Stephen turned the big wrought-iron ring that was the door handle, and lifted the heavy latch. “I say,” he said. “Look at the keyhole. The key must be like the one to the Tower of London.” They looked at the huge keyhole, and both conceived an instant desire to see the key that fitted such a hole. It must indeed, Richard thought, be a titan among keys.
Inside there was a second door, of ordinary construction, across a yard-wide space of dark red tiles. The tiles had been worn away in the middle by the feet of several centuries. They opened the inner door, and found themselves in a long, low-ceilinged bar. There was no one about, but they noticed immediately that the room did not have the unpleasant odour of stale beer and smoke common to many pubs. By contrast, this room smelt sweetly of flowers, furniture polish and, overhanging all, the faint but pervasive aroma of the smoke of old wood burning.
Looking about them curiously, the boys headed for the bar, examining its highly polished surface approvingly. The floor was mostly polished parquet blocks, except for a large area at one end, which was paved with the same red tiles as they had seen in the airlock between the two doors. The woodwork of the pillars and canopy above the long bar was old, of high quality and very well looked after. On the broad shelf behind the bar a vast array of bottles, optics and glasses winked and shone in the soft lighting that, even at just after eleven on a fine spring morning, was necessary to illuminate the low room. They leaned on the bar, in no hurry to start drinking, and content to look about and take in the atmosphere of the place.
When they had been leaning easily on the bar for two or three minutes, a large red-faced man with dark hair going grey and a rather magnificent handlebar moustache appeared from somewhere. ‘‘Morning,” he said agreeably. “Pleasant one, at that.” They noticed that he made no attempt to apologise for having kept them waiting, and concluded that hurry was not endemic to the way of life in so remote and rural a spot.
“Morning. Could we have two pints of lager, please?” said Stephen politely. The man automatically reached up and took two mugs hanging on hooks beneath the carved canopy above the bar. “Which one would you like?” he asked, gesturing along an immense row of pump handles. “Oh,” said Stephen, looking in some dismay. “I didn’t notice you had so many. Er…” He wandered along the bar, astonished to see so many different varieties of beer on sale.
“We’re a free house,” said the man, making conversation. “I doubt if you’ll find a wider choice of beers in Sussex.” They settled for Kronenbourg. Stephen suffered a sudden lapse into his recent past, and pronounced it in the French manner. “Oh. Sorry,” he apologised as he heard himself. “I spent a while working in a bar in Alsace recently,” he explained. “They make this stuff there. Just slipped back into the habit, I suppose. Have one yourself?” he added, to cover his mild embarrassment at having sounded appallingly affected, as he thought he probably had.
“That’s very kind of you,” said the man amiably. “I’ll have fifty-pennorth.” He took a large wine glass from the back shelf, where it was evidently reserved for his own use, and pulled himself a small beer from one of the bitter pumps, which were even more numerous than those for lager.
“ Un galopin,” said Stephen happily, remembering.
“Sorry?” queried the man, wiping his extravagant moustache.
“Oh, nothing,” said Stephen. “They call that — a little beer, in a wine glass — a galopin in France.”
The man seemed glad of some company to chat to early in the day. They discovered that he was Thomas Whitfield, the manager of the hotel, and Stephen decided to risk a direct question.
“You don’t own it, then?” he said, hoping so direct an approach was not inviting a rebuff. But Whitfield didn’t seem to mind.
“No, no,” he said. “There’s an absentee landlord somewhere in the background. I haven’t the slightest idea who he is. Some shady billionaire in the Cayman Islands, I shouldn’t be surprised.” Stephen smothered a titter by turning it into a paroxysm of coughing, while Richard discovered an infinite fascination in the toes of his trainers as he fought to suppress his emotions. The landlord noticed nothing, and went on talking. “We’re run ostensibly from a firm of lawyers in London. We never see anything of them. They send someone to go through the books once a quarter, they pay the VAT man and authorise repairs and so on. I’ll tell you lads the truth, I wouldn’t have it any other way. The owner, whoever he is, is obviously ready to make sure the place is kept in good order. I’ve spent a small fortune on this place in the three years since I took it over, and there’s never been the suspicion of haggling. That’s practically unheard of these days. The way most tenants have to fight to get a replacement toilet roll out of the brewers, it makes me very glad I landed here. I reckon I can say without blushing, I’ve got the smartest pub in Sussex here.”
