Part 29 (1/2)
”You missed a very good lunch yesterday, Gervase,” he said, approaching me. ”We all wondered where you had got to. Herbert is very keen to speak to you.”
”I was feeling a little unwell,” I replied sheepishly.
”Oh, I am sorry. I trust you are now recovered?”
”Yes, I feel fine today.”
”That's good. Are you coming?”
”Coming?” I repeated.
”To Evensong in the chapel. It's the special service for the Fellows.”
”I'll be along in a moment,” I replied, smiling weakly.
”I look forward to seeing you there.” There was a swish of red gown and Professor Morton was gone.
”Who the devil was that?” asked Sidney.
”Oh, just someone I met yesterday.”
”Well, what was all that about lunch and a meeting of the Fellows? You are a dark horse, you know. There are one or two questions I want answering, Gervase, starting with why you were not asked to vacate the Fellows' garden when I was evicted, who are these important people that you seem to know and, more importantly, how you coped with the wild woman in the red dungarees.”
”Come along, Sidney, let's go. All will be revealed on the journey home. I need to get back to Fettlesham. There's a very important question I need to ask and it really can't be put off any longer.”
I had booked a table at Le Bon Appet.i.t restaurant in the picturesque village of Ribsd.y.k.e for the Sat.u.r.day after my return from Oxford. Christine would be in a good mood because term would have ended and she would be looking forward to the long summer break. There would be soft music, subdued lights and, from our secluded table, we would look out along the dale and watch the sun go down behind the n.o.ble fells. I would reach out and take Christine's hand in mine. Our eyes would lock. I would gaze into those deep blue eyes and whisper, ”Christine, I think you know how I feel about you. Over the year, I've grown closer and closer to you. You're always in my thoughts, you're forever in my dreams. I love you.” I would pause for effect. ”Darling, will you marry me?” Her eyes would fill with tears. ”Of course,” she would sigh.
That is what I had carefully rehea.r.s.ed in Oxford but it did not quite work out like that.
The taxi arrived late. I thought it would set the scene much better if I arrived at Christine's house in a sleek black taxi rather than in my old, distinctly grubby, Volvo estate. It would also mean that I could have more than one gla.s.s of wine. I might need some Dutch courage, I thought, imagining the ordeal ahead of me. My heart sank when I saw the vehicle which spluttered to a halt outside The Rumbling Turn cafe. It was without a doubt the oldest and smelliest in the fleet, reeking of diesel and stale cigarettes.
”I didn't know I were pickin' up t'Prince of Wales,” said the driver facetiously, when I complained about the state of the interior. ”You should have asked for t'limousine.”
When we finally arrived at Christine's parents' house, I could see my future bride staring anxiously through the window.
”I'm really sorry,” I said as I hurried her down the path, 'the taxi was late.”
”I thought you'd stood me up,” she said smiling. Then she caught sight of the vehicle. ”And we're going by taxi. How nice.”
Le Bon Appet.i.t was heaving. We squeezed through a crowd of loud young men in smart suits holding pints of lager who were blocking the door, to be greeted by the head waiter. He was a small, dark-eyed, Gallic-looking individual, who eyed me superciliously as I pushed my way forward, clearing a path for Christine. He asked, in a strong French accent, if I had a reservation and, hearing that I had, ran a fat finger down a list in his hand.
”Ah, oui, Meester and Meesis Pinn.”
”Phinn!” I corrected.
”Meester Phinn. Eef you would like to come zees way, I will show you to your table.” We followed him through a noisy, crowded restaurant to a small table positioned between two larger tables full of loud, laughing people and directly opposite the doors to the kitchens.
”Is there somewhere which is a little more private?” I asked, immediately regretting that I had not asked for a quiet table when I had booked.
”Private?” he repeated, arching a thick, black eyebrow. ”Private?”
”More secluded, quieter.”
”Oh, no, no, no! I am afraid not. Le Bon Appet.i.t ees always ver' busy at zer weekend. You 'ave to book early for zer best tables.” He gave me a look which clearly said, ”It is this table or nothing.”
”It's fine,” said Christine squeezing into a chair.
