Eugenie never admitted the truth.
The young staff were unfriendly to her, and in their mode of dress, presented themselves as trend-setters. The men favoured pink shirts. The girls threw up their hands in horror at the idea of being seen as mini-skirted Dolly Birds. They wore calf length midi-skirts and soft flat shoes they called Ballerinas.
Many work-hours were allotted to worrying about the skirts. The skirts were smoothed, the exactly correct midi-length was carefully measured. The men were consulted, and gave serious answers. Eugenie was not consulted, which was a good thing because she thought the whole pack of them were pseuds.
The only time they really seemed to notice her was when they sent her out for the lunchtime sandwiches. Not one of them wanted plain cheese. It was cream cheese on brown, cream cheese on white, cream cheese in a granary roll. Ham sliced thin with mustard, ham sliced thin with no mustard, just tomato.
Prawn. Eugenie was always particularly careful carrying back the Prawn. It was the most expensive, and besides, the young man who always ordered it had a very attractive smile.
The girl who was leader of the pack, and gave Eugenie tray after tray of filing to do, had another concern, apart from her skirt. This was the positioning of her box of tissues, contained in another box decorated with bright, Bridget Riley–inspired wavy stripes.
Should the tissues go on the right side of her desk, or the left? Would the middle be, well, too crassly obvious? Finally, the collective office decision was that as she was left handed, the tissues should go at the left, BUT AT A DIAGONAL ANGLE!
Eugenie, the mouse in the corner, carried on filing. She learned which products the advertising agency had pitched for, and not got. She knew which ones the agency intended to poach from its competitors. She saw which slogans had been dreamt up, sweated over, and rejected. Eugenie had no idea why she delighted in all this clandestine information. She was just sure, somehow, that if she stored it all away in her brain, one day it would all come in useful.
The leader of the pack always left early, because she had to go home and watch television. It was part of her job to monitor the commercials to ensure that a client’s advert didn’t appear too close to that for a rival product. Each afternoon, the leader of the pack swished out of the office, with her notebook, looking wracked with the responsibility of it all.
Eugenie handed in her notice. None of them seemed to notice.
By the time she met David, Eugenie was working just off Oxford Street, for the Footwear Information Bureau. Suddenly, a plethora of information bureaux had mushroomed in London. There was indeed a Mushroom Information Bureau (MIB), PIB (potatoes), BIB (bacon), TIB (tea).
These bureaux were discreetly funded by international companies who could afford central London premises. The Frozen Fish Information Bureau was funded by Findus, who were owned by Crosse and Blackwell, who were owned by Nestlé.
The Footwear Information Bureau was supported to a large extent by Clark’s Shoes. All responsible mothers sent their children to school in Clark’s Start-Rite shoes, chosen in a Clark’s shop where the assistant measured not just the length but the width of the tot’s feet, to ensure that tiny toes were not being squashed.
The Bureau was, in fact, just Eugenie. At the desk opposite sat Gloria, always known as Glo, who was in charge of MIB. Glo’s main concern in promoting mushrooms was to introduce them to the local restaurants, in the hope that she and Eugenie could get a discount on their lunches.
Along with sending out ready-prepared information sheets (WHY LEATHER IS BETTER) Eugenie’s job was to answer phone enquiries. Yes, she assured anxious men, it was quite normal to lose a pint of sweat a day from your feet. No, it was not true that shoes had to be ‘worn-in. They should feel comfortable from the moment you put them on.’ So a good time to buy shoes was when your feet were hot from a day’s shopping.
Apart from typing the occasional letter, Eugenie wasn’t using her secretarial skills at all, but she wasn’t particularly concerned. She was her own boss, working 9.15 to 5.45, and no weekend work. She had her brigade of boyfriends during the week, with Friday evening to Monday morning reserved for David. She wondered what the caretaker thought, seeing David early on a Monday morning, in his school blazer, making his way to Marylebone Station and thence to Wembley Grammar.
They were exploring restaurants, to give David a taste of what to expect on his world trip. He didn’t know where he was going yet, so they decided to cover a wide field.
So far, his favourite was Nepalese, discovered in a Soho backstreet. David was keeping notes, and always asked to see the chef. ‘Rich and meaty, lightened by herbs and greenery. Lamb with cumin. Momo, that’s a dumpling. Spiced red lentil Musurko Dhal…’
At Chez Victor, for the first time in his life, David tasted a crisp green salad with French dressing.