A rapid conversation went on in facial expressions, at the end of which Stephen, on receiving an affirmative from Richard, said, hesitantly, “We… er… we haven’t quite been playing fair with you, Mr Whitfield.”
Whitfield, who had observed the unspoken exchange and been puzzled by it, put down the glass he had been polishing and leaned across the bar, sensing suddenly that something of some substance was afoot, and prepared to take a more intense interest. “How d’you mean?” he said, a little tensely.
“This firm of lawyers you deal with,” began Stephen. “Are they…?” He named the sharp operators in Chancery Lane.
Whitfield narrowed his eyes and looked very closely at him. “Yes,” he said softly after a very long, difficult pause. “But I’m very curious how you might know that.” There was a distinct undertone of hostility, or, at least, of suspicion, in his voice now.
“It’s as I said, Mr Whitfield,” said Stephen, weighing his words carefully. “We haven’t played fair with you. But I’m going to now. I’ll lay my cards down. The man who the solicitors represented was a Mr Westwood. He was a very old gentleman, a retired doctor. He lived in London, more or less as a recluse. He died last year, and left everything he owned, including this hotel, to… to a very close friend of mine. That friend also died very recently — he was killed in an air disaster — the plane that blew up over the Channel, you probably heard about it.” Whitfield nodded and made a rumbling sound in his throat, which Stephen took to mean both that he had heard of the disaster and that he was waiting for Stephen to continue.
“That friend of mine, in his turn, left everything he owned — to me,” Stephen finished simply. He waited in silence, curious to see how Whitfield reacted. There was a momentary awkward silence. Then Whitfield said “I’m sorry. I’m very distressed to hear that.” There was another, very long pause, while he subjected first Stephen, then Richard, to an intense and unashamed scrutiny. When he at last spoke it was slowly and quietly, as if he was uncertain whether to take what he had heard seriously.
Richard, watching him, could almost hear his thoughts: that it was an almost impossible chain of coincidences that had brought a mere boy to ownership of his haven of affluent and interference-free comfort; then the reflection that it was still more unlikely that Stephen could know such details, let alone present them in so self-assured a manner, unless he was speaking of something that he knew very well. Promptly on the heels of this thought he observed the first tremors of anxiety on his own account. Worries about new brooms wrote themselves loud and clear over his face. Finally he saw a determined expression wipe out all its predecessors, and waited, certain that he was about to ask for further cards to be laid on the table.
He was right. “I have to accept what you say,” he said slowly, considering. “It’s pretty unexpected, as I dare say you can imagine. I’d have thought you were a couple of silly kids taking the piss, but for the fact that you were able to quote the name of the lawyers, and you gave the details like someone who was speaking from knowledge. But I can check in thirty seconds if I’m in any doubt about your bona fides, can’t I?”
“Please do, by all means,” said Stephen, �
��if you’d feel more sure of us. Here’s the man to ask for.” He slipped his fingers into the hip pocket of his jeans and passed over the card that Guilfoyle had given him. “Do ring him,” said Stephen earnestly. “Please. It’ll make it much easier for us to talk if you know for certain you can trust us to be who we say we are.” Whitfield stared at him for some seconds, a long, hard, concentrated stare. Then his face cleared, he nodded, and said “Good enough.” He went to the telephone at the far end of the bar, turning the card over in his fingers as he went. They couldn’t hear what he was saying, but they could see him nodding, and once or twice he turned to look back towards them. After a short conversation he disappeared through a door in the rear wall of the bar. He was gone for some minutes, during which the boys looked at each other and wondered if they were doing the right thing. Then Whitfield came back, looking at them with considerably more respect. “Well, Mr Hill — I take it you’re Mr Hill,” he said, addressing Stephen, who nodded and smiled as pleasantly as he was able. “Well, yes, I spoke to your Mr Guilfoyle, he confirms every word you’ve just been saying, and — you asked me to check you to feel sure, so I did. I looked in our books, and his name’s mentioned in some of the correspondence. I’m satisfied — satisfied that you’re who you say you are. So I’m talking to my boss. What I’m wondering is, are you satisfied?”
