‘Oh, then you did go to the pub, like that little man said—what was his

name?’

‘Johns,’ Dixon said, trying to suggest by his articulation of the name

the correct opinion of its bearer. ‘Yes, I did go to the pub.’

‘You had a lot, did you?’ In her interest she stopped eating, but still

gripped her knife and fork, her fists resting on the cloth. He noticed that

her fingers were square-tipped, with the nails cut quite close.

‘I suppose I must have done, yes,’ he replied.

‘How much did you have?’

‘Oh, I never count them. It’s a bad habit, is counting them.’

‘Yes, I dare say, but how many do you think it was? Roughly.’

‘Ooh . . . seven or eight, possibly.’

‘Beers, that is, is it?’

‘Good Lord, yes. Do I look as if I can afford spirits?’ (Lucky Jim, 72)

Ten minutes later, it having been established that they were going to

that, Margaret was on her way out, all smiles, to lock up her exam

scripts, to powder her nose, and to phone Mrs Welch with the news that

she wouldn’t, after all, be attending the luncheon-party, which had turned

out to be of much less importance than had at first appeared; Margaret

would, instead, be lunching off beer and cheese rolls in a pub with

Dixon. (92)

is and is isn’t. My father and mother were killed during the war and I’ve been living at my

Aunt Emily’s.’ I was going to pronounce Aunt with a broad a but decided not to attempt it yet.

‘What sort of a place is Dufton exactly ?’

‘A lot of mills. And a chemical factory. And a Grammar School and a war memorial and a river

that runs different colours each day. And a cinema and fourteen pubs. That’s really all one can

say about it’

‘You haven’t a theatre then ?’

‘The Nonconformists work their way through Abe Heywood’s catalogue each winter. I used to
go into Manchester if I wanted to see a show. There isn’t anything in Dufton.’ (Room at the top,
9)

I took her to the bar at the interval.

‘Mummy would be awfully cross if she knew I was here,’ she said, looking doubtfully round her

at the rows of coloured bottles and the gilt mirrors and the framed playbills and cartoons and
the

usual beefy men and plump women, smelling of bay-rum and violets, whom one never sees in

any number except in theatre bars and who always seem to be comfort ably installed before
one’s

arrival.

‘Is she teetotal?’ I asked.

‘She thinks pubs are low. But this isn’t a pub really, is it?’ (Conversation with Susan, 54)

I could get sex at any pub or dance-hall (60)

The landlord at the Seige Gun, a sour old ex-Regular, discouraged anyone entering the Best
Room without a collar and tie. Consequently his pub was the only place in Dufton where you’d
find any of the town’s upper crust, such as it was. I’d had some good nights at the Siege Gun,
but, looking around me that lunchtime, I knew that there wouldn’t be any more. It was too
small, too dingy, too working-class; four months in Warley had given me a fixed taste for either
the roadhouse or the authentic country pub.

‘I couldn’t bear Dufton sober,’ I said to Charles. (66)

THE BAR PARLOUR of the Western Hotel, just opposite the Town Hall, is a remarkable one in its

way. It’s the best-furnished in the place, with cushioned benches and a thick grey carpet and

glass-topped tables and basket-chairs and photos of local cricket and football teams and a

wallpaper in a soft, subdued orange and grey which is, if you care for that sort of thing, a

pleasure to look at. It’s for men only; the other rooms, even the Lounge, are rather scruffy, with

iron-legged tables and hard benches and Windsor chairs. Consequently the pub is much used
by

solid business men and Town Hall officials, who like to drink without women but who have no

taste for the sawdust and spittoons of the tap room. The Western has always been the venue
for

the War-ley NALGO Men’s Evening, the Town Hall’s annual stag-party. The routine is to meet
in the Bar Parlour for a couple of pints, have dinner upstairs and a couple more pints, then
return

to the Bar Parlour for some serious drinking. One un written rule of the Men’s Evening is to mix

with other departments; that evening, I remember, I talked mostly with Reggie from the
Library. (83)

We walked on to the pub with our arms round

each other’s waists; never before had I felt so free, so free of tension and worry and shame.
The

pub, an old building with low ceilings and oak beams and thick walls and mullioned windows,

was an agreeable place to sit in, listening to the warm burr of Dorset and drinking a brown ale

which, unlike most Southern beers, had a good malty taste. (145)