transporting and exhibiting a replica of Britain’s . . .’ ”
‘AHEM!’
Sir John glanced across the table again. The warning cough had come from one of the two mysterious men who had earlier caught Thomas’s attention: the one with the moon-shaped face and the slicked-back hair. He held a minatory finger up to his lips, and shook his head, almost unnoticeably. Whatever had prompted the gesture, Sir John took immediate notice of it, and turned the sheet of paper over in a casual movement, laying it face down on the table.
‘Quite right, of course. Not a priority at all. We can leave that until later. We have a far more important matter to consider, which is . . . Ah, yes! The pub. The famous pub.’ His features relaxed, and he looked enquiringly among the assembled faces. ‘Now, we should have a new recruit to our team, is that correct? Mr Foley, are you amongst us?’
Thomas half-rose to his feet, then realized that this probably looked ridiculous, and sat down again. His voice, when he managed to find it, seemed impossibly thin and tentative.
‘Yes, that would be me, Sir . . . Sir John.’
‘Good. Splendid.’ A long, expectant silence ensued. When it became clear that Thomas had no intention of breaking it, Sir John said: ‘We’re ready to hear your thoughts, I believe.’
‘Ah. Yes.’ Thomas looked around the circle of distinguished faces currently trained on him, and swallowed hard. ‘Well, the Britannia, as you probably know, will be – in some ways – the focal point of the British exhibit. The original idea, as you probably know –’ (why was he repeating himself?) ‘– was to build a replica of – and here I quote – “an olde English inne” – to show visitors the finest in traditional British hospitality. One or two factors, however, brought about a change from the initial plan. One is that the Belgians themselves are, apparently, in the process of constructing a village on the festival site, which they are calling “La Belgique Joyeuse” – which translates, roughly speaking, as “Gay Belgium” – and this will include replica buildings from the eighteenth century and earlier, including an authentic inn. Another, erm, factor, is that the COI – and, I think, Mr Gardner himself, though I wouldn’t like to put words into his mouth – have always been concerned that the British contribution, while doing justice, obviously, to our great traditions, should not be too – well, too backward-looking. And so it was decided that the designers of the Britannia should be briefed to take a slightly more modern approach. Britain, after all, is a modern country. We are at the very forefront of innovation in the sciences and technology.’ (He was getting into his stride now, and, to his own amazement, rather beginning to enjoy himself.) ‘But our great strength is our ability to move forward, without ever breaking our links with the past. This is the paradox that the designers have worked so hard to express with the interior of the Britannia.’
A mild interruption was presented at this point.
‘Looking at these photographs,’ said one of the more elderly committee members, seated to Thomas’s right, ‘this is not what I picture when I think of an English inn. Not at all.’ He sifted through some black-and-white prints, shaking his head. ‘Surely . . . some horse brasses, some wooden beams, the froth of a fine English ale overflowing the sides of a pewter tankard . . .?’
‘But that’s exactly what we wanted to avoid,’ said Thomas. ‘The Britannia is being built on a most attractive site, overlooking an artificial lake. We wanted to give it the feeling of a . . . of a yachting club, if you like. There will be big windows, and white walls. The interior is light and spacious and airy because this is the modern way, don’t you see? These are modern times! It’s 1958! Britain will be presenting its new face to the world under the shadow of the Atomium, and we must rise to the challenge. We have to move forward. We have to move on.’
Sir John was regarding Thomas, suddenly, with marked interest and approval.
‘Excellently phrased, Mr Foley, if I may say so. You are quite right. Britain has to find its place in the modern world and we must show the other countries how this can be done without resorting to fashionable nonsense such as . . . concrete music, or whatever it is called. I think Mr Lonsdale’s designs are capital. Quite capital. And you, I believe, are going to be on site for the entirety of the fair, looking after the Britannia in a managerial capacity. Is that correct?’
‘That is correct, sir, yes.’ From the corner of his eye Thomas noticed, as he said this, that the two mysterious gentlemen were exchanging a fleeting glance. ‘The brewery has engaged its own landlord, and its own serving staff, but I will be there, as a representative of the COI, to oversee things and make sure everything is above board and . . . ship-shape, as it were.’
‘Splendid. And have you visited the site yet?’
‘I’m flying out to Brussels for a preliminary view on Thursday, sir.’
‘Excellent. We wish you all the very best of British luck with that assignment, Mr Foley. And I’m sure that I myself will be seeing more of you in Brussels.’
Thomas smiled his thanks, and inclined his head. It was a careful, restrained gesture, and one which gave no indication of the sensations of wild pride and excitement that were coursing through him at that moment.
Trying to build up a picture
‘Top-notch speech in there, Mr Foley.’
‘Quite right. Absolutely first-class.’
