Expo 58: A Novel Read online

  Thomas lay down flat on the bed, ran his hands through his hair, and exhaled deeply. The journey was over, the moment of arrival had passed. Now what?

  In a moment he would unpack. Then he would take a taxi to the Expo site and perhaps visit the Britannia: certainly look for somewhere to dine, and someone to dine with. It was four-thirty. Three-thirty back in London. He wondered what plans Sylvia would be making for dinner, which he supposed she would eat by herself in the kitchen.

  He had done the right thing by coming here. He was sure of that. Though he knew it would be hard on her, terribly hard. At least she had Baby Gill for company, that was one consolation. He would write to her in a day or two, in any case; perhaps sooner . . .

  ‘Sorry, old man. I didn’t mean to interrupt your beauty sleep.’

  Thomas stirred slowly and stiffly on his bed. A clatter from the bathroom had awoken him. Outside it was almost dark. He raised himself onto one elbow and peered towards the bathroom door. He saw a friendly-looking man of about his own age, with wavy blond hair, a V-necked sweater and a pipe clamped between his teeth. The man beamed back at him.

  ‘Long journey, eh?’ he said.

  Thomas sat up, suddenly and thoroughly awake.

  ‘I’m terribly sorry,’ he said. ‘I was just having a little lie down and . . .’

  ‘Buttress,’ said the man, extending his hand.

  ‘Foley,’ said Thomas.

  They shook hands.

  ‘Might as well call me Tony,’ said the man. ‘After all, it looks like we’re going to be pretty intimate.’

  ‘Rather. I’m Thomas, in that case.’

  ‘Right you are. Mind if I light up in here?’

  ‘Good Lord, not at all, old man. I’m ready for a gasper myself.’

  ‘Good man.’

  Tony lit his pipe, and Thomas lit his cigarette, and within a few seconds the interior of the cabin was agreeably thick with smoke.

  ‘Well,’ said Thomas, dragging on the cigarette thoughtfully. ‘What do you make of this place, then? Not exactly Pontin’s, is it?’

  ‘Not exactly. Puts me more in mind of Colditz, to be honest.’

  ‘Just what I thought when I saw it from the plane, when we were coming in to land.’

  ‘Good flight?’

  ‘Not bad. What about you?’

  ‘Could have been worse.’ Tony opened his suitcase and began to take out a few clothes. ‘So, what’s your role in this Expo hoo-hah going to be, if you don’t mind my asking?’

  ‘Back in London,’ said Thomas, ‘I work for the COI. They want me to be here to keep an eye on this pub. You know, the Britannia.’

  ‘Ha! So they’ve got you pulling pints for six months, have they? You’ve landed on your feet, old boy.’

  ‘I dare say I have. What about you?’

  ‘Nothing so cushy, I’m afraid,’ said Tony, who had wandered over to the wardrobe now. ‘I say, how would it be if I had the shelves on the left, and you had the ones on the right? We don’t want your socks getting mixed up with my smalls, after all.’

  ‘Sounds good to me.’

  ‘Then we can both hang our shirts up in the middle. Spirit of compromise, and all that.’

  ‘Makes perfectly good sense.’

  ‘Jolly d. I can see you and I are going to rub along quite painlessly.’ By now Tony had his head in the wardrobe, placing socks, underwear, ties, cufflinks and other accessories onto the different shelves. His voice was muffled and indistinct. ‘Anyway, I’m here on secondment from the Royal Institution,’ he said. ‘Sounds rather grand, I know, but I’m Scientific Consultant to the British pavilion, if you can believe that.’

  ‘I can believe it,’ said Thomas, ‘but I’m not sure what it means.’

  ‘There’s a lot of pretty advanced equipment in there,’ Tony explained, emerging from the wardrobe and looking around to see if there was anything else to pack away. ‘The jewel in the crown being the ZETA machine.’

  Thomas’s interest was suddenly piqued, as he remembered the cloud of secrecy which had descended in the committee room as soon as Sir John had mentioned this project. Not wanting to sound too inquisitive, however, he adopted a casual tone and said: ‘Oh, yes. Think I read something about that in the papers a few months ago.’

