by Jonathan Coe
‘Good times, and good cheer!’ said Anneke.
They all drank deeply, then sat back and smiled long, satisfied, slightly tipsy smiles.
The orchestra started up another tune, and on a balcony high above the diners, a choir of about twenty men and women – all in traditional costume – materialized as if from nowhere and took up the melody in three-part harmony. Clara sighed delightedly.
‘Ah – “Horch was kommt von draußen rein”! I adore this tune.’
It did indeed come as something of a relief, after the crazed monotony of the last performance. It was hardly what Thomas would have described as sophisticated music, but still, there was something lilting and supple about the melody that appealed to him. The audience began to clap along again, but less robotically than before.
‘Bavaria must be a very cheerful place,’ he remarked. ‘I’ve never heard a piece of music from there that didn’t sound jolly.’
‘Ah, but the words are rather tragic,’ Clara explained. ‘There is a lover – in some versions a man, though I like to think of her as a woman – and today her sweetheart is getting married to someone else, and she says that for her this is a day of mourning. But she is quite defiant about it. She won’t relinquish her feelings for this man.’
And, as a new verse started, Clara began to sing along:
Laß sie reden, schweig fein still
Hollahi hollaho
Kann ja lieben wen ich will
Hollahi aho.
“ ‘I can love whoever I want,” she says.’ Clara had been addressing her words to all of them, up until this point, but now she stared pointedly at Tony, and repeated: ‘I can love whoever I want.’ She stood up, took him by the hand, and pulled him to his feet. ‘Come on, let’s dance. You must feel like dancing.’
Tony followed, looking rather like a sheep being led off to the abattoir, and throwing a helpless, beseeching glance back in Thomas’s direction.
Now Anneke stood up and held out her arms.
‘So, Thomas, do you ever dance?’
‘Very rarely,’ Thomas said. He was about to add, ‘I think the last time was at my wedding,’ but the words died on his lips. Instead he allowed Anneke to lead him gently towards a clear space between the tables. He took hold of one her hands, and put his other arm around her waist. Through the thin cotton of her dress he could feel the beginnings of the curve of her bottom. This did not seem right, so he moved his hand upwards, until he could feel the base of her spine, which seemed just as inappropriate, if not more so. So he raised his hand away from her back a fraction, and barely touched her at all. Clara, he noticed, was leaning in tightly to Tony as they danced, her head resting upon his shoulder, a quietly blissful smile on her face.
‘This has been a wonderful evening,’ said Anneke.
‘Yes, it has,’ said Thomas, but before the conversation could proceed any further, he was interrupted by a familiar voice with a shrill Cockney accent, saying: ‘Hello, Mr Foley! Fancy seeing you here.’
It was Shirley Knott, the barmaid at the Britannia. And her dancing partner was, of all people, Ed Longman, the rude American guest from Friday night.
‘Hello!’ said Thomas, to both of them. He could not resist adding, to Mr Longman: ‘So – you managed to get served, I see.’
Mr Longman grinned. ‘English hospitality. Took me a while to get the hang of it, but now that I have, I’m a real fan.’ He gave Shirley’s waist a tight squeeze, and looked warmly into her eyes.
It occurred to Thomas that almost everybody in this vast dance-hall was drunk, to some degree or another, and that the whole room was alive with the promise of transient international or even inter-continental romances on the point of budding into life. He was quite relieved when the music came to a halt again, and everyone could return to their seats once more. He waved goodbye to Shirley and Mr Longman, and sat down opposite Anneke, who smiled at him and then began powdering her face and examining the results in her compact mirror.
Tony appeared at his side and leaned in towards him.
‘Look, old boy, I’m going to shoot off.’
‘What?’
‘Clara’s gone to the ladies’ and this is my only chance to escape.’
‘You can’t do that! She’ll be devastated.’
‘I know it’s not exactly the decent thing to do, but you will help me out here, won’t you? The woman’s a positive man-eater.’
‘What shall I tell her?’
‘I don’t know . . . Tell her I got an urgent message that the ZETA machine was about to explode, or something. Just . . . try and square things with her, OK?’
Thomas suspected that his friend was asking the impossible, and so it proved. His use of the word ‘devastated’ had been no exaggeration, and as he walked with the two women, a few minutes later, through the thinning crowds towards the meeting point where Anneke’s father would be waiting to drive them both home, he caught a glimpse of tears glistening against Clara’s now pallid cheeks. He glanced at Anneke, who had noticed them too. It was a subdued trio, then, who said goodbye at the Porte des Attractions. Although, if there was one thing that could not be described as subdued, it was Anneke’s goodnight kiss. It may have been delivered chastely to his cheek, but there was still an unmistakeable tenderness to it that made his heart flutter. And as she walked away with her friend, she turned and blew him another one.
When they had gone, Thomas stood there for a few moments, his hands in his pockets, hot dog wrappers and empty cigarette packets scuffling past him in the breeze. He sighed and puffed out his cheeks.
He had been at the Expo for more than a week, and had not written Sylvia a single letter yet. Time to remedy that situation, he decided.
The girl from Wisconsin
22nd April 1958
Dearest Syllabub,
I’m dreadfully sorry not to have written to you before now. As we both found out last week, telephone communications between Brussels and London are likely to prove challenging – and jolly expensive. Lovely as it was to hear your voice, I think we had better confine ourselves to letters for the time being.
Anyhow, you will be pleased to know that I have settled in, and the powers that be are giving me a busy time of it so far. Accommodation is a bit on the Spartan side. Motel Expo is a gruesome collection of breeze-block cabins in the middle of a muddy field about two miles from the Heysel site. It is run along militaristic lines – the lights go out and the barriers come down at midnight, with no exceptions. Tony B and I have talked about setting up an escape committee.
Tony B is Tony Buttress, my room-mate, as mentioned on the phone. I have fallen on my feet here – he really is a very decent sort. He is here as a sort of scientific advisor to the British pavilion, and is terribly knowledgeable about everything. Atomic science seems to be his main area, however. We find ourselves thrown together a good deal. Last night we took on the Parc des Attractions – dodgem cars, Ferris wheel, fake Bavarian beerhouse, the whole shebang. All ripping good fun, but it’s taken it out of me today, I must say. Head like a ball of wet cotton wool. I’m obviously not as young as I was.
My duties at the Britannia remain somewhat ambiguous. I am not supposed to be involved in the day-to-day running of the pub but sadly the character of our landlord, Mr Rossiter, makes it necessary. During the early hours of opening he is more or less reliable, but as the day draws on I’m afraid that he begins to tipple. In fact, why be euphemistic about it – the word ‘tipple’ does nothing like justice to his capacity. By five or six o’clock in the evening you can guarantee that he will be royally sloshed. Luckily his chief barmaid seems a very sensible and competent girl. She rejoices in the name of Shirley Knott. (Think on it for a while, and you will see the pun.)
The fair itself is rapidly getting into full swing. The queerest sorts of groups and organizations are passing through. This week they are playing h
ost to an International Congress of Opticians. A number of them came to the Britannia yesterday at lunchtime. One of them was so short-sighted that he banged his head on our model aeroplane and had to be treated for concussion.
Write soon, my love.
Thomas xxx.
2nd May 1958
Thomas my dear,
How wonderful to hear from you at long last! I was beginning to wonder if you had forgotten our address, or if the postal service in Belgium had perhaps gone on strike. But I realize now, of course, that you have just been awfully busy. I understand completely how full your days must be at the beginning of the fair.
I was delighted to hear that you have already started to make new friends. I know that you are very interested in the subject of Atomic Energy yourself, so you must be able to have all sorts of interesting conversations with Mr Buttress, of the kind which I sadly am not able to provide you with. Now that I reflect on how quiet and dull everything must seem to you here, I understand why you were so keen to take the job in Brussels. Although it still would have been nice if you could have taken me with you.
You did not mention Baby Gill in your letter but I imagine you would like to hear some news of her. The news, in fact, is very exciting – she has started to crawl! As you may remember (or perhaps not), just before you left she was beginning to sit up very well. And so, on Saturday morning, I had her with me in the kitchen, while I was making a pot of tea to take out to Mr Sparks in the garden, and I left her on the floor not thinking very much of it. I took Mr Sparks his tea, stopped to exchange a few words with him, looked round behind me and there she was! She had followed me all the way into the garden, and halfway down the garden path! What a prodigy!
