Espresso Tales - Alexander Hanchett Smith [11]
“And then, curiously enough, I met him when the two of them went to a talk at Ottakar’s Bookshop. Willy Dalrymple had just written a new book about India and was talking about it. It was wonderful stuff, and he told a marvellously funny story about a misunderstanding he had had with an official somewhere in India or Pakistan about the pronunciation of the name of that English cricketer, Mr Botham. The official pronounced this
‘bottom’, and this led to difficulties. Terribly funny.”
Domenica stopped, and for a moment there was a silence. Then she leaned forward and whispered to Pat, “I mentioned the staff here. Look at them. Look at this young man who’s coming to serve us. Look at him. Doesn’t he look like Rupert Brooke? They’re all so tall – so willowy. But shh! Here he is.”
Pat felt embarrassed – the young man might so easily have heard what Domenica was saying; not, Pat thought, that Domenica would care too much about that. But she – Pat – did. The waiter leaned forward to take their order, and Domenica smiled up at him.
“We’re probably going to be really rather unadventurous and 20
Anger and Apology
just order a couple of coffees,” she said. “Although some of those quiches over there look very tempting. Do you make them yourselves?”
The young man smiled. He glanced at Pat. “I don’t. I just work here part-time. Someone else makes them in the kitchen back there.”
“You’re a student?” asked Domenica brightly. “No, let me guess! You’re a student of . . . No, you defeat me! You’re going to have to help me. What are you a student of ?”
The young man laughed. “English,” he said.
“I see,” said Domenica. “I should have guessed that. You see, I thought that you bore an uncanny resemblance to Rupert Brooke, the poet. I don’t suppose anybody studies him any more. Too light. You’ve heard of him, of course?”
“Yes,” said the young man. “I’ve heard of him. I’ve not read him, though.”
“Well, let me lend you one of his books,” said Domenica quickly. “Come round and have dinner with us some time and I’ll give you one. We live just round the corner – Scotland Street. You know it?”
For a moment the young man hesitated. He looked quickly at Pat, who lowered her eyes, and blushed.
“Yes, I know it. I live in Cumberland Street, you see.”
“Perfect!” said Domenica. “Well, if you give me your name, I’ll leave a message for you here and we can arrange something. I’ll get the book out to give to you.”
7. Anger and Apology
When Pat eventually got back to her flat in Scotland Street, she still felt angry over what Domenica had done. Their cups of coffee in Glass and Thompson’s delicatessen and café had been drunk largely in silence.
“I’ve done something to upset you, haven’t I?” said Domenica, after the silence became too obvious to remain unremarked Anger and Apology
21
upon. “Is it to do with what I said to that young man – what was his name again?”
“Peter.”
“Yes, Peter. A nice name, isn’t it?”
Pat said nothing. Domenica looked at her, and frowned. “I’m sorry. I really am. I had no idea that you would be so . . . well, so embarrassed by all that. I did it for you, you know.”
Pat looked up sharply. “You asked him to dinner, out of the blue, just like that – for me? ”
Domenica seemed surprised by this. “But of course I did! You don’t think that I go around picking up young men for my own sake, do you? Good heavens! I do have a sense of the appropriate, you know.”
“And it’s appropriate to go and ask perfect strangers to dinner to meet me? Do you consider that appropriate? How did you know that I wanted to meet him anyway? Just because he looks like some ridiculous poet you’ve read . . .”
Domenica put down her coffee cup – firmly. “Now wait a moment! I’m sorry if you think I’ve overstepped the mark, but I will not stand by while you refer to Rupert Brooke as a ridiculous poet. Have you read him? You have not! He wrote wonderful pastoral, allusive