A Literary Life Starting from the First Year of High School

Chapter 131 Britain (Combined Daily Life Chapter)

Allen was standing next to the front desk, talking to the old man. The two were very close, their voices low, as if they were saying something they didn't want others to hear.

The old man saw Lin Shubai come down, patted Allen on the shoulder, and then went back behind the counter.

"Let's go." Allen picked up the car keys.

The two stepped out of the hotel. The air outside was cooler than at the airport, carrying a faint floral scent, probably from the row of lavender near the entrance.

"Have you known that old man for a long time?"

Allen opened the car door. "It's been thirty years. My first job after graduating from university was as an intern at The Times. He was already a senior editor back then. His name was Richard. He used to be the editor of the literature section. After retiring, he opened this small hotel with seven or eight rooms, which he managed himself."

The car slowly drove out of the parking space and merged into the street.

"He worked as a literary editor at The Times for over twenty years, handling at least a thousand book reviews. He can tell at a glance who writes well and who doesn't." Allen glanced at Lin Shubai. "I showed him your manuscript."

"When?"

"Before you came to England, I printed out an English version of 'Hell Is Where God Is Not Here' and showed it to him. He gave it a very high rating."

"Okay, where should we eat?"

Lin Shubai changed the subject. He didn't want to ask what else Richard had said. If Allen wanted to tell him, he would naturally do so; if he didn't want to tell him, asking wouldn't help.

"A shop I've been eating at for fifteen years isn't far from here." Allen turned the car around and drove into a narrower street. "The owner of that shop is Greek, but he's been in London for over thirty years. His English breakfast is even more authentic than that of the British. The first time I went there, I was a poor editor with very little money. A full English breakfast could keep me full for a whole day."

What's included in a full English breakfast?

"Fried eggs, bacon, sausage, roasted tomatoes, mushrooms, baked beans, black pudding, toast, and tea or coffee."

"What is black pudding?"

Allen glanced at him, a mischievous smile playing on his lips. "Are you sure you want to know?"

"Now that you've asked, I'm even more curious."

"Pig's blood mixed with oats and fat, stuffed into sausage casings, then sliced ​​and fried; the British call it black."

"Pudding" sounds like a dessert, but it's actually salty.

"Isn't that blood sausage? Chinese people eat it too."

"Yes, but the preparation is different. Theirs contains oats and fat, which your blood sausage doesn't."

"Them?" Lin Shubai noticed the word. "Aren't you British?"

Allen shook his head. "I'm Scottish. The difference between Scots and English is like the difference between Chinese and Japanese."

"So the English breakfast you took me to" was actually an English breakfast?

"Pretty much. Scottish breakfasts include haggis, which is lamb offal stewed with lamb's stomach. Do you eat it?"

"Allen, I am Chinese."

Allen paused for a moment, then laughed. "Right, I forgot, you Chinese also eat offal."

After driving for about twenty minutes, the car stopped on a quiet street. Allen parked the car and pointed to a shop on the corner.

The shop wasn't big, with a dark green facade and the words "The Greek Kitchen" written in gold lettering. But the small blackboard at the entrance read "Full English Breakfast Served All Day." Lin Shubai found this combination quite interesting: a Greek-owned shop selling English breakfast.

Allen pushed open the door, and a smell of fried bacon, toasted bread, and coffee wafted out, reminding Lin Shubai of Chunhua Noodle Shop—the aroma of lard and scallions frying in the pot when Zhou Chunhua stood by the pot cooking noodles.

The shop had seven or eight tables, most of which were empty. Several landscape photos of Greek islands hung on the wall, with blue and white houses and azure waters, a completely different world from the gray and hazy London outside the window.

A woman with gray hair peeked out from the kitchen, saw Allen, smiled, and said in heavily accented Greek English, "Allen, you're here," before gesturing with her chin toward the corner by the window.

"The usual spot."

The two sat down. In the vase on the table was a red carnation, the edges of which were slightly wilted.

Next to it was a small bottle of ketchup and a plastic rack containing sugar packets.

Allen pushed the menu towards him. "What do you want to eat?"

Lin Shubai glanced at it and saw "Full English Breakfast"—a complete English breakfast.

"Full set." He closed the menu.

"OK."

Allen called out towards the kitchen, and the woman nodded, then turned and went back to work.

Lin Shubai picked up the water glass on the table and took a sip. His gaze fell on the window. The water was cold and had a faint lemon flavor, probably because lemon slices had been soaked in it.

The street was quiet, with occasional pedestrians passing by, carrying shopping bags or walking dogs. An old man in a trench coat sat down on a bench across the street, took out a newspaper from his pocket, and slowly opened it.

"What did you hear us saying when you came downstairs?"

Lin Shubai put down his water glass. "No, you were too quiet."

Allen nodded, remained silent for a few seconds, as if considering whether or not to speak.

"Richard is reminding me that the Bath Prize result is just the beginning, not the end. Whether I win the prize tomorrow or not, the real battle will only begin after I return to London."

"What kind of battle?"

"After the Bass Prize shortlist was released, two publishers have already inquired about it. But inquiring and being willing to pay are two different things. My idea is to have several publishers bid against each other."

Lin Shubai looked at him. "Do you think we can compete for it?"

Allen thought for a moment, "If you win the award, yes, and if you don't, it's still okay, but you'll have fewer chips."

Lin Shubai nodded. He could tell that Allen was giving him a heads-up—he might not win the award, but things would still move forward.

Breakfast was served on a large plate, piled high with food. The fried eggs were crispy on the edges, the bacon was rolled up, the sausages were as thick as small ham sausages, the black pudding was cut into thick slices and fried until both sides were black, and there was a small dish of baked beans on the side, with a bright red ketchup.

Lin Shubai looked at the plate. "Do you eat this every day?"

"Not every day, maybe two or three times a week." Allen picked up his knife and fork. "In England, people usually eat cereal..."

Toast and yogurt—I only have time to sit in the shop and enjoy them slowly on weekends.

"So what about today?"

"Let's celebrate today."

"What are we celebrating?"

Alan cut a piece of sausage, forked it, put it in his mouth, chewed it a couple of times, and said, "Congratulations on your safe arrival in London. No lost luggage, no trouble with customs, and no illness on the plane. That's a huge success for me."

Lin Shubai looked at him and said, "Your standards for success are a bit low."

"Not low. You don't know how many authors have had accidents on their way to participate in events abroad—lost luggage, visa problems, flight delays causing them to miss award ceremonies, or suffering from acclimatization issues and spending three days in a hotel." Allen put down his knife and fork, his expression becoming more serious. "You arrived safely and in good spirits; that's half the battle won."

"What about your other half?"

"The other half is the day of the awards ceremony, but that half is not something I can control."

Lin Shubai forked a piece of black pudding, dipped it in the tomato sauce, and put it in his mouth. The texture was very firm, a bit like blood sausage, but with a stronger seasoning and an indescribable spice flavor.

"How is it?"

"It's alright." Lin Shubai chewed twice, swallowed, and cut another piece.

Allen looked at him, shook his head, and the gesture carried a sense of helplessness, as if to say, "I knew you would say that."

Lin Shubai didn't explain. He said "it's okay" because the thing wasn't bad, but it wasn't delicious either. His "it's okay" was actually a precise rating, below "delicious" but above "bad," somewhere in between. Allen didn't understand because Allen wasn't Chinese.

Lin Shubai forked another piece of bacon. The bacon was fried until crispy and crumbled with one bite. It tasted much better than the black pudding. "This is delicious."

"Bacon is delicious, of course. Bacon is a universal language."

"What about the baked beans?"

Allen glanced at the plate of baked beans; the tomato sauce was a glossy red, and the beans were soaked in it, looking soft and tender. "Baked beans are a controversial dish. The British grow up eating them and consider them the soul of breakfast, while foreigners think..."

What do you mean by putting beans on your breakfast plate?

Lin Shubai picked up a bean with his fork and put it in his mouth. The bean was very soft, and the flavor of the tomato sauce overpowered the bean's own taste, making it sweet and sour.

"How is it?"

"good."

Allen sighed. "I hate that word."

Lin Shubai shrugged.

After finishing breakfast, Allen took the last sip of his coffee, placed the cup on the saucer, and made a soft sound.

"Come on, let me show you around."

Lin Shubai folded the napkin twice and placed it on the table.

Allen glanced at his plate. "Are you finished eating?"

