Chocolate Mousse and Two Spoons

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Chocolate Mousse and Two Spoons Page 19

by Lorraine Jenkin


  “Yes, this is it. I’d introduce you to the boys, but they’d get overexcited and they can be a little overwhelming at times.” Lettie laughed again, enjoying the man’s gracious company.

  As they chatted away, he pointed out the various characters seated around the bar and Lettie giggled at the descriptions, relating some of them back to those that Dougie had mentioned. He told her that in five minutes the worried man in the suit would have to bolt, and this he did, much to Lettie’s delight. He pointed out the sultry looks that the lady stood next to her husband was giving one of the boys in rigger boots, “Oh yes, from my vantage point, I see it all,” he grinned quietly. “No one suspects John Haskins.”

  Lettie felt warm and put her sketch pad on the bar whilst she removed her jumper. “Hey! Look at this! This is good,” said John, picking up the pad.

  “Oh, I’ve just done a bit of a sketch for Dougie, that’s all. It’s a hobby really, although I do sell a few at home – you know, to the tourists”.

  “No, this is good – and surely Mr and Mrs Pryce?”

  “I don’t know their names, but Dougie calls them the worm gatherers. I met them in the park and they let me sketch them in too. They’re great aren’t they?”

  “Oh, indeed, the most comical pair I know. Not two pennies to rub together, but it doesn’t seem to bother them. They just chuckle their way through leaky roofs, dried up wells and floods. Yes, those two,” he said pointing at the couple involved in the not so secretive affair, “could learn a lot from Mr and Mrs Pryce. Do you mind me asking what you are going to do with it?”

  “Well, I would like to get it framed for him – I’ve framed one of the lake already, but I don’t think I’ll have time to do another tomorrow before I go.”

  “Tell you what,” said John, draining his glass, “you let me borrow it for a couple of weeks and I’ll get it framed and give it back to Doug. I’m involved in the local Arts Centre and we are having a little exhibition called ‘Essence of Wales’ and this would be perfect. If anyone asks, I’ll tell them that you live at Doug’s address and that your grandmother was Welsh!”

  “Well, if you are sure,” said Lettie, “but I couldn’t let you pay to get it framed.”

  “OK,” said John, pushing his empty glass towards her, “you accompany me through another pint, and we’ll call it quits.”

  Chapter 36

  Marinating the Chicken

  The date was arranged, the two rooms in the hotel booked and both Dougie and Lettie were looking forward to it, albeit with more than a little anxiety.

  Dougie hadn’t had a “date” in years and had certainly never had one with someone he didn’t know well and after the let down of the last attempt, he was nervous that Lettie might not show.

  Lettie hadn’t had a date with someone who hadn’t moved on to insulting her in years and after she had let Doug down at the last attempt, she was nervous that she might not show again.

  After Lettie’s few days at Glan Llanfair, Doug had returned to his house with some trepidation. What if she’d not managed to leave and she was still there? What if she had cleared the place as his friends had joked that she would? What if she’d just not liked it? He had opened the door gently and Alfie was there to welcome him wagging his tail so fiercely that his whole body followed it. Around his neck was a large red ribbon that made Dougie laugh out loud. She had said that she would have to feminise the house for him and some floristry ribbon from Alex had made a good start.

  There was a bowl on the table filled with fresh fruit with a note beside it saying, “Think of your colon – eat some…” There was an empty plate with crumbs on beside the Welsh cake tin with a note reading “I left you lots of these, but I expect Alfie will have eaten them by the time you get home.” In the bathroom was a pile of shells and a small piece of driftwood on the side of the still gleaming bath and some blueberry-scented soap balls scattered carefully among them. A new blue flannel was arranged beside the sculpture to complete it, folded in the way that serviettes are in restaurants.

