Russell would have jogged, but he was investigating, so he marched instead.
Past the corner tobacconist’s, and the bookies, and the greengrocer, to The Bricklayer’s.
Russell looked up at the pub in question. It was solidly built. A Victorian frontage, local glazed tile, fiddly bits, window boxes. Dug in, it was. Built to last, and last it had.
“If The Flying Swan really was along here,” said Russell to no-one but himself, “the folk who run this pub must know about it.”
Russell came to an abrupt halt before the door. Because here a great problem presented itself. Russell did not go into pubs. It was quite simply something he did not do. As a non-smoker, the very smell of pubs appalled him. And as virtually a non-drinker, there was little point in him going into them anyway.
Although regular pub-goers will tell you that all the most interesting people are to be found in pubs and that the heart of a town is its finest tavern, this is not altogether true.
Pub-goers actually represent a tiny percentage of any given town’s population[11]. Curiously enough, exactly the same percentage as regular church-goers. And regular church-goers will tell you that all the most interesting people are to be found in churches (and so on and so forth).
Russell dithered. This was probably all a waste of time anyway, perhaps he could just interview passers-by, get himself a clipboard and tell them he was doing a survey. That would be for the best.
Russell turned to walk away. But then he stopped to pause for further thought. It was no big deal going into a pub. If he came out stinking of cigarette smoke it hardly mattered, his clothes would be going into the wash at the end of the day anyway. He was being a real wimp about this. If Morgan were to find out, he’d never let him hear the last of it.
“Right,” said Russell, squaring his shoulders and taking a breath so deep as might hopefully last him throughout his visit. Up to the door, turn the handle, enter.
Russell entered The Bricklayer’s Arms.
It was really quite nice inside. It didn’t smell too bad. The furniture was all mellow browns and greens, glowing softly in that light you only find in pubs. The saloon bar was low ceilinged and narrow, a few high stools ranked before the counter and on these sat lunch-time patrons: secretaries from the office blocks on the Great West Road, young bloods in suits with mobile phones. A couple of old boys slung darts in the general direction of a mottled board, a number of trophies glittered in a case on the wall. Ordinary it was, what you might expect, anywhere.
Russell approached the bar. The young bloods made him feel somewhat uneasy. He was in jeans and a sweatshirt, they wore professional suits. Perhaps he should go round to the public bar.
“What’ll it be then, love?” The barmaid caught Russell’s eye. And most winsomely she caught it too. A tall narrow blonde of a woman, constructed to Russell’s favourite design. Wide blue eyes and a big full mouth that was full of big white teeth.
The words “a Perrier water” came into Russell’s mind, but “a pint of best bitter,” came out of his mouth.
“Coming right up.” The barmaid turned away, with a sweep of golden hair and a click-clack of high heels. Russell spied out an empty stool at the end of the counter and climbed onto it. Why had he said that? A pint of best bitter? Russell didn’t even like best bitter, Russell hated best bitter. But Russell knew exactly why he’d said it. Real men didn’t drink Perrier water. Blond barmaids liked real men. Russell liked blond women.
“There you go,” said the barmaid, presenting Russell with his pint. He paid up and she smiled warmly upon him. As she brought him his change she said, “Funny you should drink bitter, I thought my luck had changed.”
“Pardon,” said Russell.
“My horoscope in the paper this morning said love may come in the shape of a tall dark stranger.”
“Indeed?” said Russell, warming to the idea.
“A tall dark stranger who drinks the water of life.”
“Eh?” said Russell.
“Only water of life in this place is Perrier water,” said the barmaid. “Still, I’ll keep looking, you never know, do you?”
“No,” said Russell, as she turned away to serve a young man who had recently entered the pub, and who stood by patiently waiting (and listening).
“What will it be then, love?”
“Perrier water,” said the young man.
Russell buried his face in his hands.
“If you’ve had too much, mate, go home and sleep it off.”
Russell unburied his face.
The landlord glared him daggers. “I pop out the back for half an hour and that blonde tart gets all the customers drunk. That’s the last time I hire an ex-contortionist go-go dancing sex-aid demonstrator.”
Russell made a low groaning sound.
“And don’t you dare chuck up,” growled the landlord.
“I wasn’t,” said Russell. “This is my first pint, I’ve only just come in.”
“Well, watch it anyway.”
“I will,” promised Russell, and the landlord went his way.
Russell sipped at his beer. It tasted ghastly. Russell gazed about the bar. It was all so very normal. Everything about Brentford was so very normal. Russell felt certain that it always had been normal, always would be normal.
There had never really been some golden age, when local lads battled it out with the forces of evil and saved the world from this peril and the next. It was all just fiction.
The landlord shuffled by with a trayload of empties.
“Excuse me,” said Russell.
“You’re excused,” said the landlord. “Now bugger off.”
“I wondered if I might ask you a few questions.”
“You might,” said the landlord. “But I doubt if you’d get any answers.”
“It’s about The Flying Swan.”
“Ah,” said the landlord, and it was as if some golden ray from heaven had suddenly been turned upon him. He drew himself up from his slovenly slouch and beamed a broad grin at Russell. It wasn’t much of a grin, being composed of nicotine-stained stumps for the most part, but it lacked not for warmth and enthusiasm. “The Flying Swan, did you say?”
“I did say, yes.”
“So what would you like to know?”
“I’d like to know whether it ever really existed.”
“Really existed?” The landlord slid his tray onto the bar counter and thrust out his chest. It wasn’t much of a chest, being scrawny and narrow, and the shirt that covered it was rather stained, but it lacked not for pride and confidence. “Of course it really existed, you’re sitting in it now.”
“I’m what?”
“This is it.” The landlord did further grinnings, he turned his head from side to side, displaying sparse sideburns and ears from which sprouted prodigious outcroppings of hair. “I’m him,” he said.
“You’re who?”
“Neville. Neville the part-time barman.”
“You never are.” Russell all but fell off his stool. “You’re Neville? I mean … well, I don’t know what I mean. My goodness.”
“Pleased to meet you,” said the landlord, extending his hand for a shake. Russell took the grubby item and gave it one.
“I’m Russell,” said Russell.
“And how many are there in your party, Mr Russell?”
“I, er, sorry?”
“Will you be wanting to hire the upstairs room? We provide costumes.”
“Costumes?” Russell asked.
“For re-enactments, of course, cowboy night, that kind of thing. Will there be any Americans in your party?”
“Americans?”
“We had a coachload in last year. They brought their own costumes, but we had to charge them for that anyway. It’s all in the brochure. I’ll get you one.”
“Phone call,” said the blond barmaid, leaning over the counter. Russell could smell her perfume. It smelled like pure bliss.
“I’m talking to this gentleman,” said the landlord.
“It’s the brewery, about that business.”