Over Hill and Dale

by Gervase Phinn

‘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 Appetit 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 confit of plump pigeon, served with an ’onest red wine reduction, ragout of Schitake, oyster and Piedmont wild mushrooms, or you can ’ave casserole of numerous mussels in a garlic shellfish broth, or you can ’ave oven-roasted ’alibut tandoori tikka marsala 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, redcurrants, blueberries, all set in apple jelly and served with citrus crème fraîche, 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 mêlée.

  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 glass 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.

  ‘No, thanks, just coffee, please.’

  ‘Could we just have coffee, please,’ I said to the waiter. He stuck his tongue in the corner of his mouth, shrugged and nodded as if deliberating on a difficult arithmetical problem. ‘And is there anywhere less crowded and noisy for us to have it?’ I continued.

  ‘Oh, no, no, no! I am afraid not. Le Bon Appetit ees always ver’ busy at zer weekend.’

  This was just impossible. There should have been soft music, subdued lighting, the outstanding view down the dale, a wonderful calm. I could not possibly ask her here in this place. I wanted this evening to be memorable.

  ‘Shall we skip the coffee?’ suggested Christine helpfully. ‘We could go back to my house. I make an excellent cup and I know Mum and Dad would love to see you again. They hoped you might have time to pop in.’

  ‘No coffee, then, thank you,’ I told the waiter. ‘Just the bill, please.’

  ‘Certainement,’ murmured the waiter and strode off.

  Turning back to Christine, I said in a resigned voice, ‘Yes, let’s go back to your house for coffee.’ I had not planned for the evening to end like this. How could I propose with Christine’s parents making polite conversation and smiling at me over the rims of their coffee cups? ‘I’ll just go and rustle up the taxi. I ordered it for eleven, but we don’t want to be hanging about here for the next hour. Would you excuse me? I won’t be long.’

  Having finally persuaded the head waiter to ring for the taxi, I headed for the only cool and quiet place in the building: the gents. I had to get my thoughts straight and think through another plan of attack. In the deserted cloak-room, I splashed cold water over my face and stared into the mirror. Perhaps Christine’s parents would leave us to ourselves and then I could pop the question. I had rehearsed what I would say so many times I knew it backwards. Or perhaps we could sit outside in the warm air, I could take her in my arms and propose beneath the moon. I looked in the mirror, smiled and said out loud: ‘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’ve always loved you, I’ve loved you since I first saw you.’ I paused for effect. ‘I just cannot live without you. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Darling, will you marry me?’

  There was a loud flushing noise, a cubicle door opened and the man with a clarety complexion and heavy jowls from the next table emerged with a bemused expression. He joined me at the washbasin where he proceeded to wash his hands vigorously.

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t,’ he said bluntly.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Marry you. I’m married already. I’ve been married for fotty-five years. But thank you for asking – I shall always treasure the memory.’ Then, chuckling to himself, he left me to my thoughts.

  The evening had been a total disaster. What else could possibly happen next? I had not long to wait. At
the bar, having settled the bill, I became aware of a familiar voice.

  ‘Could you order me a taxi, please, to collect us in about thirty minutes?’ It was Dr Gore.

  ‘Dr Gore!’ I exclaimed.

  The Chief Education Officer smiled his hungry vampire smile and came down the bar to join me. ‘Hello, Gervase, I didn’t see you there. I take it you too have been celebrating the end of term? Are you here with your colleagues?’

  ‘No, no, just with a friend,’ I replied.

  ‘Well, you must come and join us for a coffee.’

  ‘That’s very kind, but I’m expecting a taxi –’

  ‘What time?’ he interrupted.

  ‘Well, it was for eleven actually, but I’ve just asked the waiter to telephone and see if it could collect us earlier.’

  ‘I’m sure that you have time for a cup of coffee. In any case, if your taxi does arrive it can wait for ten minutes or so.’ He smiled a thin-lipped, self-satisfied smile, reminding me of Count Dracula before he sinks his fangs into a helpless victim. ‘Now, I won’t take no for an answer. You run along and fetch your friend. We’re through the archway, near the window, in a little alcove.’

  ‘And where have you been?’ Christine demanded in a mock angry voice when I arrived back at the table. ‘I’ve been sitting here for ages.’

