Page 77 - The English Carnival 7

‘I don’t care if he does,’ my mother said. ‘He lied to us. He said he was too tired to

walk any further and he’s practically running us off our feet!
He’s a barefaced liar! He’s a crook!’

‘You mean he’s not a titled gentleman?’ I asked.

‘Be quiet,’ she said.

At the next crossing, the little man turned right again. Then he turned left. Then right.

‘I’m not giving up now,’ my mother said.

‘He’s disappeared!’ I cried. ‘Where’s he gone?’

‘He went in that door!’ my mother said. ‘I saw him! Into that house!

Great heavens, it’s a pub!’

It was a pub. In big letters right across the front it said THE RED LION.

‘You’re not going in. Are you, mummy?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘We’ll watch from outside.’

There was a big plate-glass window along the
front of the pub, and although it was a bit steamy
on the inside, we could see through it very well
if we went close.

We stood huddled together outside the pub
window. I was clutching my mother’s arm. The

big raindrops were making a loud noise on our
umbrella. ‘There he is,’ I said. ‘Over there.’

The room we were looking into was full of
people and cigarette smoke, and our little man
was in the middle of it all. He was now without
his hat and coat, and he was edging his way

through the crowd towards the bar. When he
reached it, he placed both hands on the bar itself
and spoke to the barman. I saw his lips moving
as he gave his order. The barman turned away
from him for a few seconds and came back with

a smallish tumbler filled to the brim with light
brown liquid. The little man placed a pound
note on the counter.

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The Englsih Carnival-8