I suppose you might be wondering what Mr Sparks was doing in our garden all this time. Well, really, he has been most obliging since you went away. It all began when your opening ceremony was broadcast last Thursday morning. Naturally I sat down to watch the whole proceedings, and after a while Mr Sparks came to join me because he has been experiencing some difficulty with the reception on his television set. We both looked out for you, but could not see you anywhere in the crowds. I presume you were there? Afterwards, Mr Sparks asked if he could visit our garden, and as soon as he saw it I could tell there were some things that had caught his attention. Little jobs, I mean, that you had left unfinished before your departure – such as the digging of the goldfish pond. And then he asked, in the nicest possible way, if I thought it would disoblige you if he undertook to complete one or two of these tasks. Of course, I had no way of consulting you, but I was sure what your answer would be. And so, on Saturday morning, he came around here with his spade and his other tools, and dug the rest of the pond out in no time at all, to a tremendous depth. For such a slight man, he is surprisingly strong! On Sunday he filled the pond with water and next weekend he has promised to drive me to the aquarium in East Sheen to buy some fish and also some water lilies and other foliage. I am sure you will be pleased to see it looking so attractive when you return.
Anyway, now Baby has woken up and I can hear her crying. Write back soon, my sweet, but don’t worry about me, I am coping quite well and I have been far from feeling lonely.
Your loving,
Sylvia x.
19th May 1958
Dear Syllabub,
Thank you for your last letter, which I found most reassuring. How lucky we are to have a neighbour as thoughtful as Mr Sparks. I do hope you are not taking advantage of him, my angel, and encouraging him to come round too often to help with these little jobs? It would be wrong to deprive his sister of his caring attentions, after all. Anyway, I’m sure you are the best judge of the situation.
Once again I fear I have left it much too long before replying. I am so sorry, but we have been run off our feet for the last two weeks. As I’m sure you will understand, we are especially busy at the Britannia whenever there are crowds of our own countrymen visiting the fair, and just lately things have been especially busy on that front. Last week the British pavilion was subject to a visit of delegates from the Bristol Chamber of Commerce. And if that was not enough, a few days later, the London Symphony Orchestra were giving a concert of British music in the Grand Auditorium here, and blow me if the whole blessed orchestra did not decide to drop by for a pint at the Britannia after the performance! Everyone had to work flat out to make sure that the whole crew were adequately fed and watered – right down to the chaps who play the bass fiddle and the triangle. Mr Rossiter was having a snooze in the cellar at the time so it was all hands on deck, I can tell you. Even Anneke pitched in and helped.
Oh, but I haven’t mentioned Anneke before, have I? Anneke is my guardian angel – at least, that is how I like to think of her. She was the hostess who came to meet me at the airport the very first time I arrived here, and we seem to keep running into each other ever since. She was at the pub on this occasion to have a drink with her friend Clara, and it was jolly decent of them both to lend a hand, I think.
In fact, there is a bit more to it than that. For Clara, you see, has the most frightful crush on Tony B, which means that she is always hanging around the British pavilion trying to catch sight of him, while he spends most of his time doing his best to keep out of her way. I feel a bit sorry for the poor girl, not least because, quite apart from all that, her job at the fair – dressing up as a shopkeeper from Ye Olden Dayes as part of a sort of living museum they have put together here, called Gay Belgium – is not really as nice or as prestigious as Anneke’s.
Anyway, I mustn’t drivel on too much about these two, not least because I have scarcely yet mentioned my new Russian friend, Mr Chersky. A newspaper editor from Moscow who reckons that yours truly, believe it or not, is just about the bee’s knees, journalism-wise. Can you believe that? Well, it’s a longish story, so I shall save it for another letter in any case.
I hope I have told you enough, at any rate, to convey the impression that life here is pretty exciting, as well as busy. I must confess that I am having a whale of a time (apart from missing you, my sweet).