Thomas whirled around to see where the voices were coming from. Standing on the rain-soaked pavement outside the Foreign Office, wondering which direction to take, he had had no idea that anyone was waiting in the shadows behind him. Now two figures emerged from the darkness, dressed identically in long beige raincoats and trilby hats. Thomas was somehow not surprised to identify them as the two anonymous men from the committee meeting.
‘Filthy night, isn’t it?’ the first one remarked conversationally.
‘Shocking,’ Thomas agreed.
‘Mind if we walk with you?’ asked the second.
‘Not at all. Which direction are you heading?’
‘Oh, we thought we’d leave that up to you.’
‘It makes no difference to us.’
‘I see,’ said Thomas, even though he didn’t. ‘Well, I hadn’t quite decided.’
‘Tell you what.’ The first of the men raised his arm and immediately, as if from nowhere, a black Austin Cambridge pulled up against the kerb beside them. ‘Why don’t we give you a lift home?’
‘That’s decent of you,’ said Thomas. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Absolutely, old man.’
‘No trouble at all.’
The three of them squeezed onto the back seat. It was very tight. Thomas, seated in the middle, could scarcely move his arms.
‘Where to this time, gents?’ the driver asked
.
‘Tooting, please,’ said the first man, unprompted. And when Thomas looked at him in surprise, he said: ‘Sorry. You don’t have to go home if you don’t want to. We can take you anywhere you like.’
‘No, no,’ he demurred, ‘Tooting’s fine.’
‘Don’t want to keep the little woman waiting, after all, do you?’
‘Got something nice bubbling away for you on the stove, I dare say.’
‘Lucky man.’
‘Cigarette, Mr Foley?’
While they were all in the process of lighting up, the moon-faced man said:
‘Well, we might as well introduce ourselves. My name’s Wayne.’
‘As in the film star,’ said his companion. ‘Comical, really, isn’t it? You can’t picture him in a stetson.’
‘And this is Mr Radford,’ said Mr Wayne.
With some difficulty, given the confines of the back seat, Mr Radford shook Thomas warmly by the hand and said: ‘Delighted to make your acquaintance.’
‘Are you both members of the Brussels Committee?’ asked Thomas, at which they chuckled.
‘Oh, goodness me, no.’
‘Heaven forbid.’
‘Far from it, old boy. But we take a keen interest, you know. From a distance.’
‘We’ve sat in on quite a few of the meetings.’
‘Starting to get to know most of the characters involved.’
‘That Mr Gardner’s a bit of a card, isn’t he?’
‘Likes to put the cat among the pigeons.’
‘Dependable chap, though.’
‘Absolutely. Salt of the earth.’
‘Solid as a rock. Underneath, you understand.’
They fell silent. Mr Radford wound down his window, in an attempt to dispel some of the smoke. But it was so wet and blustery outside, he soon wound it up again. The traffic was light and the driver was making rapid progress. In only a few minutes they were driving along Clapham High Street. While the Cambridge was stopped at a red light, Mr Wayne glanced out of the window and said: ‘I say, Radford, isn’t that the coffee place we were in a couple of days ago?’
‘I believe so, yes,’ said Mr Radford, peering through the rain.
‘Do you know, I just feel like a cup of coffee.’
‘I was just thinking the same thing.’
‘What about you, Foley?’
‘Do you fancy a cup of coffee?’
‘Well, I . . . I was rather hoping to get home in time for . . .’
‘That’s settled then. Driver! Can you drop us off here, please?’
‘Wait for us round the corner, if you would.’
‘We’ll only be a jiffy.’
The three of them spilled out of the car and hurried across the pavement, which glistened in the rain. The establishment they had chosen advertised itself as Mario’s Coffee Bar. Inside there were half a dozen tables, all empty, and a bored dark-haired girl behind the counter, trying to fill in the time by painting her fingernails green.
‘Coffee for me, please,’ said Mr Wayne, politely but firmly. ‘White, two sugars.’
‘And the same for me,’ said Mr Radford. ‘Foley, what will you have?’
‘I don’t really drink much coffee,’ said Thomas.
‘Three white coffees, two sugars each,’ said Mr Wayne.
‘And put some of that frothy milk on top, if you would,’ said Mr Radford. ‘You know, the way the Italians drink it.’
‘We’re all continentals now, I suppose,’ said Mr Wayne, as he sat down.
‘Quite,’ said Mr Radford, joining him, and shaking some of the rain off his overcoat. ‘All the European nations starting to come together.’
‘Treaty of Rome and all that.’
‘Very much what this Brussels business is about, when you think about it.’
‘Quite. Bit of history in the making.’
‘Lucky to be a part of it.’
‘What’s your view, Foley?’
‘My view?’
‘On this Belgian shindig. Expo 58. Do you regard it as a historic opportunity for all the nations of the world to come together, for the first time since the War, in a spirit of peaceful cooperation?’