Stephen was about to speak, but he hesitated, feeling very distinctly uneasy. He wished they hadn’t approached the matter in the way they had, which was beginning to seem more and more underhand with every moment that passed. Whitfield, taking his hesitation for doubts about what answer to give, went on speaking. “I mean, Mr Hill, you can imagine, it’s a bit of a shock to stand chatting to a couple of casual customers and then suddenly to find that you’ve been talking to your employer. Especially — I hope you won’t mind me saying this…” He paused awkwardly, flushing a little. Stephen took pity on him.
“Especially since he’s only a bit of a kid,” he said, with a grin that took any possible sting out of the words. “Of course I understand that, Mr Whitfield. I also think we — sorry, I — owe you a very profound apology. For the way we handled it. It was more than unfair. It was mean and underhand to come in incognito like that. But I can only promise you that we weren’t trying to catch you out in anything. As I’m sure you can imagine, I’m very new to this sort of thing — I mean, I’ve never owned anything, let alone something like a pub. We wanted to come down and look at the place, for a specific reason, which I’d like to tell you about, in a bit. But we thought if we just walked in and said ‘Hi, we’re the owners’, it would look so… so cock-sure and conceited that we… well, we thought we’d just come in and have a look. Then, if we liked what we saw, well, okay, fine, we could open up, as we have done. If we didn’t like what we saw, well, then we were just going to walk out again, and the plan I’ve got would never have happened.
“But I’d like to say one thing right from the start. We are happy with what we see — aren’t we, Rich?” He turned for support from his friend, who nodded seriously, but otherwise indicated that Stephen should continue to be spokesman. “You’re doing fine,” was the message that passed between them, once again without the necessity for words. As before, Whitfield observed the unspoken communication. Whitfield had been appointed by an agent who had in turn been appointed by Guilfoyle, and was not surprisingly a very shrewd man. He had already begun to place the two young men — kids, as he would have thought them in almost any other conceivable circumstances. He waited to see what Stephen had to say next. “We’re very happy,” went on Stephen. “And we’re not going to come storming in here interfering in all your arrangements, changing things for the sake of changing them, or to impress our personalities on the place. You know the pub, the business, the area and the people, we don’t know anything about any of them. You’re a publican. Less than a year ago I was a schoolboy. My knowledge of pubs amounts to drinking in them, and a few months working as a barman in France. As far as the books and the finances are concerned, if Guilfoyle and his friends are satisfied with the way you run the show, fine. He doesn’t strike me as a man very easily satisfied, and I shouldn’t dream of poking my nose in.
“As for the place itself, well, it’s about the nicest pub I’ve ever been in. It’s beautiful, it’s been kept wonderfully, and it’ll be perfect for what I’ve got in mind. But before I go on to that, I’d like to ask you three things. Okay?” Whitfield nodded, watching Stephen’s face with a considerable respect dawning on his own.
“Okay,” went on Stephen, glancing once again at Richard for further reassurance, and receiving it. “First: do you feel better for what I’ve said already?”
“Yes, thank you, Mr Hill,” said Whitfield slowly. “I do. I must admit, I was beginning to get a little anxious, when you started talking about schemes and plans. But you’ve been very generous in what you’ve said.” Stephen wondered if he had really heard a faint emphasis on the last word, and would have liked to ask Richard if he had heard it also. But that was impossible, so he nodded and went on.
“Good. Second: can I persuade you to drop the ‘Mr Hill’, and call me Stephen. Or Steve. Everybody does. Besides —” he added shrewdly, “I’m hardly old enough to be called Mr yet, am I?”
This time Whitfield stared at him for a second or two, taken aback at hearing his own thoughts so exactly enunciated. Suddenly he laughed. “You’re nobody’s fool, however old you may be,” he said. “Steve it is. Everybody calls me Tom.”