  Doug had taken his bag up the ladder to the attic bedroom and started to unpack the clothes from within it. He went to put his boots under the bed and saw a note on the pillow peeping out from under the duvet. Smiling at it, he abandoned his bag and lay on the bed, making sure he was comfortable before he looked properly at the note – shoes off, pillows plumped. As he moved the pillows, he pulled a long brown hair with a gentle wave from the white case. He put it gently on his bedside table and then smelled the pillow. It smelled of something he couldn’t place, but it smelt good. He cursed himself for being so soft and picked up the letter and started to read.

  Dear Dougie,

  I am writing you this tucked up in your bed on the morning that I leave. I presume if you are reading this then you have got back safely and I hope that the small plump boy I dragged in off the streets to entertain me has taken his leave too. I’ve had a wonderful couple of days here that have been action packed, and I will fill you in on the details another time.

  I feel very odd tucked up in a complete stranger’s bed, (rather like the old sixth form parties again, eh?), but it does make me feel very soft and quite tender towards you, even though we still haven’t met. I am so looking forward to seeing you and I have pictured the scene in my mind many times – are we to greet each other shyly, am I to bounce into your arms or am I to rugby tackle you to the ground whilst calling for security?

  Then we have a whole weekend to get to know each other – hopefully lots of laughs and maybe a few hugs thrown in too? It will be a weekend of just us (and maybe that plump boy who agreed I can call on him for his services if you bore me too greatly). Hopefully we will drive home on the Sunday night to our respective homes with warmth exuding from our cars in the way that KFC wrappers do from yours now.

  There will be all those questions that we want answering – why if you are allegedly only thirty-seven, do you look seventy-four? Why are the police keeping a watch on your house? Do you still wet the bed?

  I suppose I am saying this because although I shall come to meet you with great excitement, I also come with caution (who’s he?). I imagine there will be a lot of assessment to be done on both sides to see whether we meet again. I’ve so enjoyed our phone calls, letters and texts, but it will be interesting to see how they transfer to meeting in the flesh. Will we fancy each other, will I be able to smell you before I see you, or will your wig slip at the crucial moment? So, please be aware that if I sneak under the table whilst you are sipping your wine and quietly measure the length of your willy, shrugging or nodding as the case may be, you shall know why. And I suppose I shall have to repay the favour if I find you trying on my clothes or seeing how far my knees will reach behind my head?

  Be aware that there is also plenty of scope for bringing up your points total in the “Is Dougie Crap or What?” chart, so think on.

  Despite all these cautions of mine, I am sat here in your bed quite excited about meeting you; I thank you for a couple of great days and I really look forward to meeting you – if only to give you a bit of advice about your décor!

  Lettie XX

  Dougie lay back in the pillows and hugged the letter to his chest smiling like a fool. How could someone he’d never even met know exactly how to get to him? He hadn’t yet found the large pair of pale blue Y-fronts and the tiny red lacy thong that Lettie had bought in the local Pound Shop, smouldering under the duvet at the bottom of his bed. Or Beano the Beaver gazing down from the shelf with a pair of Playboy bunny ears on his head and a small pair of pink satin pants complete with a bobtail, fitted over his worn dungarees…

  Chapter 37

  The Sixpence in the Pudding

  It was a Thursday night in the Glan Llanfair Community Arts Challenge Centre and a small, but important, gathering was taking place. Locally-made nibbles and organic wines were being served by the daughter of John Haskins who had been roped in to wear black and white and to please try and be gracious for an evening. Al
though one would not wish to resort to relying on stereotypes, stereotypes are made from experience and on that night, the gallery was filled with them. Long velvet skirts mingled with cravats and maroon jackets, and an excess of silk scarves fluttered in the draught from the open door.

  The public were excluded from the exhibition tonight, but the general apathy of most people pretty much negated the need for the sign, although it did help to increase the sense of occasion. The main focus of the wooden-beaded folk was centred on the three judges who waved their clipboards as badges of honour as they moved around the gallery in a pack. They muttered words of wisdom that were grappled for by the people hovering near the barings of their souls.

