‘Thanks,’ Simpson said dully. He was striving to think how he could gain access to some public source of information before his time was up and he had to return. ‘Er… I’ve got a report to write for my firm. In a hurry. About, well, recent events. Is there anywhere at all, any agency, any Government department, research centre, emergency service that might…?’
The man was staring at Simpson and smiling broadly, with the expression of a contemporary garage mechanic, say, telling a customer that the spare part for his car had not turned up, but much intensified. It was obviously a rare and delicious experience for him to have found somebody so well qualified to be informed that he could not get what he wanted anywhere on Earth (and no doubt on the planets, too). ‘There’s nothing, friend,’ he said finally. ‘Nothing at all. Think yourself lucky you haven’t got a broken leg, eh?’
‘And no drinks.’ Simpson had thought aloud.
‘Now drinks, that’s a different matter,’ the stranger said, his manner growing perceptibly warmer. ‘The pubs are open — Sunday hours, of course. In fact, I was thinking of dropping in for a pint myself. There’s a place just up there, before you get to Jermyn Street. Care to join me?’
Simpson accepted with some relief, an emotion that changed to alarm when he realized, a minute later, that the pub in question was one he often used himself. It would be highly embarrassing to meet the 1983 Simpson in there. Then reason returned: he had only to remember to steer clear of the area when this day came round for the second time in his life, and all, or at least that much, would be well.
He exchanged names with his companion, who was called Ernie Mullins and said he worked in a vegetable factory.
‘Oh, really?’ Simpson said. ‘What, er, what side of it are you on?’
‘Vending. Outlet apparatus inspector.’
‘I see. Whereabouts is this?’
‘South-West Area. Leatherhead. It’s not much of a job I’ve got, but it means a big part of Fetch-and-Carry’s off my mind.’
Simpson did not like to question such a clearly basic concept as Fetch-and-Carry. Instead, he asked: ‘I suppose you get a fair amount of custom out there, these days?’
‘Yes, pretty fair. On a full working day we get nearly two hundred thousand, which is over half a million in a full working week. A lot more than that before the slack periods, of course. And the second week in December’s murder, when they’re buying for all that time ahead.’
‘That many customers in Leatherhead?’ Simpson inquired with careful casualness.
‘Well, there are six million people in the South-West Area now, don’t forget. I think we’re overloaded myself. People ought to have bigger deep-freezes, so they could stock up for three months instead of three weeks. But there’s not the room. Here we are.’
They were about to enter the pub when its door was jerked open from the inside and three struggling men began to emerge. One of them (a powerful pig-faced character who turned out to be the landlord, and to whom Simpson took an instant dislike) was trying to expel another (a long-haired, heavily bearded person of about forty) with some assistance from the third (a near-replica of Ernie Mullins). All three were shouting angrily.
‘Fascist bastard!’ the bearded man yelled. ‘Power-structure élitist!’
‘Get bloody lost! Get back to your sit-in!’ This was the landlord. ‘You can’t treat me like your Board of Governors!’
‘You irrelevant authoritarian! You pathetic oligarch!’
‘Can’t you read?’ the third man demanded, pointing to a sign above the doorway that proclaimed: NO STUDENTS ALOWED.
‘Of course he can’t read, Joe, don’t make me laugh, he’s a student, isn’t he? Now, you, bugger off back to your boycott before I get cross! Ernie, give us a hand.’
Not very willingly, Ernie gave a hand, and in no time, still bawling accusations of Fascism, pathos and irrelevance, the bearded man was reeling off towards the square. Simpson was introduced to the landlord, who nodded and went back into his house, and to Joe, who shook hands amiably and suggested a pint on him.
The bar of the pub was superficially as Simpson remembered it, but he soon saw that the counter was lined with dispensing machines of various sorts, past which a thick queue was laboriously shuffling. He went along behind Joe and Ernie, and was eventually handed a large plastic beaker. When the time came, Joe put some coins into a slot on a machine marked BITTER, collected three small packets from an aperture in it, and handed one each to the other two. He led them past other machines labelled MILD, STOUT, SCOTCH, GIN, VODKER — from the last-named three, stubby pipes emerged — PORK PIE, SOSSIDGE, HAM SANGWIDGE and CRISPS. At the end of the counter, Joe took three smaller packets from a dispenser, doled out two of these as before, and nearly filled his beaker with what proved to be plain water. When the others had done the same, the trio moved away from the counter into the middle of a considerable crowd of drinkers, all standing: there was nowhere to sit down.
Joe and Ernie, followed by Simpson, dropped their larger packets unopened into their beakers. In a few seconds they had dissolved, wrapping and all, producing a clear lightish-brown liquid. The smaller packets went in similarly, and a foamy head formed.
‘Cheers,’ Joe said.
‘Let’s be lucky,’ Ernie said.
‘All the best,’ Simpson said tentatively.
This proved acceptable, and they drank. The ‘bitter’ was bland, by no means unpalatable, and without either much resemblance to the beer Simpson was used to or any particular character of its own. (He told us it bore very much the same relation to our bitter as powdered coffee to coffee.)
‘Well, what do you think of it?’ Ernie asked, but before Simpson could reply a sort of altercation had broken out at the bar.
‘Do something about it, then!’ an elderly man was repeatedly shouting at the landlord, who after a time switched off the miniature television set he had been watching and waddled impatiently up to the counter.
‘Give over, can’t you?’ he said. ‘What can I do?’
‘Repair the bloody thing! I want vodka and I’m going to have vodka!’
‘Not this week you’re not! The machine’s broke and that’s that!’
‘Replace the bloody unit, then!’ the elderly man yelled. ‘Or get a mechanic on to it!’
‘You off your rocker? What’s a mechanic? And how can I replace it now? Look, you take a gin on the house and pipe down.’
This was evidently thought suitable, and the hubbub died away. Simpson turned to his companions.
‘Bad management, running out of vodka in the middle of a holiday.’
‘Oh, he’s not run out,’ Joe said. ‘Just the dispensing unit gone. Might happen to anybody.’
‘You mean there’s plenty of the stuff around, but it isn’t coming through to the tap? Well, why can’t he take it from the bottle or the tank or whatever it is? That wouldn’t be any—’
‘Too much trouble, mate. You can’t expect him to do that.’
‘Good God! He’s got a pretty soft life, that landlord, hasn’t he?’
‘Has he hell! Think of Fetch-and-Carry in a place like this.’
‘Fetch-and-Carry?’ Though he had heard the phrase already, Simpson was now comparatively relaxed and off his guard, and for a moment he revealed his total bewilderment.
Joe and Ernie looked at each other and seemed to make up their minds. Ernie spoke.
‘You’ve been inside, Simmy, haven’t you? You can tell us.’
Simpson in his turn came to a decision. ‘Yes.’