‘There’s no peas,’ he said.
‘Of course there’s no peas.’
‘When we have salad for our school dinner, it has tinned peas. Dawson picks them out.’
Eugenie thought the Chez Victor patron, hovering nearby, might faint.
So far, they’d done Spanish, Nepalese and French. Indian and Chinese they thought they were familiar enough with. Genuine Italian was proving difficult. It was all so fake.
‘Pasta a la Georgio. Scaloppina ala Normanda,’ said David, reading the menu. ‘What the hell’s all that? Sounds like Mr Carter had a hand in it.’
Next on the list was Russian so, obviously, they made their way to Beauchamp Place in the heart of Knightsbridge.
The Borshtch ‘n’ Tears was run by the ebullient, bearded Benny and the menu, David commented, was something else with a touch of the Mr Carter about it. Mr Carter had recently ‘invented’ Baked Siciliana, which was Baked Alaska combined with a dollop of Mr Whippy ice-cream.
Benny, bouncing along a similar route, was presenting Ukrainian Beef Casserole, along with Chicken Kiev and the beetroot soup called Borshtch. Entertainment (Slav) was provided by ‘Rasputniki’ who’s songs swung from the sentimental, to melancholy, to mad.
With many restaurants closed on Sundays, David and Eugenie went to the pictures. As a concession, the musical-hating David agreed to see ‘Oliver.’ They both agreed that Shani Wallis was wonderful as Nancy and Ron Moody perfect as Fagin.
‘No one else could play that part. Ever,’ David said.
The film ‘Gone With the Wind,’ Eugenie saw twice, once with David and again with a rapt Glo.
‘She’s gorgeous,’ David said, of Julie Christie in ‘Far From the Madding Crowd.’ He went on,
‘But anything by Thomas Hardy is always terminally boring.’
Art reported to David that at what was known as the Wembley flee-pit, he had seen ‘Dracula.’ Dawson admitted, shamefaced, that his parents were taking himself and his sister to see Cliff Richard at the Palladium.
‘He’s on with the Shadows, and Mike Yarwood. Who the hell’s Mike Yarwood?’
Art was temporarily in David’s bad books, having rushed in, at the start of the autumn term, and announced, ‘Plantagenet’s spent all summer screwing an older bird!’
Mirth. Cat-calls.
‘What’s her name? Where did you meet her? How many times have you done it?’
‘Mind your own fucking business!’
Further cries of disbelief were quelled by the arrival of the history master. He was new. He called the Register. When all the boys had admitted they were present, the history master said to David,
‘Plantagenet. I must admit I’ve never before had the pleasure of teaching a Plantagenet. Perhaps you would come to the front and enlighten me about the origins of your most unusual name.’
‘Yes, Sir. Plantagenet was a royal house founded by Geoffrey V of Anjou.’
‘So you have French origins?’ the history master said keenly.
‘That’s right, Sir.’ No one else in the class was remotely interested. Dawson, under his desk, was reading two Hank Janson’s at the same time. ‘Don�
�t Scare Me Sugar’ and ‘Sweetie Hold Me Tight.’
Art, at the back of the class was engaged in yet another drawing of Frieda’s breasts. He was getting so carried away, her right breast was scarcely going to fit on his sketchpad.
‘Some of the Plantagenet kings were renowned as warriors,’ David continued, for the sole benefit of the history master. ‘Henry V of England won a famous victory at Agincourt.’
The boys in the side row, next to the window, were exchanging squabble-notes about who they preferred, musically. Beatles, no. Elvis maybe. Yardbirds definitely yes!
‘Richard l had earlier distinguished himself in the Third Crusade; he was later romanticised as an iconic figure in English folklore.’
‘Thank you, Plantagenet. I’m sure we all found that most illuminating. Now, I gather for your summer project, young man, you were asked to write an account describing the meeting between Anthony and Cleopatra.’
The entire class disintegrated into helpless sniggers.
‘I do not see anything amusing,’ said the teacher, ‘in one of the greatest love affairs of all time.’