"I'm done eating."

Allen chuckled. "Actually, quite a few British people can't finish a serving."

I'm hungry.

The two stood up. Lin Shubai put his scarf back on, and Allen took out a twenty-pound note from his pocket, placed it under the plate, and called out "Thank you" towards the kitchen.

Stepping outside the store, the sunlight was brighter than before, and the temperature wasn't as cold.

"Where do you want to go?" Allen pressed the car key.

Lin Shubai thought for a moment, "Let's just wander around, I'll do as you say."

Allen opened the car door. "Okay, let's just wander around then. We'll go to the Thames first."

The car drove onto the road along the Thames. On the south bank of the river were rows of white houses, while on the north bank were taller buildings, some with glass curtain walls and others with stone facades. The old and new buildings were squeezed together.

"How does the Thames compare to the Huangpu River?"

"The Huangpu River is narrower, but the buildings on both banks are different. One side of the Huangpu River is old Shanghai, and the other side is Pudong. The Thames River is lined with old buildings on both sides."

"Londoners don't like to demolish houses. They live in a building for hundreds of years, repairing and continuing to live there. You Chinese like new things and want to change everything."

Lin Shubai thought for a moment, "It's probably because we've experienced too many wars. Houses collapsed, were rebuilt, collapsed again, were rebuilt again, and the new ones were built on top of the old ones, so the old ones disappeared."

Allen glanced at him but didn't say anything.

After driving for about half an hour, the car stopped next to a park. Allen parked the car, opened the door, and said, "Hyde Park, let's get out and take a walk."

Lin Shubai got out of the car. A gust of wind blew by, carrying the smell of grass and soil. The park was very large, unlike the neatly trimmed lawns in the parks of Shanghai. The grass here grew rather haphazardly.

Allen walked ahead, saying, "When I was young, I used to come here to run all the time. After running, I would go to work, feeling like I could take on the whole world."

"And now?"

Allen chuckled. "My knees aren't doing well anymore, so I've switched to walking. That's how the body is. You think it'll stay healthy forever, but it's actually secretly getting worse day by day, and by the time you realize it, it's too late."

The two walked to the lakeside, where several swans were swimming on the water.

"Do you want to feed it?" Allen pointed to the sign by the lake. "Although it says 'No Feeding,' nobody cares. Even if you do feed it, nobody will arrest you."

"Never mind."

The two stayed by the lake for a while, and then Allen drove him to Kensington Palace, where two guards wearing bearskin hats stood motionless at the entrance.

"Are they really not going to move?"

"They move, and if you touch them, they'll hit you with the butts of their guns."

"Really?"

"Go and give it a try."

Lin Shubai glanced at Allen. "Do I look like an idiot to you?"

Allen burst out laughing.

The two of them didn't go in. Allen said that it was the royal family's residence and they weren't allowed to go in casually. They could just look at it from the outside. Lin Shubai stood outside the iron fence and glanced inside. The garden was very large, with neatly trimmed shrubs and a straight path leading to the palace gate.

At noon, Allen took him to a bar, not one that only opens at night, but an old-fashioned bar that opens from noon onwards, selling both beer and food. It was dark inside, with a few old photos hanging on the walls and shelves behind the bar filled with bottles of liquor.

Lin Shubai glanced at the menu, which contained fish and chips, shepherd's pie, and sausage mashed potatoes. He looked at the menu over and over again, but didn't find anything new.

"Would you like to try their fish and chips? It's really authentic."

Lin Shubai thought for a moment, "Okay, let's give it a try."

The two of them each ordered a serving of fish and chips. While waiting for their food, Lin Shubai looked around. There were seven or eight people sitting in the bar, mostly middle-aged men. Some were sitting alone reading newspapers, while others were chatting quietly in twos and threes.

The fish and chips arrived. The fish was a large piece, coated in golden batter, and the chips were as thick as fingers. A small dish of tartar sauce and a lemon slice were placed on the side.

Lin Shubai cut a small piece of fish, dipped it in the sauce, and put it in his mouth.

"How is it?"

"It really tastes good."

"I told you this restaurant does a good job."

"But it's getting a little bland."

"Light? Did you use tartar sauce?"

"Tartar sauce is sour, it's different."

Allen shook his head and lowered his head to eat his own portion.