Skyfall

5

COTTENHAM NEW TOWN, ENGLAND

“You turn on the telly dear, while I clean up the tea things,” Irene said, stacking the dishes while she spoke.

“Right,” Henry Lewis said, pushing himself away from the table. He walked slowly into the front parlor and switched on the set. It was an old one and took a long time to warm up. His favorite chair was already in front of the screen and there was a packet of Woodbines on the table next to it. He lit one and opened the week's TV Mirror.

“I thought so,” he called out. “Repeat of that Leeds United game. The one we missed when we were at your mother's.”

The screen flickered and came to life as he reached out a finger and punched ITV. A man with a neck like a bulldog was talking a foreign language while another voice translated into English. Irritated, Henry pushed BBC–I only to find the same man speaking there. ITV was still the same so, in a last forlorn hope, he did what he rarely did and pushed BBC-2 and got just what he deserved. Three men sitting on wooden chairs blowing horns.

He kicked off his slippers disgustedly and pulled on his boots. Taking his cap and jacket he called out to his wife, “Christ knows what they're up to. Going for a stroll.”

“See you at closing time.”

It was a perfect summer evening and he really didn't mind being out of the house. At the end of the terrace he turned down New Town Road past the tall council flats of the estate. He didn't like them. More like barracks than proper flats. He came abreast of The King's Arms but went on. All plastic and fizzy keg beer with a juke box; he had been in there once and never gone back. Not a decent place at all. It was ten minutes further to the old village, but worth the effort.

This was a bywater, surrounded on all sides by the new town. The main road to the plant from the motorway had sliced away half the village, while the housing estates loomed on all sides. But the remaining bit of village was built in a steep valley and perhaps it would have cost more to fill it in than leave it. There were some cottages, a shop or two, and a half-timbered building with a peeling signboard swinging in front of it. The Horse and Groom, Free House. Henry thumbed down the iron latch and pushed the heavy wooden door open.

“Evening, Henry,” the landlord said, wiping down the bar.

“Evening, George.”

Henry leaned both elbows on the dark wood and watched quietly while George pulled a pint of mild and pushed it over to him. He took a deep draw and sighed happily. George nodded in agreement.

“That's a good barrel, that one is,” he said.

“All right. Not the way it used to be.”

“What is?”

“You can say that again. Even the bloody weather's gone to hell.”

“They say it's those rockets.”

“Rockets! That's what they had on telly this evening instead of the football. Yanks and Russians and more rockets. Nothing to do with us, thank Christ. As if things weren't bad enough. At least we aren't wasting money on capers like that.”

“Can't afford to, that's why. Those bloody politicians would if they could.”

“You're right, George. Wet politicians and watery beer.” He drained the glass and dropped it back to the bar. “Give us another one.”