‘Or do you consider it little more than a sordid marketplace powered not by idealism at all, but by the forces of capitalism?’
Thomas had barely had time to sit down himself when these questions were fired at him. His clothes were soaking even after such a short walk, and he could feel the steam rising off his body.
‘I shall . . . Well, I shall have to think about that,’ he said.
‘Very good answer,’ observed Mr Wayne approvingly.
‘Spoken like a true diplomat.’
The waitress arrived with the sugar bowl.
‘Coffees’ll be with you in a minute,’ she said. ‘The machine’s on the blink. We can’t seem to get any heat out of it.’
On her way back to the counter she stopped by a jukebox and inserted a few coppers. A burst of music followed after a few seconds: it was fast and driving, with loud drums pounding out a rhythm beneath three or four simple chords, and a male vocalist half-shouting, half-singing something about a Streamline Train over the whole din. Mr Wayne put his hands over his ears.
‘Good God.’
‘What a cacophony.’
‘What on earth is it?’
‘I believe they call it “rock’n’roll”,’ said Mr Radford.
‘Sounds more like skiffle to me,’ said Thomas.
‘Well well,’ said Mr Wayne. ‘I had no idea you were an authority on musical trends.’
‘Who, me? Not at all. My wife listens to this sort of music occasionally. I’m more of a classical man, myself.’
‘Ah, yes. The classics. Nothing like a bit of classical music, is there? I expect you like Tchaikovsky?’
‘Of course. Who doesn’t?’
‘What about the more modern bods? Stravinsky, say?’
‘Oh, yes. First rate.’
‘Shostakovich?’
‘Haven’t heard much.’
‘Prokofiev?’
Thomas nodded, without really knowing why. He couldn’t see where any of this was leading. The waitress brought their coffees and they all stirred in their sugar and took their first sips.
‘Of course,’ said Mr Radford, ‘a lot of chaps would rather read than listen to music.’
‘Curl up with a good book,’ agreed Mr Wayne.
‘Do much reading?’
‘A bit, yes. Not as much as I should, probably.’
‘Read any Dostoevsky? Some people swear by him.’
‘What about Tolstoy?’
‘I’m afraid I’m rather parochial in my tastes. I like Dickens. I read Wodehouse, for a bit of light relief. Do you mind telling me what this is all about? You seem to be asking me an awful lot of questions about Russian writers and composers.’
‘We’re just trying to build up a picture.’
‘Finding out about your likes and dislikes, that sort of thing.’
‘It’s just that I need to get home to my wife before too long.’
‘Of course, old man. We understand that.’
‘You’ll probably be wanting to see as much of her as you can, in the next few weeks.’
Thomas frowned. ‘Why’s that?’
‘Well, after all, she won’t be coming to Brussels with you, will she?’
‘No, that’s true.’
‘Six months is a long time, to be doing without . . . home comforts.’
‘The pleasures of married life.’
‘That’s if you like married life, of course.’
‘Some men don’t, you know. I mean, they marry, but it’s not really their cup of tea.’
‘Their real interests lie elsew
here.’
‘It’s a sordid subject.’
‘Terribly sordid.’
‘For instance, chap I knew, married for ten years, three children, hardly spent any time at home. More likely to be found in the gentlemen’s toilet at Hyde Park Corner.’
‘What a ghastly prospect.’
‘Ghastly. Do you know it?’
‘Know it?’ Thomas repeated.
‘The gentlemen’s toilet at Hyde Park Corner.’
He shook his head. ‘No.’
‘Very wise. Best to steer well clear of it, I should think.’
‘Give it a wide berth.’
‘Are you by any chance asking me if I’m a homosexual?’ asked Thomas, his face pinkening with indignation.
Mr Wayne thought this a splendid joke. ‘My dear chap, what on earth makes you say that?’
‘What a fantastic notion!’
‘The idea never entered our heads.’
‘Nothing could have been further from our thoughts.’
‘Why, you’re obviously no more a homosexual than you are a member of the Communist Party.’
Thomas was mollified. ‘That’s all right, then. Because there are some things you shouldn’t joke about.’
‘Couldn’t agree more, old man.’
‘By the way,’ said Mr Radford, ‘you’re not a member of the Communist Party, are you?’
‘No, I’m not. And once again, will you please tell me what this is all about?’
Mr Wayne took one more sip of his coffee and consulted his pocket watch.
‘Look, Foley, we’ve kept you chatting for far too long. You’ve got absolutely nothing to worry about. You, me and Mr Radford – we’re all on the same side.’
‘Batting for the same team.’
‘It’s just that you must understand – this knees-up in Brussels, well, it’s a wonderful idea in principle of course, but there are dangers involved.’
‘Dangers?’
‘All these different countries coming together in the same place for six months – it’s a marvellous idea in theory, but someone has to consider the risks.’