Dawson had abandoned ‘Sweetie Hold Me Tight’ and was now simulating a wank. He wasn’t quick enough.
‘You! Dawson isn’t it? I gather your project was on the Thirty Years War. Sweden. Tell us about it.’
Dawson looked mutinous. ‘Nothing much to tell, Sir.’
‘Really? I find that astonishing. Nothing happened, in a war that lasted thirty years?’
‘Well, it probably did. But it’s boring. Sir.’
‘What isn’t boring, Dawson, is that in your A-Level examination, you are bound to get a question on the Thirty Years War. Bound to.’
He rounded on the grinning Art. ‘And you, Carter. Perhaps you’d like to tell us how you spent your holidays?’
David froze. The Sunday after he’d first been to bed with Marigold, he and Art had held a Council of War.
‘I’ve got to impress her,’ David said. ‘But how? She gets taken out by all these older blokes. They’re rich. They run companies. They tell her amusing things. What can I say? Dawson climbed a tree by the girls’ playing field and peed on some girls. Dawson got the cane. It’s just not impressive, is it?’
Art thought for a bit. ‘I think it’s actions not words. You’ve managed to get her into bed. You’ve got to have the skill to keep her there. I could come along and help, of course.’
‘Fuck off.’
‘Okay. I think we ought to look in on a strip club. There’s one in Berwick Street. Revel’s Revue Bar.’
‘Will it be open on a Sunday?’
‘Yeah. They never close. We’ll go tonight. Around eleven.’
‘How will we get home?’
‘Night bus. We’ll need dosh. A wad. I have a feeling they don’t take Luncheon Vouchers.’
*
Wembley Boys’ Grammar broke up for the Christmas Holidays on a Friday. Eugenie insisted they stick to their usual routine, with David going home on Monday morning.
Christmas Day was the Thursday. ‘You could come and be with us,’ David suggested. ‘Frieda always does a turkey, with all the trimmings. And Mr Carter does two whopping puddings.’ The leftovers, Eugenie suspected, would rapidly be converted into Venetzia Surprizia! and probably tasted remarkably good with ice-cream.
However, Eugenie declined Christmas in Stupples Road. ‘Come on Boxing Day,’ she told him. ‘I’ll give you your presents then.’
She had bought David a fine-quality white shirt, and gold cufflinks.
‘What will you do over Christmas?’ David said. ‘You can’t stay here all on your own. Or have you got one of your fancy men turning up?’
All Eugenie’s ‘fancy men’ would be busy playing happy families.
‘I shall be perfectly okay, David. I’m going to start my novel.’
‘A novel! Can I read it?’
‘When it’s finished.’
‘Am I in it?’
‘No.’
‘What’s it called?’
‘Minx.’
‘Not The Minx?’
‘No. Just Minx.’
‘It’s just – The Bible wouldn’t sound so authoritative if it was just Bible.’
‘Look, it’s my book and I’m going to do it my way.’
*
On the Christmas morning of 1969, Eugenie was at her Adler by seven am. She had bought the machine for £25 and the shop had thrown in three free ribbons. Into the machine, she rolled two sheets of white paper and sandwiched a carbon inbetween. The white typing paper, she’d been ferrying home from FIB for months.
‘That’s right,’ Glo said approvingly. ‘Nothing wrong with moving something to a better home. Anyway, everyone nicks stuff from offices. Perk of the job.’
MINX, Eugenie typed. A Novel by Eugenie Dare. CHAPTER ONE
‘I wonder what she’ll be like,’ the Count said to Mrs Baker-Lord as the orchestra struck up for the tea dance.
They were in the grand lobby of the grandest hotel in Nice. Despite the oppulence of her surroundings, and the dignified courtesy of her companion, the Count, Mrs Baker-Lord did not look happy.
‘I haven’t the faintest idea what she’s like. I haven’t even seen a photograph. All I know is that she’s been at school in Switzerland, her parents have disappeared off to Africa, and I’m her aunt and I’m supposed to keep an eye on her.’
‘She’s seventeen, her name is Jeannette de la Riviere and she’s expected at four this afternoon,’ the Count recapped.
The Count said,‘Well, why don’t you stay here, my dear Mrs Baker-Lord, and I’ll go and form a welcoming committee.’