  ‘I’m really sorry. I met Dr Gore and just couldn’t get away. He’s asked us to join him for coffee and I couldn’t get out of it. He insisted. Do you mind awfully?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  I led Christine through the crowd still thronging the bar area, under the archway and headed in the direction of the window where Dr Gore had said he was sitting. This was where Christine and I should have been, I thought crossly. There was soft background music, subdued lights, tables for two in secluded alcoves. I could have proposed here, I thought to myself.

  ‘He’s over there,’ said Christine taking my arm.

  I stopped in my tracks as if turned to stone when I saw who was in animated conversation with the CEO. At a pretty table, bathed in pink light from a nearby lamp, sat a streamlined figure in exquisite acid-green silk and bedecked in an assortment of heavy gold jewellery. It was Mrs Savage.

  ‘I do not believe it,’ I heard myself whisper. ‘I do not believe it.’

  ‘What is it?’ asked Christine. ‘You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.’

  ‘Something worse,’ I murmured.

  Dr Gore stood as we reached the table. ‘Ah, there you are,’ he said. ‘Good, good. Miss Bentley, how very nice to see you. Gervase never mentioned who his friend was. Bit of a dark horse is our English inspector. Come, come, do take a seat. I’ve ordered some more coffee.’

  Mrs Savage placed the china cup she was holding carefully between finger and thumb on the saucer and our eyes met. She arched an eyebrow and gave me a twisted little smile. We sat down on chairs pulled up by Dr Gore. ‘You know Brenda, of course, Gervase,’ continued Dr Gore jovially. He turned to Christine and gave her the thin-lipped grin. ‘This is my personal assistant, Brenda Savage,’ he explained. ‘You keep me in order, don’t you, Brenda?’ She gave a self-satisfied little smirk before extending a green-nailed hand like some member of royalty. ‘Delighted to meet you,’ she said softly.

  ‘And this is Christine Bentley,’ Dr Gore told her. ‘One of our most distinguished and hard-working headteachers.’

  ‘Hello,’ said Christine warmly. ‘I think I saw you with Dr Gore when he came to talk at the Headteachers’ Conference.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Mrs Savage. ‘I spend a lot of time with Dr Gore.’ She gave me what could only be termed a challenging look.

  Dr Gore and Mrs Savage, I thought to myself. Well, well. The evening was collapsing into a complete shambles – but what a story I would have to tell David and Sidney.

  ‘Well, isn’t this nice,’ chortled the CEO leaning back in his chair.

  The next ten minutes of trivial conversation seemed an eternity. Mrs Savage never missed an opportunity to remind me how hard Dr Gore worked and how much he relied on her. I could have yelped for joy when I saw the little French waiter heading in our direction.

  ‘Meester and Meesis Pinn, your taxi is ’ere.’

  I thanked Dr Gore for the coffee, shook his hand, wished him a pleasant summer holiday, smiled weakly at Mrs Savage and turned to Christine, ‘Shall we go then?’

  Christine slid her hand into mine and smiled. ‘If you’re ready,’ she replied.

  I was lost for words, just as I had been the very first time I had seen her. She had the deepest blue eyes and the fairest complexion I had ever seen, the softest mass of golden hair, the sweetest mouth. She was strikingly beautiful. It had been a coup de foudre – an instantaneous falling in love and I had to tell her. ‘Gervase,’ she repeated, ‘are you ready?’

  ‘Yes,’ I murmured. ‘I’m ready.’

  ‘That was an unexpected meeting, wasn’t it?’ Christine said as we headed for the door. ‘Fancy coming across Dr Gore and Mrs Savage, together. Do you think there’s something going on between them? He’s a widower, isn’t he?’

  ‘Christine –’

  ‘Of course, it might be quite innocent – just be a sort of thank-you meal, you know –’

  ‘Christine! I am really totally uninterested in Dr Gore and Mrs Savage at the moment. There really is something I have to ask you. It won’t wait. Could we just sit down for a moment?’ We found an empty table in a smoky part of the room near the bar. I took a deep breath and tried to remember the words I had endlessly rehearsed. My mind went blank and my throat dry. ‘I know this is not the best place to say this, but I really have to say it now. You don’t have to answer me right away. You might want to think about it. It’s just that I think you are the most beautiful, wonderful, amazing person I’ve ever met and, well, I love you. Yes, I do, I love you. I can’t stop thinking about you. It’s making me ill. I want you to be my wife.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Will you marry me, Christine? You may want to think about it –’

  ‘The answer is “No”,’ Christine replied immediately.

