but we prefer things to be rather more . . . solid, than our continental allies. Might I trouble you to pass the bread, please?’
Meanwhile, Thomas was easing his way into conversation with Mr Gardner. The designer had a fearsome reputation at the COI, but was proving far more approachable than Thomas had expected. Instinctively, at first, he had been addressing the great man as ‘sir’, but Gardner took exception to this and insisted that there should be no formality.
‘We’re not in Whitehall now,’ he said, refilling his wine glass for the third or fourth time. He raised the glass to Thomas again, without making a toast this time, and asked: ‘So, how’s this pub of yours coming on?’
‘Well, it’s not really mine , I wouldn’t say . . .’
‘Oh, come on. Enough of the English modesty.’
‘It’s shaping up very well, anyway. Almost there now. We’re still waiting for delivery of a couple of things. One of the anchors from HMS Victory is supposed to have shown up, but there seems to have been a hitch.’
‘A replica, I presume?’
‘Yes, of course. We’ve had it made up in Wolverhampton. Bit of a headache, to be honest, but the brief, as you know, was that there should be plenty of historical stuff on display.’
‘Ah, yes. We do love our imperial past, we Brits. Still – full marks to you for still making everything as fresh as you could. Not going with the thatched cottage, olde English sort of thing. I’m sure you had a few battles to fight. God knows, I did. But you can see what we’re competing with.’ He gestured at the window, with its vista down the brightly lit avenue towards the Porte Benelux. ‘The Belgians have really pulled the stops out. This is all as bang up-to-date as anything I’ve seen. No wonder old Braintree here doesn’t like it.’ (Mr Braintree had, in fact, departed by now, pleading a prior engagement; and Miss Bonniel had soon afterwards made her excuses and joined another table.) ‘Good God, you heard what an uphill struggle that poor Belgian bird was having trying to get him to express a bit of basic well-mannered enthusiasm. All too typical, sadly. The number of times I’ve come up against people like him. This bloody British antipathy to anything new, anything modern, anything which smacks of ideas rather than boring old facts. I mean – no offence – but why do you think they’ve stuck me here with you, at the opposite end of the room from Brave Sir John and his not especially Merry Men? I’m only the designer of the pavilion, after all. And to them, that makes me some sort of crank. A weirdo. I’m telling you,’ he continued – warming to his theme – ‘our lot are about thirty years behind the Belgians. I mean, take this place we’re sitting in. Bit gimmicky, but still a thing of beauty and wonder, don’t you think? The designer was born in Britain, if you can believe that. Wimbledon, of all places. But he would never have come up with anything like this if he’d stayed there. The Brits just don’t believe in progress, you see. That’s why the Roger Braintrees of this world can’t be doing with me. They pay lip service to it, all right, but when it comes down to it they don’t trust the word – or the idea. Because it threatens a system which has been serving them very well for the last few centuries. And so, unlike him, yes I will be attending the opening ceremony on Thursday morning. With a bit of a “typically English”, cynical smile on my face, of course, because we all know exactly what the King is going to say. He’s going to say that humanity is standing at a crossroads, and we face two paths, one which leads to peace and one which leads to destruction. What else is he supposed to say? But that doesn’t matter. What matters is that we’re here – and in years to come, we can say that we were here. Taking part.’ Mr Gardner was interrupted, at this point, by a waitress arriving with a plate of cheese. He picked up a
Meanwhile, Thomas was easing his way into conversation with Mr Gardner. The designer had a fearsome reputation at the COI, but was proving far more approachable than Thomas had expected. Instinctively, at first, he had been addressing the great man as ‘sir’, but Gardner took exception to this and insisted that there should be no formality.
‘We’re not in Whitehall now,’ he said, refilling his wine glass for the third or fourth time. He raised the glass to Thomas again, without making a toast this time, and asked: ‘So, how’s this pub of yours coming on?’
‘Well, it’s not really mine , I wouldn’t say . . .’
‘Oh, come on. Enough of the English modesty.’
‘It’s shaping up very well, anyway. Almost there now. We’re still waiting for delivery of a couple of things. One of the anchors from HMS Victory is supposed to have shown up, but there seems to have been a hitch.’
‘A replica, I presume?’
‘Yes, of course. We’ve had it made up in Wolverhampton. Bit of a headache, to be honest, but the brief, as you know, was that there should be plenty of historical stuff on display.’
‘Ah, yes. We do love our imperial past, we Brits. Still – full marks to you for still making everything as fresh as you could. Not going with the thatched cottage, olde English sort of thing. I’m sure you had a few battles to fight. God knows, I did. But you can see what we’re competing with.’ He gestured at the window, with its vista down the brightly lit avenue towards the Porte Benelux. ‘The Belgians have really pulled the stops out. This is all as bang up-to-date as anything I’ve seen. No wonder old Braintree here doesn’t like it.’ (Mr Braintree had, in fact, departed by now, pleading a prior engagement; and Miss Bonniel had soon afterwards made her excuses and joined another table.) ‘Good God, you heard what an uphill struggle that poor Belgian bird was having trying to get him to express a bit of basic well-mannered enthusiasm. All too typical, sadly. The number of times I’ve come up against people like him. This bloody British antipathy to anything new, anything modern, anything which smacks of ideas rather than boring old facts. I mean – no offence – but why do you think they’ve stuck me here with you, at the opposite end of the room from Brave Sir John and his not especially Merry Men? I’m only the designer of the pavilion, after all. And to them, that makes me some sort of crank. A weirdo. I’m telling you,’ he continued – warming to his theme – ‘our lot are about thirty years behind the Belgians. I mean, take this place we’re sitting in. Bit gimmicky, but still a thing of beauty and wonder, don’t you think? The designer was born in Britain, if you can believe that. Wimbledon, of all places. But he would never have come up with anything like this if he’d stayed there. The Brits just don’t believe in progress, you see. That’s why the Roger Braintrees of this world can’t be doing with me. They pay lip service to it, all right, but when it comes down to it they don’t trust the word – or the idea. Because it threatens a system which has been serving them very well for the last few centuries. And so, unlike him, yes I will be attending the opening ceremony on Thursday morning. With a bit of a “typically English”, cynical smile on my face, of course, because we all know exactly what the King is going to say. He’s going to say that humanity is standing at a crossroads, and we face two paths, one which leads to peace and one which leads to destruction. What else is he supposed to say? But that doesn’t matter. What matters is that we’re here – and in years to come, we can say that we were here. Taking part.’ Mr Gardner was interrupted, at this point, by a waitress arriving with a plate of cheese. He picked up a
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