Eugenie paused. How was she going to get across that Minx was set in 1933? She considered the options. Underneath Chapter One she could put, Nice, 1933. But was that too plonking? Shouldn’t she work in the date, somehow, inject some period atmosphere through their clothes, or the tune the orchestra was playing? On the other hand, she didn’t want to slow up the action. And she didn’t know what tunes were popular in 1933. Something from a film, probably. Her mother could have told her, but probably wouldn’t as she wouldn’t want to admit she could remember anything about 1933.
Eugenie got up and made another cup of coffee.
Then she typed:
‘Mrs Baker-Lord smoothed her fashionably shingled hair. Really, it was just too bad of her sister to lumber her with this girl.’
Eugenie paused again. Was ‘lumber’ a word they would have used in 1933? She xxxxxxed it out and typed in ‘saddle.’ That was better. Now she was really getting somewhere.
‘In the lobby, the Count tensed with expectation as the bell-hop swung open the oppulent hotel doors. A girl entered, followed by three strapping young men.
‘See you tomorrow, Jeannette!’
‘Look forward to it. And thanks for the lift.’
‘The girl was petite, with long blonde hair falling loose over her slender shoulders. She was wearing a fashionable drop-waist white dress.
The Count advanced. ‘Miss de la Riveriere. Welcome to Nice. May I introduce myself? I am the Count (Thing – DECIDE LATER), at your service.’
The girl bobbed a graceful curtsey. Yes, it was prettily done, the Count thought, and yet, somehow, this girl had managed to introduce a note of irony into the courtesy of a curtsey.
‘I see you have already made friends in Nice, Mademoiselle.’
‘Yes,’ Jeannette said demurely. ‘Such sweet boys. They have invited me to play tennis tomorrow. I hope my aunt won’t mind. I wouldn’t want her to feel I was neglecting her.’
On the contrary, thought the Count. Your aunt will be only too glad to have you off her hands for a couple of hours.’
Eugenie’s hands were stiff with routine typing. She hadn’t had to do any serious typing since she left secretarial school, and she’d forgotten how tiring it was, banging away for hours.
It was time to think about lunch. Eugenie dried the potatoes she’d peeled and put in water last ni
ght, and cut them into small pieces. They went first into the oven to roast. She’d put in the chicken in half an hour. It was a big brute, so would last her all week, cold and then made into soup.
One of the items Marisa had declared Not Wanted on Voyage was the Good Housekeeping cookery book. The pages were stained with grease, attesting to the fact that Marisa was surprisingly reliable in the kitchen. ‘Men like a woman who’s a good cook. Men have appetites. And of course, you had to be a clever cook in the war, darling. Everything on ration. But there’s nothing difficult about cooking. If you can read, you can cook.’
Eugenie had planned to have a glass of sherry before her Christmas lunch, but in the sideboard all she could find were the dregs of some of that sickly Bristol Cream. She settled for a gin and tonic, and stretched out on the sofa, wondering how they were getting on in Stupples Road.
Mrs P, Eugenie knew, liked a port and lemon. And Mr Carter would be trying to hold Frieda back from a third G and T so she wasn’t too tiddly to baste the turkey.
Eugenie couldn’t imagine how it all worked. A small kitchen, four people, two Christmas puddings steaming on the stove, a saucepan for the sprouts, another one for the parsnips, a third for the bread sauce, and then there was the gravy, or was that going to be done in the roasting tin? Oh lord, they’d have custard with the pudding. Yet another saucepan. Perhaps Mrs P was helping out, dashing next door to fry sausage and bacon because Frieda had been too sloshed to stick them in with the turkey.
After her lunch, Eugenie went for a walk in Regent’s Park. The only others there were people walking their dogs. Eugenie scarcely noticed them, she was so absorbed in Minx.
The first chapter. Obviously, it was vital that the first chapter should capture the reader’s attention. The difficulty was getting across so much information about all these characters who were total strangers to the reader. Wasn’t it easier for the reader to put Minx down, switch on the TV and tune into The Groves? The Grove family were so familiar to the British public, it was as if they were real. Their likes, dislikes, foibles were endlessly discussed at home, in offices and pubs. Everyone knew that the infuriating grandma in The Groves would soon be ‘faint for lack of nourishment.’
In Bed with Mr. Plantagenet Page 4