Another party came in here yesterday. They were from the World Congress on the Prevention of Accidents in Industry. Unfortunately one of them fell down the stairs on his way to the gents’ and had to be rushed off to hospital with a broken leg.
Take care, my angel.
Your faithful,
Thomas xxx.
26th May 1958
Thomas my dear,
What a pleasure to hear from you again, and in a letter filled with such thrilling news. Fancy serving drinks to the London Symphony Orchestra! I have read a great deal in the newspapers about the Belgian hostesses and their role at the fair. They all seem to be very pretty girls. Does this Anneke speak good English or have you been learning to speak Belgian on her account? It must be very confusing there with everyone speaking in different languages all the time. It is certainly obliging of her to give you so much of her time. You and Tony B and Anneke and her friend must make up quite a cosy foursome. It is nice to know that you are not short of company.
For my own part, I have not been having nearly such a sociable time of it. Last weekend I had a little excursion, it’s true, but it was more distressing than enjoyable. I had mentioned to Mr Sparks that I really felt guilty about not having visited cousin Beatrix since her accident. As you know she is presently in the Royal Free Hospital in Hampstead, and although it is not hard to reach by public transport, I have been put off by the difficulties of taking Baby Gill on a bus or the underground. That pram, as you know, sometimes seems to weigh as much as a small car! But Norman came to the rescue – his kindness never ceases to amaze me. We calculated that, if I used the Northern Line, I could do the whole round trip in less than three hours, and he gamely volunteered to babysit Gill for that time on Sunday afternoon. Wasn’t that sweet of him? As it happens, he has been spending a good deal of time around her these last few weeks (
last Tuesday evening he was here for a few hours, fixing that uneven shelf on the sitting-room bookcase – the one that has defeated you for so long) and Gill has become very comfortable with him. I suppose at that age they are just happy to have a masculine presence around the house, and scarcely notice whether the man happens to be their father or not. And I thought that if I gave her a good feed after lunch, the chances are that she would sleep through most of the afternoon, and Norman would not be put to much trouble. Which indeed turned out to be the case.
It was not a pleasant afternoon for me, however. Poor Beatrix is in a very bad way. Her neck is in one of those awful brace things and she cannot move in any direction. I thought she would at least be pleased to see me – I had brought her a large bunch of grapes, and a number of magazines – but as you know she has always been a fierce-tempered thing and her present situation seems to have plunged her into the darkest of moods. In the end I did not stay for much more than half an hour. At least when I got home everything was cheerful again. Gill had just woken up and she was playing with Norman very nicely. So we had a cup of tea and a very friendly chat.
I must go now, my love. Do try not to leave it so long before writing next time.
Your loving,
Sylvia x.
7th June 1958
Dear Sylvie,
Thank you for your last letter, even though the news about Beatrix was rather distressing. Do give her my best if you go to visit her again. It was decent of Sparks to babysit while you were making the call. Frankly I had not got him down as the sort of chap who was good with babies, but now that I think of it, I suppose there is something oddly feminine about him, so it probably makes a kind of sense.
The big news here . . . Well, there are two big pieces of news, really. One is that we had a visit from a bona fide VIP a couple of days ago. Of course, there are all sorts of famous people passing through the fair every day. A week or two ago they had a sort of mini-Cannes film gala here and it was wall-to-wall movie stars. Apparently in some parts of the site you couldn’t move without bumping into Yves Montand or Gina Lollobrigida. Sadly, though, none of them ever made it as far as the dear old Britannia. Instead we have been graced by the presence of … Mr Heathcoat-Amory! Yes, the Chancellor of the Exchequer in person. Second-in-command in Her Majesty’s Government, no less. I would like to tell you that he was charm personified, put us all at our ease and treated us with that easy condescension which is apparently the mark of every well-bred Englishman. Instead, he was like a fish out of water. And a damned unfriendly fish at that. I don’t know what else they teach you on the playing fields of Eton, but it’s obviously not to tuck into a plate of fish and chips and a pint of bitter in a fake British pub and look as though you’re enjoying it. Tony said he was probably disappointed that the menu didn’t include Beluga caviar and roast swan (or whatever else it is they eat at Oxford High Table).
