umbrella man

There was a big plate-glass window along the front of the pub, and although it was a bit steamy on the inside, we could see through it very well if we went close.

We watched the little man as he dodged nimbly in and out of the traffic. When he reached the
other side of the street, he turned left, walking very fast

We came to the corner and turned right. The little man was about twenty yards ahead of us. He
was scuttling along like a rabbit and we had to walk very fast to keep up with him. The rain was
pelting down harder than ever now and I could see it dripping from the brim of his hat on to his
shoulders. But we were snug and dry under our lovely big silk umbrella.

‘Come under here and keep dry, darling,’ my mother said. ‘Aren’t we lucky. I’ve
never had a silk umbrella before. I couldn’t afford it.’

‘A real gentleman,’ she went on. ‘Wealthy, too, otherwise he wouldn’t have had a silk umbrella. I shouldn’t be surprised if he isn’t a titled person. Sir Harry Goldsworthy or something like that.’

‘Oh, good gracious me, not!’ he cried. ‘Heaven forbid I should ever do that!’

When we came out of the café it had started to rain. ‘We must get a taxi,’ my mother said. We were
wearing ordinary hats and coats, and it was raining quite hard.

He raised his hat politely and said to my mother, ‘Excuse me, I do hope you will excuse me…’
He had a fine white moustache and bushy white eyebrows and a wrinkly pink face. He was
sheltering under an umbrella which he held high over his head.

The little man picked up the glass and put it to his lips. He tilted it gently. Then he tilted it higher…
and higher… and very soon all the whisky had disappeared down his throat in one long pour.

We stood huddled together outside the pub window. I was clutching my mother’s arm. The big
raindrops were making a loud noise on our umbrella. ‘There he is,’ I said. ‘Over there.’