Expo 58: A Novel Read Free Page A

sleep.
    ‘Well, Foley,’ said the Central Office of Information’s Director of Exhibitions, slapping the file shut with sudden decisiveness, ‘it’s pretty obvious that you’re our man.’
    ‘Your man?’ said Thomas, his eyes slowly coming back into focus.
    ‘Our man, yes. Our man in Brussels.’
    ‘Brussels?’
    ‘Foley, have you not been listening? As Mr Ellis here was explaining, we need someone from the COI to oversee the whole running of the Britannia . We need someone on site, on the premises, for the whole six months of the fair. And that someone is going to be you.’
    ‘Me, sir? But . . .’
    ‘But what? Your father ran a pub for twenty years, didn’t he? So you must have learned something about it in that time.’
    ‘Yes, but . . .’
    ‘And your mother comes from Belgium, for Heaven’s sake. You’ve got Belgian blood coursing through your veins. It’ll be like a second home to you.’
    ‘But . . . But what about my family, sir? I can’t just abandon them for all that time. I’ve got a wife. We’ve got a little baby girl.’
    Mr Cooke waved his hand airily. ‘Well, take them with you, if you like. Although a lot of men, quite frankly, would jump at the opportunity to get away from nappies and rattles for six months. I know I would have done, at your age.’ He beamed a happy smile around the room. ‘So, is it all settled, then?’
    Thomas asked if he could have the weekend to think about it. Mr Cooke looked bemused and offended, but he agreed.
    Thomas found it hard to concentrate on his work for the rest of that afternoon, and when five-thirty came around he still felt agitated. Instead of getting the tube right away he went to the Volunteer and ordered half a pint with a whisky chaser. The pub was smoky and crowded and before long he found himself having to share his table with a young brunette and a much older man with a military moustache: they seemed to be conducting an affair and not making much of a secret of it. When he got tired of listening to their plans for the weekend, and of having his shoulder jostled by a crowd of music students from the Royal Academy, he drank up and left.
    It was well after dark, and already a filthy night. The wind was almost enough to blow his umbrella inside-out. At Baker Street station Thomas realized that he was going to be very late getting home, and there would be trouble if he didn’t telephone. Sylvia answered almost at once.
    ‘Tooting, two-five-double-one.’
    ‘Hello, darling, it’s only me.’
    ‘Oh. Hello, darling.’
    ‘How are things?’
    ‘Things are fine.’
    ‘What about Baby? Is she sleeping?’
    ‘Not at the moment. Where are you? There’s a lot of noise in the background.’
    ‘I’m at Baker Street.’
    ‘Baker Street? What are you still doing there?’
    ‘I popped in for a quick one. Felt the need, to be honest. It’s been quite a day. This afternoon they called me upstairs and dropped a bombshell. Got a bit of news to tell you when I get home.’
    ‘Good news, or bad?’
    ‘Good – I think.’
    ‘Did you remember to pop out to the chemist at lunchtime?’
    ‘Damn. No, I didn’t.’
    ‘Oh, Thomas.’
    ‘I know. I’m sorry, it slipped my mind.’
    ‘There’s not a drop of gripe water left. And she’s been bawling all afternoon.’
    ‘Can’t you go to Jackson’s?’
    ‘Jackson’s closes at five.’
    ‘But their boy delivers, doesn’t he?’
    ‘Only if you telephone them to ask. I can’t call them now, they’ll have shut up shop ages ago. We’ll just have to manage until tomorrow.’
    ‘I’m sorry, darling. I’m an ass.’
    ‘Yes, you are. And you’re going to be dreadfully late for dinner.’
    ‘What have you made?’
    ‘Shepherd’s pie. It’s been ready for more than an hour, but it’ll keep.’
    Thomas hung up and left the phone booth; but then, instead of heading straight for the escalators, he lit a cigarette and leaned against a wall and watched the other people hurrying by. He