Part 28 (1/2)
”Much as I am loath to admit it,” ventured David, who had been listening intently, ”Sidney, despite his bluntness, is perfectly right. You have to let her know how you really feel about her.”
”You, of all people, Gervase,” continued Sidney, 'are supposed to possess the higher order language skills, the ability to use words at their richest and most persuasive. Can't you pen her a poem and write it in chalk down the path to Winnery Nook School? something along the lines of ”Oh dearest heart, come kiss me gently, Be my love, my Christine Bentley.””
”I'd stick to painting and stuffed animals if I were you, Sidney,” said David. ”He doesn't want to frighten her off with that sort of doggerel, or get arrested for defacing school property.”
”I'll have you know it worked with my wife,” retorted Sidney. ”When I painted my Lila a poem on the wall of her flat she was putty in my hands.”
”Probably drunk,” said David, before turning his attention back to the topic under discussion. ”I think Gervase ought to take Christine out for a really romantic dinner in a remote country inn,” he said. ”Champagne, roses, soft music. That's the way it's done. And I know the very place. A delightful French restaurant with superb food and magnificent views, not too far from here.”
”Is that the way you proposed?” I asked.
”Well, no, actually,” replied David. ”I asked Gwynneth in a bus shelter on a rainy Sunday afternoon in Pontypool. We were having a little cwtch and'
”A little what?” exclaimed Sidney. ”What in the world is a cutch?”
”A cwtch Welsh for a cuddle,” explained David. ”And I said, ”What about it, CariadV She said it was quite unexpected and she would have to think about it as her mother had not taken to me at all. Thirty years later and her mother's still not too sure about me. It took her three months Gwynneth, that is, not her mother to make up her mind and then she said she would have to iron out my irritating habits.”
”She was singularly unsuccessful on that count,” murmured Sidney.
”You see, that's just what I mean,” I said. ”Suppose Christine says she likes me but couldn't marry me. It would be the end of everything. I couldn't go on seeing her. If I delay it a bit, carry on as we are, she might grow to love me in time like your wife, David. I just think it might be better to do nothing for the time being.”
”Faint heart, dear boy, faint heart!” exclaimed Sidney. ”She might think you are trifling with her affections and get tired of waiting about. Have you ever thought of that? I mean, it's been getting on for two years, well, over a year anyway, that you have been taking her out. She won't go on waiting for ever. And you're no spring chicken. The summer holidays are nearly upon us. She'll be gadding off to some exotic location full of rich, eligible, unattached men who will buzz around her like bees around a honey pot. You've got to go for it. Be decisive. You could start by giving her a quick clutch in a bus shelter.”
”A avtchV snapped David. ”And it worked for me!”
”Look, Gervase, do you love her?” asked Sidney, suddenly turning very serious.
”Yes, I do,” I replied.
”Well, why don't you ask her to marry you?”
”I'm frightened she'll say no. I haven't got much money saved, I drive an old car and I live in a rented flat. It wouldn't be an offer she couldn't refuse.”
Sidney got up from his desk and came and perched on the corner of my desk. ”That's not the real reason though, is it?” he continued.
”What?” I replied.
”The fact that you've not much money and live in a rented flat.”
”No,” I replied. ”I'm just frightened that she doesn't love me.”
Sidney sighed and put his hand on my shoulder. ”Well, old boy, there's only one way to find out, isn't there?”
Sidney was right, of course. I could not delay any longer. I decided that when I returned from the course in Oxford I would take Christine out for that romantic dinner suggested by David and ask her to marry me.
I arrived at Sidney's house early on the Sat.u.r.day morning as arranged, to find my colleague dressed like an ageing pop star in wildly bright T-s.h.i.+rt and jeans. He was in the garage, collecting together an a.s.sortment of stuffed animals and equipment. He stopped what he was doing when he caught sight of me heading down the path towards him. I was about to ask him the question he put to me.
”Gervase, what are you wearing?”
”A suit. Why?”
”Do you always have to wear that dreadful grey outfit? We are contributing to a creative arts course, not attending a Foreign Office funeral. Relax, get casual. It's a residential course for lively teachers, not an undertakers' convention. You want to look colourful, expressive, exciting, artistic. You're not inspecting this weekend, you know!”