  ‘There was quite a fanfare about it back in January.’

  ‘What does it do, exactly?’

  ‘What does it do? Well, to put it in the simplest possible terms, it’s a bloody great oven. They’re trying to achieve temperatures of about one hundred million degrees centigrade.’

  Thomas let out a low whistle. ‘Pretty darn hot.’

  ‘Yes. Though all they’ve managed so far is about three million.’

  ‘Still – plenty high enough to burn your Yorkshire pudding to a cinder, I would have thought.’

  ‘I’ll say. Though the ultimate plan is a bit more serious than that. You see, at those sorts of temperatures, you start to get neutron bursts. Nuclear fusion, in other words – which is the Holy Grail, as far as the researchers are concerned. All mankind’s energy problems solved at a stroke.’

  ‘And will it happen? Can it be done?’

  ‘Some people think it already has. The venerable old Sir John Cockroft, who heads up the team, told the press he was 90 per cent certain that they’d cracked it. Hence all the ballyhoo in January. Of course, the Yanks and the Soviets are both trying to do the same thing, and seem to be lagging well behind, so the actual workings of the contraption have to be kept terribly hush-hush. What we’re showing in the pavilion is only a replica. But still, you know, someone has to make sure it’s working properly. All the lights have to flash on and off at the right time, and so forth, to make sure that Joe Public is suitably impressed. Funny, really. You’re here to look after a replica pub and I’m here to look after a replica machine. Both in the conjuring business, really, aren’t we?’ He chuckled quietly and then, while Thomas was still reflecting on this observation, started to rummage in his jacket pocket, finally producing a small, white, slightly crumpled envelope. ‘By the way,’ he said, ‘you’d better have this, before it goes out of my head. Old Joe Stalin out there handed it to me at the reception desk. Looks like an invitation, unless I’m much mistaken.’

  The British are part of Europe

  The invitation had been typed on the notepaper of the British Embassy in Brussels, and read:

  Dear Folly

  The Commissioner-General has the greatest of pleasure in inviting you to attend a small reception in the restaurant of the Atomium on the evening of Tuesday 15 April, to celebrate the imminent opening of the British Government Pavilion to the General Public. Drinks 6.45, Dinner 7.30. Dress: Lounge Suit.

  Yours

  Mr S. Hebblethwaite

  Secretary-General

  RSVP by return.

  Thomas would remember it, for years afterwards, as being one of the great moments of his life. It was not long after dusk, and he had entered the Expo Park by the Portes des Attractions, showing his newly issued delegate’s pass to the security guard (who would never ask to see it again). Passing by the as yet silent and unopened amusement park on his left, he entered the Place de Belgique, then took a right turn. This avenue, too, was quiet: the cable cars stood empty and motionless high above him, their bodies thrown into brilliant relief by the fluorescent light which gleamed out from innumerable futuristic lampposts placed along the walkways. As for the Atomium, it was now directly ahead of him, and Thomas caught his breath when he saw it: each one of the aluminium spheres was festooned with a criss-crossing network of silver lights, and the effect was at once festive, majestic and other-worldly, as if this were a Christmas celebration on the planet of some far-flung galaxy. Raising his eyes hundreds of feet to the topmost sphere, Thomas could see the warmer, yellower lights of the restaurant: the very place towards which his eager
footsteps were now leading him.

  A liveried footman welcomed him into the ground-floor reception area, and showed him to the lift, which was furnished with a glass roof so that the passenger might have a sense of the speed of his passage up through the central column. And indeed, it seemed incredibly fast: Thomas’s ears were already popping when the lift hissed and braked its way to a gentle halt. The doors whooshed open and he stepped out into the restaurant.

  A British Embassy functionary was waiting outside the lift with a typewritten list of invited guests.

  ‘Ah. Good evening, Mr, er . . .’ (he consulted the sheet of paper) ‘Mr Folly, isn’t it?’

