couple of slices with his knife and slid them carefully onto Thomas’s plate, then sighed. ‘What wouldn’t I give for a bit of nice, tangy Cheddar, and some Wensleydale,’ he said. ‘Have you tried this Dutch stuff? It tastes like candle wax.’
We deal in information
On the morning of Thursday, 17 April 1958, the Brussels World’s Fair was declared open by King Baudouin Albert Charles Léopold Axel Marie Gustave de Belgique. The King entered the Exposition site by the Porte Royale, and was then driven along the Avenue de la Dynastie, accompanied by the Prime Minister and members of the royal family. The avenue was lined with cheering crowds – amongst them Thomas Foley and Tony Buttress – and the royal procession was marked with a fly-past of aeroplanes which formed a letter ‘B’ in the colours of the Belgian flag – although, as regards this last detail, Sylvia, watching at home on her black-and-white television, had to take the commentator’s word for it. She was transfixed, in any case, by the novelty of watching the event live on television so early in the morning (ITV had commenced transmission several hours earlier than usual, for this very purpose) and spent the whole of the broadcast watching out eagerly – but with a mounting sense of desperation – for a glimpse of her husband in the crowd; dandling Baby Gill on her knee as she did so, and rousing her interest (or driving her to distraction) with endless repetitions of the question, ‘Where’s Daddy? Where’s Daddy?’ as the uncomprehending infant gazed intently at the flickering screen, mesmerized by its play of abstract, monochrome shapes. They were joined, for the second half of the broadcast, by Norman Sparks, who had taken the morning off work to mark the occasion. He apologized for disturbing them, but his own television was suffering problems with the vertical hold, and would Mrs Foley mind too much if he took the liberty of watching the rest of the ceremony on their set? Mrs Foley was only too happy to oblige. She placed Gill on her neighbour’s lap while she went to pop the kettle on, and he cooed and gurgled at her with a natural ease, as if he did this sort of thing every day. The baby responded with besotted giggles.
Having driven the length of the avenue, King Baudouin proceeded into the Grand Auditorium, where, shortly after ten o’clock, he delivered his inaugural speech. A speech in which he expressed his view that humanity was standing at a crossroads, and that it faced two paths, one which led towards peace and one which led to destruction. He recommended, on the whole, taking the first of these paths. It was a fine, wise and memorable speech, most people agreed afterwards. A copy of it would later be made available to every hostess who worked at the fair, on a 45-rpm record.
When the speech was over, but before the crowd had really begun to disperse, Thomas slipped away and pushed and thrust himself through the thronging morass as best he could, making for the Britannia. It took a good half hour to complete the 500-yard journey.
Terence Rossiter was already there, standing behind the bar and polishing glasses in preparation for the midday opening. In this task he was being assisted by a tall, wiry woman of about twenty-five, with platinum-blonde hair and a hard, world-weary expression. Thomas assumed that this must be Mr Rossiter’s niece, as mentioned on his first visit to the Britannia some weeks ago.
‘Not at all,’ the landlord told him. ‘Ruthie was all set to come over, but then she got a better offer. Only last week, in fact. Quite out of the blue. Secretarial work, very well paid, just the sort of thing she’s been looking for. So she could hardly turn it down. Damn nuisance from my point of view, but we didn’t have to worry for long. Miss Knott heard of the vacancy on the grapevine, before it was even advertised, and put herself forward. We could hardly say no. Not many people would be willing or able
We deal in information
On the morning of Thursday, 17 April 1958, the Brussels World’s Fair was declared open by King Baudouin Albert Charles Léopold Axel Marie Gustave de Belgique. The King entered the Exposition site by the Porte Royale, and was then driven along the Avenue de la Dynastie, accompanied by the Prime Minister and members of the royal family. The avenue was lined with cheering crowds – amongst them Thomas Foley and Tony Buttress – and the royal procession was marked with a fly-past of aeroplanes which formed a letter ‘B’ in the colours of the Belgian flag – although, as regards this last detail, Sylvia, watching at home on her black-and-white television, had to take the commentator’s word for it. She was transfixed, in any case, by the novelty of watching the event live on television so early in the morning (ITV had commenced transmission several hours earlier than usual, for this very purpose) and spent the whole of the broadcast watching out eagerly – but with a mounting sense of desperation – for a glimpse of her husband in the crowd; dandling Baby Gill on her knee as she did so, and rousing her interest (or driving her to distraction) with endless repetitions of the question, ‘Where’s Daddy? Where’s Daddy?’ as the uncomprehending infant gazed intently at the flickering screen, mesmerized by its play of abstract, monochrome shapes. They were joined, for the second half of the broadcast, by Norman Sparks, who had taken the morning off work to mark the occasion. He apologized for disturbing them, but his own television was suffering problems with the vertical hold, and would Mrs Foley mind too much if he took the liberty of watching the rest of the ceremony on their set? Mrs Foley was only too happy to oblige. She placed Gill on her neighbour’s lap while she went to pop the kettle on, and he cooed and gurgled at her with a natural ease, as if he did this sort of thing every day. The baby responded with besotted giggles.
Having driven the length of the avenue, King Baudouin proceeded into the Grand Auditorium, where, shortly after ten o’clock, he delivered his inaugural speech. A speech in which he expressed his view that humanity was standing at a crossroads, and that it faced two paths, one which led towards peace and one which led to destruction. He recommended, on the whole, taking the first of these paths. It was a fine, wise and memorable speech, most people agreed afterwards. A copy of it would later be made available to every hostess who worked at the fair, on a 45-rpm record.
When the speech was over, but before the crowd had really begun to disperse, Thomas slipped away and pushed and thrust himself through the thronging morass as best he could, making for the Britannia. It took a good half hour to complete the 500-yard journey.
Terence Rossiter was already there, standing behind the bar and polishing glasses in preparation for the midday opening. In this task he was being assisted by a tall, wiry woman of about twenty-five, with platinum-blonde hair and a hard, world-weary expression. Thomas assumed that this must be Mr Rossiter’s niece, as mentioned on his first visit to the Britannia some weeks ago.
‘Not at all,’ the landlord told him. ‘Ruthie was all set to come over, but then she got a better offer. Only last week, in fact. Quite out of the blue. Secretarial work, very well paid, just the sort of thing she’s been looking for. So she could hardly turn it down. Damn nuisance from my point of view, but we didn’t have to worry for long. Miss Knott heard of the vacancy on the grapevine, before it was even advertised, and put herself forward. We could hardly say no. Not many people would be willing or able
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