Mrs. God Read Online Free PDF

again.
    â€œAre you open?”
    â€œDoor’s not locked, is it?”
    â€œNo, I thought maybe the licensing laws—”
    â€œBeen a change then, has there? And about bloody time, too.”
    â€œWell, I wondered—”
    The man fixed Standish with an impatient stare, wiped his hands on a towel, and leaned against the bar.
    â€œYou’re not closed,” Standish said.
    The man held out both hands palm-up and moved them outward in a gesture that said: See for yourself. “So if you’ll place your order, sir …”
    â€œWell, I was hoping to get a beer and something to eat, I guess.”
    â€œMenu’s behind the bar.” He tilted his head toward a chalkboard advertising steak and kidney pie, shepherd’s pie, ploughman’s lunch, ham sandwich, cheese sandwich, Scotch egg, pork pie, batter-fried prawns, and batter-fried scallops.
    Standish was charmed all over again. In this list he saw how far he had come from Zenith. He suspected the food might be humble by English standards, but he wanted to taste it all. Here was the simple nutritious food of the people, shepherds and ploughmen.
    â€œIt all looks so good ,” he said.
    â€œOh, aye?” The barman frowned and turned around to look at the chalkboard himself. “You’d better order some of it then, hadn’t you?”
    â€œPloughman’s lunch, please.” Standish envisioned a big steaming bowl with potatoes and leeks and sausages all mixed up in a rich broth. “It’s good, is it?”
    â€œGood enough for some,” the barman said. “Chutney or pickle?”
    â€œWhy, a little of both.”
    The man turned and disappeared through a door at the far end of the bar. After a moment Standish realized that he had gone into the kitchen to place the order. The bartender returned as abruptly as he had left—his face had an odd flinty concentrated look that made him seem always to be performing some unwelcome task. “And, sir?”
    â€œAnd?”
    â€œAnd what did you want from the bar? Pint of bitter? Half pint?”
    â€œWhat a wonderful idea!” Standish exclaimed, knowing that he sounded like an idiot but unable to restrain himself. A pint of bitter . Standish was suddenly aware of the smallness of England, of its coziness , the snugness and security and warmth of this island nation.
    The bartender was still staring at him with that tense flinty expression.
    â€œOh, a pint, I guess,” Standish said.
    â€œA pint of what, sir?” He swept his hand toward old-fashioned pump taps with ceramic handles. “The ordin’ry?”
    â€œNo, what’s the best one? I just got off the plane from the States a couple of hours ago.”
    The man nodded, picked up one of the pint mugs he had set out to dry, set it beneath a tap marked Director’s Bitter, and hauled back on the tap. Cloudy brown liquid spurted out into the glass. The man pushed and pulled the pump until the glass had filled. His face still seemed stretched taut, immobilized, as if a layer of cells deep within had died.
    â€œYou folks still drink warm beer over here, is that right?”
    â€œWe don’t boil it,” the bartender said. He thumped the pint on the bar before Standish. “You’ll let that settle, sir.”
    What was still swirling around in the glass looked like something drawn up from a swamp. Little brown silty fecal things spun around and around.
    â€œWe don’t see many Yanks up this way,” he said.
    â€œOh, I’ve still got a long way to go,” Standish said, watching his beer spin. “I’m on my way to a village called Beaswick. Lincolnshire. I’m invited to a, I guess you’d say, manor house called Esswood.”
    â€œThe fellow was murdered there,” the barman said. “That’ll be three pounds forty altogether.”
    Standish counted out four pounds from his stash of English money. “You must be