  ‘Foley.’

  ‘Really? Are you sure?’

  ‘Quite sure.’

  ‘OK then. Tickety-boo.’ (He crossed Thomas’s name off the list.) ‘I’m Simon Hebblethwaite, Sir John’s secretary-general. Have you been introduced to Sir John?’

  ‘Not as such, no. We . . . we attended a meeting together in London.’

  ‘Ah. Well, anyway, it’s jolly good of you to come, at such short notice. Someone from the Industries pavilion had to drop out at the last minute, and it would have looked bad to have a spare place at the table.’

  ‘I see. Yes, that would have been awkward.’

  ‘Well, do help yourself to a drink. There’s a few bottles of fizz. I should get a couple of glasses down before it runs out and we have to fall back on the standard French plonk.’

  Thomas took a glass of champagne from one of the waitresses and, realizing at once that it would be hard to get into conversation with any of the already tightly knit groups that had formed throughout the room, he wandered over to one of the vast plate-glass windows. It didn’t bother him, for now, that his invitation to this dinner had obviously been an afterthought, or that nobody here had any interest in him. He could have stood for ever by that window, sipping champagne and looking down on the multicoloured lights of this incredible new metropolis: so busy, so modern, shimmering with life and promise. He felt that he was looking into the future, from the clearest and loftiest vantage point that the technological ingenuity of man could devise. He felt like a king of the universe.

  For dinner, he took his allotted place at a table for four. The entire restaurant seemed to have been booked out for this occasion, and although Thomas’s table – like all the others – was next to a window and offered the usual panorama of the Expo site, it was also about as far removed from Sir John Balfour and the other VIPs as it was possible to be. He found it surprising, then, that he was seated next to James Gardner, the designer of the British pavilion: for Thomas, this felt like a special and very intimidating honour. Also at the table were one Roger Braintree, introduced as Secretary to the Commercial Counsellor of the British Embassy in Brussels, and a tall, softly spoken Belgian lady called Sylvie: Sylvie Bonniel, who held some position (never quite explained) on one of the committees responsible for advising on the musical component of the different nations’ contributions.

  ‘Well, ladies and gentlemen,’ said Mr Gardner to the other three, raising his glass. ‘Let us drink a toast to Expo 58. By golly, we made it! Here we are, bang on time, and only a few more nails and screws to bash in before Thursday. Nothing short of a miracle, if you ask me. Let’s allow ourselves a small pat on the back.’

  ‘To Expo 58,’ Thomas echoed.

  ‘And to Great Britain,’ said Miss Bonniel gallantly, ‘whose contribution will, I’m sure, be one of the finest.’

  They began to eat. The first course involved prawns, and onions, and something liquid and grey: closer identification than that was difficult. Thomas found it rather pleasant. Roger Braintree ate his portion quickly and determinedly, with a scowl of concentration on his face. He seemed to regard it as an unwelcome interruption, rather than a conversational overture, when Miss Bonniel turned to him and said: ‘And will you be attending the opening ceremony on Thursday, Mr Braintree?’

  ‘Not if I can help it,’ he replied, through his latest mouthful.

  Miss Bonniel flinched slightly, as if from an insect bite.

  ‘You don’t want to be present, on this historic occasion? Something to tell your grandchildren?’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Of course. An opportunity to see our King. To hear his speech.’ Roger Braintree grunted and speared another prawn. ‘Being British, I would have thought you enjoyed a certain amount of pomp and pageantry.’

  ‘Well, we get plenty of that at home.’

  ‘But this, Mr Braintree . . . Surely this is unique, and unrepeatable? So many nations coming together, when a few years ago we were all fighting each other. America and the Soviet Union, standing side by side. The exchange of ideas, the declaration of commitment to a shared vision of the future . . .’

  Roger Braintree said nothing at first. Then, after dabbing at his lips with a napkin for a few moments, his only comment was: ‘You have a very European way of looking at things.’

  ‘The British are part of Europe, I think?’

  ‘Yes, 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 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.