Fred Elwell (1870-1958) - A man with a pint
'When you were a young man we were all living in the
treetops,' said the barman, with a glance at the other
customers.
There was a shout of laughter, and the uneasiness caused
by Winston's entry seemed to disappear. The old man's
whitestubbled face had flushed pink. He turned away, muttering
to himself, and bumped into Winston. Winston caught him gently
by the arm.
'May I offer you a drink?' he said.
'You're a gent,' said the other, straightening his
shoulders again. He appeared not to have noticed Winston's blue
overalls. 'Pint!' he added aggressively to the barman. 'Pint of
wallop.'
The barman swished two half-litres of dark-brown beer into
thick glasses which he had rinsed in a bucket under the
counter. Beer was the only drink you could get in prole pubs.
The proles were supposed not to drink gin, though in practice
they could get hold of it easily enough. The game of darts was
in full swing again, and the knot of men at the bar had begun
talking about lottery tickets. Winston's presence was forgotten
for a moment. There was a deal table under the window where he
and the old man could talk without fear of being overheard. It
was horribly dangerous, but at any rate there was no telescreen
in the room, a point he had made sure of as soon as he came in.
"E could 'a drawed me off a pint,' grumbled the old man as
he settled down behind a glass. 'A 'alf litre ain't enough. It
don't satisfy. And a 'ole litre's too much. It starts my
bladder running. Let alone the price.'
'You must have seen great changes since you were a young
man,' said Winston tentatively.
The old man's pale blue eyes moved from the darts board to
the bar, and from the bar to the door of the Gents, as though
it were in the bar-room that he expected the changes to have
occurred.
'The beer was better,' he said finally. 'And cheaper! When
I was a young man, mild beer -- wallop we used to call it --
was fourpence a pint. That was before the war, of course.'
'Which war was that?' said Winston.
'It's all wars,' said the old man vaguely. He took up his
glass, and his shoulders straightened again. "Ere's wishing you
the very best of 'ealth!'
In his lean throat the sharp-pointed Adam's apple made a
surprisingly rapid up-and-down movement, and the beer vanished.
Winston went to the bar and came back with two more
half-litres. The old man appeared to have forgotten his
prejudice against drinking a full litre.
George Orwell - 1984