  Judge A, a tall gangly man in his late fifties with a balding pate set off by straggling hair that fell over the upturned collar of his black velvet jacket, regretted the abundance of sheep on mountains and the young hopeful standing beside the next picture on their tour groaned inwardly at her picture entitled “More Sheep than Men”.

  The “Essence of Wales” competition was a national event and, having a prize of five thousand pounds and a part to play in Wales’ national tourism campaign, was an important element of the arts’ calendar. John Haskins had struggled to get local artists, both established and budding, to enter the competition, which was seen by many to be beyond their talents. However, he had managed to convince seven that it would be good experience for them and that someone had to win. Lettie’s picture made the total eight. However, the judges were still able to circuit the room in less time than it took them to drink their one glass of wine and John was desperate that they wouldn’t decide Glan Llanfair wasn’t a worthwhile stop-off on their tour in future.

  John stood back and watched the procession. He was rather hoping that Lettie’s picture wouldn’t win, as she wasn’t Welsh and her links with Wales were so very tenuous. But he had to admit that it was his favourite. Well, if it did win, they’d sort something out – that Welsh grandmother that he had joked about in the pub may actually be required.

  The pack huddled together in the corner to discuss their thoughts, plied with more wine and delicate canapés by the waitress who had strict instructions from her father to peep at the clipboards. The artists gathered in the opposite corner chatting and joking and giving the impression that hey, what the hell? It was the taking part that counted, surely?

  A short cough brought an immediate end to the conversations, symbolising how unimportant they had been. Judge B, wishing she had a stage to take the centre of, thanked everyone for their attention and for turning out on this beautiful summer night to help make such a splendid occasion so enjoyable. She marvelled at the high standard of the work, particularly from the youngsters and gave what she hoped was an encouraging smile to More Sheep than Men.

  “Our brief is to try and find an image that represents the essence of Wales; something that symbolises all that is important to us and will encourage people to come and visit this fine country – and hopefully leave their money in it!” (Polite titter). “It has been a very difficult decision for us,” she insisted, peering over her glasses, which dangled from a thick silver chain. “But in the end, it was unanimous and I am very thrilled to say that we have chosen…” (intake of breath from all present) “…The Worm Gatherers by Lettie Howells.”

  A polite round of applause rippled through the room as everyone looked at Lettie’s picture again, nodding and agreeing that it was indeed the right choice. “Now, we have chosen this picture as we feel that it represents the mystical quirky nature of Wales. These kinds of people are not found on the streets of London, and although I am sure they live only in the artist’s imagination, they represent the glory of a time gone by; of the characters that lived and worked amongst us.” The local people in the room tittered, having recognised Mr and Mrs Pryce. “Therefore,” she continued, “I am pleased to say that The Worm Gatherers will go on to represent the Mid Wales region in the finals. Thank you again for coming and for entering your fine work in this important competition.”

  Judge B started another little ripple of applause and then headed off to mingle, wondering what her Tom was cooking for tea and whether he’d remembered that Fuchsia had swimming on Thursday nights.

  Bugger, thought John; how was he going to get out of this one?

  Chapter 38

  Corned Beef Hash

  The week before she and Doug were due to meet was a busy one for Lettie. It was Regatta Week in Lyme Regis and Malcolm and Jill were experimenting with evening opening and an á la carte menu. Lettie, as their best and most experienced waitress, had agreed to work every night so that she could have the weekend off and this suited everyone well, as it gave the summer waitresses the opportunity to strut their belly buttons and associated stuff at the week’s functions. The downside was the long hours and that the usual phone calls were not possible as Lettie would be returning home long after Doug had fallen into bed.

  This made them both a little nervous. Will she have forgotten me? Was my letter to him a little close to the nail? But, the text messages were just as frequent and they chuckled and bleep-bleeped their way through the week’s activities with a somewhat distracted energy.

  For the weekend’s plans, they had chosen a small hotel in the seaside town of Tenby. They felt that it would have a couple of days’ worth of wandering around on the beaches and exploring the cliffs as well as nice restaurants for the evenings.