  ‘No? Oh, no!’ Her answer was like a bullet to the heart.

  ‘No, I don’t need to think about it, Gervase. Of course I’ll marry you.’

  ‘You will?’ I shouted loud enough to turn the entire noisy restaurant silent. ‘You’ll marry me?’

  ‘Of course, I will.’

  Making his way to the bar was the claret-faced man who had heard the final rehearsal of my speech in the gents.

  ‘Well done, lad,’ he chuckled, thumping me on the back. ‘I knew thy’d fettle it.’

  This was followed by a clatter of clinking glasses and noisy applause from the rest of the diners. I caught sight of Dr Gore raising a very large brandy glass in our direction. He was smiling his vampire smile while Mrs Savage, with her beringed hand on his arm, had an enigmatic smirk playing about her lips.

  ‘Ees everything all right?’ It was the head waiter who had materialised at my arm.

  ‘Oui! Oui!’ I exclaimed jumping up, grasping him by the shoulders and kissing him on both cheeks.

  ‘’Ere, steady on, squire,’ he replied in a distinctly Yorkshire accent, looking acutely embarrassed. ‘You’ve no need to carry on like that.’

  ‘Le repas était excellent,’ exclaimed Christine suddenly, ‘en dépit du fait que la soupe était froide, la viande pas assez cuite, le vin tiède, et l’ambiance celle d’un abattoir. A part ça, tout était superbe.’

  ‘Thanks very much, madam,’ said the waiter with a wan smile. ‘Very kind of you, I’m sure.’ He looked distinctly uncomfortable. ‘I’m not all that good with French,’ he whispered, retaining the weak smile. ‘The boss just likes us to put on the accent. Gives the place a bit of class, you know.’ He added in a feeble voice, ‘Actually, I was born in Barnsley.’ Then he continued as an afterthought, ‘They don’t speak much French in Barnsley.’

  We let the taxi wait and stood with our arms arou
nd each other on the little hump-backed bridge in front of the restaurant. In the clear moonlight, the swirling waters beneath were speckled in myriad colours: rose-pink and silver, slate-grey and russet red, shimmering yellow and tenderest blue. A few leaves eddied in the pools, while old dead oaks, garlanded in ivy, stood upright with roots agape to the sky and willows wept and shivered in the breeze. From its banks, shadowy pastures climbed up the fellside and the great buffs of limestone towered above us like tall castle walls. The smell of wet wood and honeysuckle mingled in the still air. A distant farm dog yapped, and high above an owl gave a hunting shriek.

  Christine’s blue eyes were bright with pleasure and her blonde hair shone golden in the moonlight. I stooped to kiss her.

  ‘I’d like six,’ I said, wrapping my arms around her waist.

  ‘Six what?’ Christine asked.

  ‘Children. I’d like six children.’

  ‘Let’s think about that later, shall we?’ she replied, reaching up to kiss me.

  ‘You do want children?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, of course, but not right at this moment and I might want eight.’

  ‘Ey up! Are tha ready or what?’ said a loud voice in my ear.

  I very nearly tumbled off the bridge, and turned to face the taxi driver standing with hands on hips. ‘I’ve got a lot o’ calls toneet, tha knaws. Can’t be messin’ abaat whilst tha looks at t’river. It’s been theer since Battle o’ Ribsdyke ’undreds o’ years back. It’ll still be theer in t’ mornin’. So let’s be ’avin’ thee.’

  Christine and I hooted with laughter so loudly that it was the taxi driver’s turn to jump with surprise.

  ‘Are you two all reight?’

  ‘We’re champion, aren’t we, Chris?’ I exclaimed robustly, in true Yorkshire fashion. ‘Just champion!’

  Remember Me?

  ‘Do you remember me?’ asked the young man.

  The old man at the bus stop,

  Shabby, standing in the sun, alone,

  Looked round.

  He stared for a moment screwing up his eyes,

  Then shook his head.

  ‘No, I don’t remember you.’