"Robert Rankin - Knees Up Mother Earth" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rankin Robert)

Norman read the telephone number to himself and his hand moved in the
direction of the telephone upon the shop counter.
тАЬNorman, come!тАЭ bawled the voice of Peg from the kitchenette.
And all of Norman moved in the direction of this bawling.

Mahatma CampbellтАЩs limping, which had carried him past Bob the BookieтАЩs
and PegтАЩs Paper Shop, carried him further up the Ealing Road, past The Star
of Bengal curry house and The Flying Swan.
Neville, ever an early riser since that morning when heтАЩd once risen late
and felt certain that heтАЩd missed something, viewed the passing Campbell as a
shadowy form through the etched glass of The SwanтАЩs saloon bar window
panes.
Neville, a practising pagan, demurred the crossing of himself, but said
blessed be and ventured to the whisky optic for a measure of golden breakfast.
Of the looks of Neville, what might be said? In the favour of him, much.
He was tall and lean and scholar-stooped, with a slim and noble head, the hair
of him a-brillianteened and the good eye all a-glitter. Dapperly decked was he
in the habit of the professional barlord: white shirt, black trews, black weskit
and clip-on dicky bow, plus a very dashing pair of cufflinks whose enamelled
entablatures spoke of a Masonic connection. Classic тАЬOxfordтАЭ footwear was
well buffed, though through personal fastidiousness rather than naval
training. A certain spring was normally to be found in his step.
And Neville was the part-time barman of The Flying Swan.
True, there were none who had ever known him to miss a session, or take
a holiday, or even a day off. And Neville lived in, above the bar, in the humble
but adequate accommodation. But part-time barman was his job description;
it was the job he had applied for and the job he had been given. And it was the
job he did, and the job he did well.
And the job he loved.
Yes, loved. For Neville loved Brentford. The borough, and its people, and
this pub. His pub. Not that it really was his pub, it wasnтАЩt; it was the breweryтАЩs
pub, and every so often the brewery let Neville know it, in manners that lacked
for subtlety and finesse. They organised things for Neville to do. Theme
nights. Promotions. Pub quizzes. Neville weathered these storms. He pressed
on, and persevered. He knew how things should be, and how things should be
done. Things should be as ever they had been, and things should be done to
keep things that way.
Neville tended the beers: eight hand-drawn ales upon draught, the finest
in Brentford. And the finest of the finest being Large.
Neville tended the bar, an elegant Victorian bar with a knackered
dartboard and disabled jukebox, a row of Britannia pub tables, a mismatched
variety of comfy seating and stools at the polished counter for regular
stalwarts. There were Spanish souvenirs behind the bar. Ancient pictures of
indeterminate things upon walls of faded paperings. A carpet that had known
better days, but appreciated those of the present, which werenтАЩt too bad at all.
And the whole and the all and the everything that made a real pub a real
pub caused a pause in the step of those who entered The Flying Swan for the
very first time, who breathed in its air, soaked up its ambience and said, as
many before had said and many yet to come would do: