benighted, downtrodden Victorian governess.
“You didn’t much care for those two, did you, dear?” Beatrice jumps guiltily. Monday morning she’s at her office window watching with considerable relief the departure of Bertie and Gwen. Sel comes up behind her; gently massages her shoulders, it feels rather nice. “Don’t worry, I can’t stand them either, but he’s a bloody good accountant and, contrary to popular belief, such people do not grow on trees. Of the two I find Gwen marginally more of a bore. What do you think?”
“Please Sel, you’re making me feel like Jane Eyre. I have no opinions about your friends at all, I can’t have.”
“Don’t talk nonsense, and if you’re considering putting me down as some latter day Mr Rochester, don’t. I’m not the type. I mean can you see Edward Rochester presiding over such cultural feasts as Find the Missing Link or even Spot the Dot ?”
“Well he did pretend to be a gypsy woman, and –”
“I am not and never will be…” Sel suddenly seizes her arm and spins her round to face him. “You’re giggling you naughty girl, and that we cannot have.” He’d just begun to kiss her breasts – he was, she’d learned by now, most definitely a breast man – when Mrs Bogg’s baleful head appears round the door: “Your phone’s going, Mr Wood, ringing like mad it’s been. I thought you wasn’t about”.
“Answer it, dear, will you,” Sel, apparently unmoved by Mrs Bogg’s beady eyed look, lets go of Beatrice, and steps gracefully back to the other side of her desk, “I forgot to switch the phone through.” Beatrice, scarlet faced, hurries next door. Sel turns to Mrs Bogg. “Ah, Mrs Bogg, just the person I’ve been looking for. I’m so sorry about the honey, my wife tells me you were the tiniest bit miffed at old Mr Warren getting our order, but surely you must know after all your help and kindness,” (Mrs Bogg bridles modestly) “the last thing either of us would wish to do is offend you. The thing was we had no idea you kept bees, imagined in our ignorance that old Mr Warren was the only person in the village to do so. If we had known, of course we would have given you and your husband our order. We will of course do so in future, unfortunately…” His voice fades away as Beatrice, shutting the door behind her, picks up the still ringing phone in Sel’s office.
“Selwyn Woodhead’s secretary speaking, can I help you?” There’s a pause at the other end of the line, then: “Er, Sam Mallory speaking.” (So his name’s Sam, is it?) “Are you the lady I met up at the Grove last week? It’s quite ridiculous, but I don’t know your name.”
“Beatrice, Beatrice Travers.”
“Oh.” Another pause. “Do you wish to speak to Mrs Woodhead, I’m afraid she gone to Belchester this morning. Can I be of help?”
“No. I mean yes, that is, perhaps you can give her a message.”
“Certainly.”
“It’s just, well I’ve managed to get that consignment of frogs’ legs in aspic. I told her I’d try to get hold of some for her –”
“Wasn’t that rather difficult?”
“Difficult?”
“To get hold of frogs’ legs in aspic, I mean, in this part of the world.”
“Oh. Oh I see, well not terribly really – are you settling in alright? I, I don’t seem to have seen you around.” Sam wipes the back of his neck with a handkerchief, he’s beginning to feel as though his head’s full of bees. Tavey come back to me – please … Oh not again.
“Fine thanks. My first week was pretty hectic and I hardly managed to get further than the garden, but my boss will be out on Wednesday opening the Coltsfoot Carnival, and then I think he has to go to London for a meeting, so I’m hoping things may get a bit slacker. Look, I’ll tell Mrs Woodhead about the frogs’ legs and –”
“Can we meet?”
“Well, I am a bit busy at the moment, but I am hoping to walk to the village this afternoon and have a look at the church; Sel, Mr
“You didn’t much care for those two, did you, dear?” Beatrice jumps guiltily. Monday morning she’s at her office window watching with considerable relief the departure of Bertie and Gwen. Sel comes up behind her; gently massages her shoulders, it feels rather nice. “Don’t worry, I can’t stand them either, but he’s a bloody good accountant and, contrary to popular belief, such people do not grow on trees. Of the two I find Gwen marginally more of a bore. What do you think?”
“Please Sel, you’re making me feel like Jane Eyre. I have no opinions about your friends at all, I can’t have.”
“Don’t talk nonsense, and if you’re considering putting me down as some latter day Mr Rochester, don’t. I’m not the type. I mean can you see Edward Rochester presiding over such cultural feasts as Find the Missing Link or even Spot the Dot ?”
“Well he did pretend to be a gypsy woman, and –”
“I am not and never will be…” Sel suddenly seizes her arm and spins her round to face him. “You’re giggling you naughty girl, and that we cannot have.” He’d just begun to kiss her breasts – he was, she’d learned by now, most definitely a breast man – when Mrs Bogg’s baleful head appears round the door: “Your phone’s going, Mr Wood, ringing like mad it’s been. I thought you wasn’t about”.
“Answer it, dear, will you,” Sel, apparently unmoved by Mrs Bogg’s beady eyed look, lets go of Beatrice, and steps gracefully back to the other side of her desk, “I forgot to switch the phone through.” Beatrice, scarlet faced, hurries next door. Sel turns to Mrs Bogg. “Ah, Mrs Bogg, just the person I’ve been looking for. I’m so sorry about the honey, my wife tells me you were the tiniest bit miffed at old Mr Warren getting our order, but surely you must know after all your help and kindness,” (Mrs Bogg bridles modestly) “the last thing either of us would wish to do is offend you. The thing was we had no idea you kept bees, imagined in our ignorance that old Mr Warren was the only person in the village to do so. If we had known, of course we would have given you and your husband our order. We will of course do so in future, unfortunately…” His voice fades away as Beatrice, shutting the door behind her, picks up the still ringing phone in Sel’s office.
“Selwyn Woodhead’s secretary speaking, can I help you?” There’s a pause at the other end of the line, then: “Er, Sam Mallory speaking.” (So his name’s Sam, is it?) “Are you the lady I met up at the Grove last week? It’s quite ridiculous, but I don’t know your name.”
“Beatrice, Beatrice Travers.”
“Oh.” Another pause. “Do you wish to speak to Mrs Woodhead, I’m afraid she gone to Belchester this morning. Can I be of help?”
“No. I mean yes, that is, perhaps you can give her a message.”
“Certainly.”
“It’s just, well I’ve managed to get that consignment of frogs’ legs in aspic. I told her I’d try to get hold of some for her –”
“Wasn’t that rather difficult?”
“Difficult?”
“To get hold of frogs’ legs in aspic, I mean, in this part of the world.”
“Oh. Oh I see, well not terribly really – are you settling in alright? I, I don’t seem to have seen you around.” Sam wipes the back of his neck with a handkerchief, he’s beginning to feel as though his head’s full of bees. Tavey come back to me – please … Oh not again.
“Fine thanks. My first week was pretty hectic and I hardly managed to get further than the garden, but my boss will be out on Wednesday opening the Coltsfoot Carnival, and then I think he has to go to London for a meeting, so I’m hoping things may get a bit slacker. Look, I’ll tell Mrs Woodhead about the frogs’ legs and –”
“Can we meet?”
“Well, I am a bit busy at the moment, but I am hoping to walk to the village this afternoon and have a look at the church; Sel, Mr
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