  It was agreed that Doug would get there first, check in and then wait for Lettie in the bar. He finished work very much on time on Friday, handed Alfie to Rob and collected his bags. His plan was to drive down in his usual clothes and then shower and change into his new shirt and clean jeans at the hotel. This would allow him time for a potential breakdown or puncture as well as saving his clean clothes from the bark chip and dog hair mix that was always floating around his van. Still in their special bag was the pair of red silk boxer shorts that Lettie had sent with the label, “a much more exciting idea than looking for the bloke with the red carnation.”

  Lettie had also made her preparations. Three outfits hung up on hangers around her bedroom; the final decision being deferred until the last minute. She hadn’t even bothered counting her tips before rushing out of the restaurant door, waving an excited goodbye to those who watched her in envy.

  She showered quickly and massaged moisturiser into her smooth legs. Her hair was put into a clasp so that it would dry in the car and then (hopefully) fall into lovely curls when it was released from capture. A base layer of make-up was applied, removed and then applied again properly. Lettie stood in her new matching underwear that gave her figure a great shape, but was a set that she was determined would not be shared that weekend.

  “Perhaps you should wear your baggy greys!” Alex had laughed as Lettie had opened the box, unwrapped the lilac tissue paper and exhibited her new purchases. “Then you’d be sure not to show them to anyone!” But the underwear gave her a secret that would be hers alone, one that could be alluded to with a seductive smile.

  She admired the pale pink lace in the mirror and selected the black trousers and the skinny rib gold top to go with them. A wooden pendant at her neck and her black strappy sandals with clear polished toes perfected the look. Putting the other clothes into a large weekend bag that somehow seemed to accommodate every outfit she possessed, she made her way tentatively down the stairs.

  The hotel was perfect – big enough to be anonymous, small enough to be welcoming. Doug checked-in much earlier than expected and was shown to his room by a chattering attendant. She pushed open the door of the room, stood back and waited expectantly for an exclamation. It came as Doug walked straight to the bay and threw open the window. “What a view!” he said. “Wonderful”. The woman smiled, told him about the complimentary drink awaiting him in the bar if he should wish to join them later and left him to it.

  As is obligatory for people who rarely see the inside of hotel bedrooms, Doug waited until the door was safely
shut and then hurled himself onto the bed. As it slowly bounced him to a halt, he put his hands behind his head and felt an inward shudder of excitement. He felt like the awkward teenager who knows he is about to pass the girl he fancies in the street. He wanted to appear nonchalant and not bothered, but inside he was turning cartwheels and shouting, “Look at me! I’m bloody great, really I am!”

  Lettie hit the motorway, escaping the west-bound traffic heading for the coast. She sang along to the music blaring from the speakers of her small car. The sun was still bright and a gentle breeze blew over the Somerset Levels. She sped past lorry after lorry dragging their loads across the country and the increase in business people cocooned in their executive perks, alerted her to oncoming Bristol. The Severn Bridge was crossed and the toll paid for and once more she was in Wales and the traffic quietened, lightening the burden on the motorway as much as it lightened her spirits.

  The mobile phone that lay inside her bag on the passenger seat bleeped, indicating a text message and she mused would it be Dougie or Alex? Dougie probably, but she decided that she’d better wait until she was off the motorway before she looked. She was glad to finally leave the M4, although the driving was slower once more as she headed over the Welsh hills.

  The traffic grew lighter and the text message played on her mind like the last cigarette in the packet on New Year’s morning. Eventually she rummaged in her bag and pulled it out. The road ahead was straight and empty as she pressed the Read button. Yes, Dougie – what did he have to say this time? Road – still clear. “Hello! Hope you haven’t forgotten about this evening? Hotel is great – towels so fluffy I can barely shut my suitcase. Dougie xx.” Lettie smiled; she always teased Doug about his texts – shorthand was not his style and his texts were always in full and grammatically correct, despite his workman’s fingers. Hers, however, had all the shortcuts possible and it was sometimes a puzzle to Doug to determine what her abbreviations meant.

 

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