the springs on your brother-in-law’s car, that’s all.’
‘Balls!’ But she took his hand all the same.
Nell Gwynne’s Buttery at The George turned out to be practically empty when they got there. Music of an unidentifiable nature treacled out of the walls, the latter liberally sprinkled with oranges and a mural in which a cloaked figure in a broad-brimmed hat played a guitar to a lady with large bosoms, who hung perilously out of the upper window of a cardboard-looking tower. The air was redolent of fried onions and lunchtime curry. They chose a table as far away from the kitchens as possible and sat down.
Simon looked about him. ‘I remember this place when it was all stained white tablecloths, brown Windsor soup, and big fat ladies in pudding-basin hats tucking into toad-in-the-hole and spotted dick and custard. There used to be two stuffed otters and a water rat in a glass case over there by the window; I’d spend hours looking at those otters when I was a lad. On market days the place was so packed you had to queue. There was a waitress here then called Dawn, with mean eyes and red hair, whom I used to dream about all through the school term. When I came back one holidays, she’d upped and joined the WAAF; it broke my heart. I met her again some years later and she’d turned into a large lady in a pudding-basin hat. Life is sad, Bet Brandon, is it not?’ Bet nodded dreamily. She was beginning to feel like someone in a film — Lauren Bacall, perhaps. Simon was a bit drunk of course, but then so was she ...
‘Hullo, stranger! We don’t often see you here these days. How are they at the Manor — Miss Cyn keeping well?’ The waitress, yet another large lady, but in place of the pudding-basin hat, blue plastic earrings in the shape of miniature elephants and hair like a cone of pink ice-cream. Did Simon know everyone? Bet wondered idly what it would be like to be part of a family who’d lived in the same place for four hundred years.
‘What’s it to be, then?’ Simon said. ‘Frozen scampi with a blob of Thelma’s own special mayonnaise, or the duck a l’orange? I’m chancing my arm with prawn cocktail and the scampi.’
‘I’ll have the same,’ she said, not caring really.
‘Two of both, then, Thelm, and make sure the chips are thawed out, won’t you, I don’t want to be up all night.’ Thelma gave a shriek that rattled the glasses on the empty tables; ‘You don’t change, do you, Simmy!’ She turned to Bet. ‘He used to be a real little devil. I could tell you a few tales. If you want to know what a monkey he is, you ask him about Miss Priddie’s bible class ... ’ More cackles. Simon seemed quite unmoved by the banter, indeed enjoying it, but behind it all Bet noticed that Thelma’s eyes were shrewd and appraising — Our Sim’s got a new lady friend, she’d report later to anyone interested, I wonder how long she’ll last?
When she’d gone (Chef’ll have my guts for garters if I don’t hurry up with the orders, he wants to be off home in time for “Match of the Day”’.) Simon said: ‘You’re very quiet. Sorry you came?’
‘No,’ Bet said, trying to work out the exact colour of his eyes; most of the time they were a sort of chestnut brown, but sometimes much paler than that and sometimes almost black. ‘I was thinking, that’s all.’
‘Poor Bet, is it very lonely?’ Simon reached out his hand across the table.
‘No, no of course it isn’t, I’m far too busy to be lonely.’ But she took the hand, all the same — chewed nails, she noticed, gold signet ring on the little finger. Then suddenly, not knowing why, she gave in. ‘Sometimes it’s hell, actually,’ she said, ‘but then one always assumed it would be.’ (Shouldn’t she take her hand away — could she take her hand away?)
‘Will I make you better?’
She wished she didn’t feel so faint, could think more clearly. His voice was the voice of a tempter, but then almost all of her wanted
‘Balls!’ But she took his hand all the same.
Nell Gwynne’s Buttery at The George turned out to be practically empty when they got there. Music of an unidentifiable nature treacled out of the walls, the latter liberally sprinkled with oranges and a mural in which a cloaked figure in a broad-brimmed hat played a guitar to a lady with large bosoms, who hung perilously out of the upper window of a cardboard-looking tower. The air was redolent of fried onions and lunchtime curry. They chose a table as far away from the kitchens as possible and sat down.
Simon looked about him. ‘I remember this place when it was all stained white tablecloths, brown Windsor soup, and big fat ladies in pudding-basin hats tucking into toad-in-the-hole and spotted dick and custard. There used to be two stuffed otters and a water rat in a glass case over there by the window; I’d spend hours looking at those otters when I was a lad. On market days the place was so packed you had to queue. There was a waitress here then called Dawn, with mean eyes and red hair, whom I used to dream about all through the school term. When I came back one holidays, she’d upped and joined the WAAF; it broke my heart. I met her again some years later and she’d turned into a large lady in a pudding-basin hat. Life is sad, Bet Brandon, is it not?’ Bet nodded dreamily. She was beginning to feel like someone in a film — Lauren Bacall, perhaps. Simon was a bit drunk of course, but then so was she ...
‘Hullo, stranger! We don’t often see you here these days. How are they at the Manor — Miss Cyn keeping well?’ The waitress, yet another large lady, but in place of the pudding-basin hat, blue plastic earrings in the shape of miniature elephants and hair like a cone of pink ice-cream. Did Simon know everyone? Bet wondered idly what it would be like to be part of a family who’d lived in the same place for four hundred years.
‘What’s it to be, then?’ Simon said. ‘Frozen scampi with a blob of Thelma’s own special mayonnaise, or the duck a l’orange? I’m chancing my arm with prawn cocktail and the scampi.’
‘I’ll have the same,’ she said, not caring really.
‘Two of both, then, Thelm, and make sure the chips are thawed out, won’t you, I don’t want to be up all night.’ Thelma gave a shriek that rattled the glasses on the empty tables; ‘You don’t change, do you, Simmy!’ She turned to Bet. ‘He used to be a real little devil. I could tell you a few tales. If you want to know what a monkey he is, you ask him about Miss Priddie’s bible class ... ’ More cackles. Simon seemed quite unmoved by the banter, indeed enjoying it, but behind it all Bet noticed that Thelma’s eyes were shrewd and appraising — Our Sim’s got a new lady friend, she’d report later to anyone interested, I wonder how long she’ll last?
When she’d gone (Chef’ll have my guts for garters if I don’t hurry up with the orders, he wants to be off home in time for “Match of the Day”’.) Simon said: ‘You’re very quiet. Sorry you came?’
‘No,’ Bet said, trying to work out the exact colour of his eyes; most of the time they were a sort of chestnut brown, but sometimes much paler than that and sometimes almost black. ‘I was thinking, that’s all.’
‘Poor Bet, is it very lonely?’ Simon reached out his hand across the table.
‘No, no of course it isn’t, I’m far too busy to be lonely.’ But she took the hand, all the same — chewed nails, she noticed, gold signet ring on the little finger. Then suddenly, not knowing why, she gave in. ‘Sometimes it’s hell, actually,’ she said, ‘but then one always assumed it would be.’ (Shouldn’t she take her hand away — could she take her hand away?)
‘Will I make you better?’
She wished she didn’t feel so faint, could think more clearly. His voice was the voice of a tempter, but then almost all of her wanted
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