“Okay,” said Stephen. “And this is Richard. Richard Fitzjohn.” The other two shook hands across the bar. “The third thing,” said Stephen, “is, can we have another drink, please? My glass has been empty for fifteen minutes, and I’m getting thirsty. Two more of the same for us, and whatever you fancy for yourself, er, Tom.”
So Tom Whitfield busied himself pulling pints, having one himself this time. A few other early customers drifted in — it was still not yet mid-day — and he served them quickly and efficiently, while Stephen grabbed the chance to ask Richard how he was managing. “You’re doing great,” said Richard very quietly. He gently ran his fingers of the hand that was hidden from Tom and the newcomers by Stephen’s body up and down the curve of Stephen’s bottom. Stephen stiffened immediately, and suppressed a desire to writhe with pleasure. Richard kept on stroking him until Tom, having disposed of the customers’ wants, returned hastily. “Now then,” he said, “may I know what this plan is of yours? Not that I’m prying, of course,” he added hurriedly. “But if it concerns the hotel…”
“Of course,” said Stephen. “It’s to do with cricket. You see, our club have got a bit of a problem with our tour…”
“You a cricketer?” asked Tom, a gleam coming instantly into his eye.
“I certainly am,” Stephen responded warmly, and the enthusiasm was plain in his voice and face.
“I’m a hundred-and-two per cent, clinically-certifiable cricket lunatic myself,” said Tom. “To my unfortunate wife’s unending despair, I’m afraid. I turn out for the local side whenever I can. They’re all regulars here. They’ll be in tonight, as it happens: they hold their selection committee meetings in here on Thursday nights. Pity you can’t be here to meet em. They’re a nice bunch.”
“I was coming to that,” said Stephen. “We were going to ask if you’d got a room.”
“Rooms?” queried Tom, poker-faced.
Stephen gave him a solemn look for a moment, then replaced it with a cat-like grin. “Room,” he corrected. Tom blinked, just once, then said “Room it is. You can have your pick. We don’t do much residential business this time of year. Twin beds, I take it?” he said with considerable delicacy.
“How big are the doubles?” asked Stephen, twinkling.
“Not big enough,” said Tom, once again poker-faced.
“Twin beds it is,” said Stephen. He hesitated, watching Tom’s face, which Tom was carefully keeping stolidly neutral. “Is this going to be a problem here?” Stephen asked in t
he end. “I mean, I let you have it with both barrels like that because you were going to have to know. I don’t like being secretive about myself, and I’ve no intention of being. But is it likely to be a problem for you — with the cricket club, or the customers? I’m only asking so we know what we’ve got to be prepared for. We don’t keep secrets; but we don’t stuff anything down people’s throats — if you take my meaning,” he added with a saucy grin. Tom grinned a little uncertainly back. Richard chuckled.
Tom considered the question for a while. “It’s nothing to me,” he said levelly. “I’ve got no problem with your… with that kind of thing. Live and let live, I say. I don’t think you’ll have any trouble with most of the customers, either. The young ones, especially. They won’t give a damn, or very few of em will, anyway. One or two of the older inhabitants might be a bit shaken. This is purple Tory country, remember, and we’ve got more than our fair share of Colonel Blimps. The Costa Geriatrica, this is. Full of retired people, and a lot of em pretty set in their ways. They won’t — ah — they won’t exactly offer you a twenty-one gun salute, if you take my meaning. On the other hand they most likely won’t bother you too much. But what kind of reception you get will rather depend on how you present yourselves, d’you see what I mean? I mean, they’re not the sort to see — er — gay people as the younger element do… on the other hand, they’re a rather reserved breed, given to keeping emselves to emselves. If you don’t… sort of brandish it in front of em — stuff it down their throats, as you yourself put it… well, they’ll probably make retired colonel noises at me when you’re not here. But that’ll be all there is to it, I should think.” He paused, considering another aspect of the matter. “Can I tell em about you being the owner of the place?” he asked.
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