”I didn't stop to think about what to put on, to be honest. My mind was on other things.”
”Oh dear, I do hope this is not a taster of things to come.
I sincerely hope that you are not going to mope around Oxford like some medieval mystic contemplating the meaning of life. You really will have to ask her, you know.”
”I know.”
”This weekend will give you a perfect opportunity to get your thoughts together and rehea.r.s.e what you will say to her when you get back and pop the question. I'll give you the benefit of my extensive experience with the opposite s.e.x. We will have some rehearsals. Now, come and help me load up.”
We packed the car with Sidney's boxes of paints and brushes, great plastic bags of clay, folders and files, easels and display boards, drapes and canva.s.ses, dried flowers and gnarled lumps of driftwood and, on the very top, we wedged a ferocious-looking stuffed stoat savaging a rabbit, a snarling fox, a pair of fat hedgehogs and a.s.sorted sharp-beaked birds.
”I shall carry the badger on my knee,” announced Sidney. ”He is very precious is Barry.”
We said goodbye to his long-suffering wife, Lila, who smiled and shook her head as I pulled away and headed for the main road.
Sidney spent the first part of the journey chattering inconsequentially and the second part in deep sleep with his arms wrapped lovingly round the stuffed badger. The sight of him in an amorous embrace with the black and white creature drew many a stare from other motorists.
When we arrived in Oxford, Sidney rubbed his eyes, stretched, yawned and peered through the window. ”Drop me off at the college, will you, Gervase,” he directed. ”I shall unpack and find Miss de la Mare and tell her we've arrived. You park the car somewhere and then would you book us in while I sort out the workshop rooms? I'll see you in an hour for lunch.”
During the summer months, after the undergraduates have gone down for the Long Vac, the university becomes available for a huge variety of outside courses and conferences. Miss de la Mare's art course was to take place at one of the oldest, most beautiful and prestigious of the colleges.
Having dropped off Sidney and parked the car as instructed, I made my way to the entrance of Wentworth College, a large, square, imposing building of honey-coloured stone. Moving round various tourists who were peeking through the small opening set in a vast ancient door stretching across an entrance archway, I arrived at the Porter's Lodge. I peered through a leaded window for a sign of life, and found myself staring into the face of a gaunt, lugubrious-looking porter with a hatchet of a nose. The nose could have cut a rock in two. A few seconds later the funereal figure emerged through the portal like some black beetle creeping out from a hole.
”Good morning, sir,” he intoned. ”May I be of a.s.sistance?”
”Good morning,” I replied cheerily. ”I'm here for the meeting.”
”You will find your colleagues in the Stafford Chamber.” He gestured with a long stick of a finger across the quadrangle. ”I'll enter your name, sir, if I may.”
”Gervase Phinn,” I replied.
”Thank you, Dr. Phinn. Pre-prandial drinks are at present being served.”
”And I am expecting my colleague, so if you could direct him to where the meeting is taking place?”
”Of course, Dr. Phinn,” replied the porter, smiling like a frog.
I walked out from under the archway and into the quadrangle, in the middle of which was set a large beautifully mown square of lawn. The hum of the traffic outside hardly permeated this peaceful sanctum.
I made my way across the quadrangle to the Stafford Chamber. It was a magnificently ornate room with dark oak wainscoting, a great domed ceiling, and an uneven but highly polished floor. Portraits of former Earls of Wentworth lined the walls, and a great imposing portrait of Charles I on horseback, resplendent in silver armour and flowing blue cloak, hung at the head of the room. There was a pleasant smell of old wood and beeswax. A small gathering of formally dressed people was chatting away amiably and sipping sherry, but I could see no sign of Miss de la Mare. Everyone seemed to be remarkably relaxed. I was relieved to be in a suit. I would have been entirely out of place in one of Sidney's suggested outfits and wondered if he would be allowed in when he arrived.
A distinguished, elderly gentleman, with the face of a Roman senator, approached me. ”Have we met?” he asked amiably.
”I don't think so,” I replied, holding out my hand. ”I'm Gervase Phinn.”
”John Morton, Emeritus Professor of Medieval History. I am very pleased to meet you. I once knew a bishop called Gervase. A very saintly man. You are a new face at our gathering, are you not?”