”Aperitif?” demanded the waiter, before I could sit down.
”In a minute!” I snapped, attempting to get into the chair.
After we had ordered them, the drinks took an age to arrive and, try as I might to have a conversation with Christine, my voice was drowned by the noise of the other diners, the banging of the double swing doors to the kitchen, the shouts of the chef and over-loud background music. To make matters worse, the waiter another small, dark-eyed, Gallic-looking individual, insisted on taking us through the menu in maximum, dreary detail.
”You can 'ave for starters zer warmed asparagus with a lightly poached egg, fresh spinach salad, garden 'erbs and parmesan shavings or you can 'ave tempura of deep-fried queenie scallops with red pepper sauce on a bed of rocket leaves and crispy prosciutto, or you can 'ave con fit of plump pigeon, served with an on est red wine reduction, ragout of Schitake, oyster and Piedmont wild mushrooms, or you can 'ave ca.s.serole of numerous mussels in a garlic sh.e.l.lfish broth, or you can 'ave oven-roasted 'alibut tandoori tikka mars ala with pickled lime chutney and naan bread, or you can 'ave fresh Scottish smoked salmon served on a platter of chicory leaves, caper, gherkins and roasted crusty bread, fresh from zer oven, or you can 'ave hot feta cheese with sweet plum tomatoes, black olives and diced oregano, or you can 'ave fruit terrine featuring strawberries, blackberries, red currants blueberries, all set in apple jelly and served with citrus creme fraiche, or you can 'ave zer fresh tomato soup with zer croutons.”
”I'll 'ave the mussels!” I snapped, when finally the drone came to a halt.
”And soup for me,” said Christine, attempting to suppress a smile.
”Bon,” scowled the waiter, bristling like an angry cat and then proceeded to scribble down the order. ”And now for zer main courses. We 'ave .. .” And the whole thing was repeated. He took my order for the food and strode away with a flourish.
”Sounds delicious,” shouted Christine across the table.
”David recommended it,” I shouted back. ”I didn't think it would be quite as crowded.” At this point there were shrieks of cackling laughter from the large, rowdy office party at the next table.
”Would you care to see the wine list, sir?” The wine waiter, with hair slicked back in rippling boot-black waves, offered an enormous leather-bound volume in his long white fingers.
”Just a bottle of dry house white, please,” I replied. I could not contemplate listening to him working through the catalogue of wines. He inclined his head, nodded and departed through the melee.
The restaurant grew noisier and noisier and hotter and hotter and every time a waiter swept out of the kitchen, a great gust of humid air hit us in the face. It was quite impossible to have any sort of intimate conversation in such an atmosphere. The food finally arrived. The numerous mussels numbered five, the soup looked about as appetising as grey dishwater, the main courses were barely warm and the white wine too sweet.
”I'm really sorry about this, Christine!” I shouted across the table. ”David said this place was really good. He came here for his twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. I certainly wasn't expecting it to be like this. I wanted this evening to be so special.”
”Could you take a photo of us, please, young man?” asked a man with a clarety complexion and heavy jowls who was sitting at the next table. ”Office outing,” he explained. ”Do you mind?”
”Of course not,” I replied, smiling maniacally. The evening was developing into a farce. I took three or four photographs, thrust the camera into his hands and wiped my brow.
”To be what?” asked Christine when I turned back to face her.
”Sorry, what did you say?”
”You said something about wanting the evening to be .. .”
”Special! I wanted it to be special. But this place has all the ambience of an abattoir!” Christine laughed and nearly spilt her wine. ”And there was something very particular I wanted to ask you. Something I've been wanting to say for weeks now and .. .” She looked at me expectantly, as did a couple of the office revellers on the next table to whom my raised voice had obviously carried. ”Would you .. . would you .. . would you like another gla.s.s of wine?”
”No thanks, it's a little too sweet for me,” she replied.
I tried again. ”Christine .. . would you ”Would you care to 'ear what we 'ave for dessert?” It was the waiter again.
No, I felt like saying, let me guess. ”Would you like a pudding, Chris?” I asked.