Robert did not waste any time pondering on the wisdom of
taking part in a talent contest. He dialled Cleo’s number and was rewarded by
the sound of her voice.
‘This is Cleo Hartley. Please leave your name and number after
the beep and I’ll call you back...”
Beeeeeeeeeep.
Maybe he should practise an aria or two before committing
himself to anything as spectacular as a talent contest. He had not sung much
that day. On Mondays, most people ate leftovers from the Sunday joint and he
spent most of the day at the back of the shop making yards of sausages ready
for Tuesday’s fast food cooking. The task needed so much concentration to get
the sausages all the same length that he could not sing at the same time.
Robert knew that his customers enjoyed listening to his
sonorous bass-baritone and he quite often serenaded them while he was weighing
and wrapping; his vocal contribution to the church choir was appreciated so
much that even Cleo Hartley had come to church to listen to him, but a talent
contest was a completely different kettle of fish and he would never have
dreamt of entering had Dorothy not suggested it. What with one thing and
another, which might have included a bit of shyness, he did not get round to
phoning Cleo again that same evening and the following day found him giving the
matter second thoughts. For her part, Cleo felt that phoning back was not such
a good idea since Robert had said he would phone again, but she already knew
how she would get round that little problem.
As on every Wednesday, the shop was only open until lunchtime
so a steady stream of customers claimed Robert’s attention all morning. Imagine
his surprise (mixed with embarrassment) when Cleo swept into the shop bearing a
rolled up poster. She had left Clare to deal with the last library book clients.
Besotted Mr Morgan, who had taken to turning up at the library and sat
infatuated in a corner, peeping over the newspaper the library provided, was
actually sorry that Cleo had left as he was now exposed to Clare on her own.
Wooing someone at a distance was easier than approaching the admired one or
even being drawn into a conversation with her.
Cleo had caught a bus back to Upper Grumpsfield to catch Robert
before he shut up shop for the day. She was going to spend her free afternoon
catching up on gardening and household chores and would reward herself with a
fragrant soak in the bathtub followed by an American-style supper.
Robert dealt somewhat hastily with the customers who were
ahead of her. That left Cleo standing in front of the counter and him behind it
not knowing how to proceed.
“Anything wrong, Robert?”
Robert seemed to be in a trance.
“Are you all right?”
Cleo spoke quite loudly. He was not behaving as he usually
did.
“Oh. What did you say? ...... Oh yes, I’m all right, thank
you.”
He was anything but all right. This confrontation with a
person on whom he had a shine had dumbfounded him.
“Could you find a space for a poster, Mr Jones?” said Cleo
very formally, since it was a formal request and British people tended to do
that. “It’s for a talent contest.”
“Gladly, Miss Hartley. Where would you like me to hang it?”
“On the door would be fine, thanks,” Cleo replied, balancing
the poster on the glass-topped counter. “And I’d like a T-bone steak if you
have one.”
“Of course, of course! I’ll go to the back and get one.”
“Thanks.”
Then purely on impulse she called “Make it two!”
Robert fetched a tray of T-bones steaks from the huge
refrigerator at the back of the shop. While he was doing so, he rehearsed what
he was going to say next.
“Miss Hartley,” he began as he weighed the steaks. “Dorothy
Price told me about the talent contest. Do you think I could enter for it?”
Then, before Cleo had time to say anything he burst out “I
suppose I’m too old, aren’t I?”
Robert was not far off fifty.
“Nobody is too old, Robert. People of all ages will want to
take part.”
“Well, that’s all right then, isn’t it?”
Robert Jones was partly relieved and partly sorry that the
first hurdle had been taken.
“You’d better put me on the list, then,” he stuttered.
“Is that why you phoned me the other day. Mr Jones?”
Robert looked startled.
“Yes,” he finally said. “How do you know?”
“My answering machine gave the game away. I recognized your
voice. You did say something into it, you know. Something like ‘damn and blast’
if I remember rightly.”
“Did I? I’m not very good at talking to machines.”
“I gathered that. So what are you planning to do, Mr Jones?”
Cleo knew that Robert sang in the church choir, but she didn’t
want to let on that she had been to church especially to hear him making up at
least half the volume of the choir.
“Do?”
“Perform - at the talent contest.”
“Well, I could do my knife-throwing act, couldn’t I?” he
chuckled, suddenly coming out of his trauma and waving his carving knife around.
The ice was broken.
“I’m Robert,” he said.
“I’m Cleo,” she said.
To Cleo’s astonishment Robert offered him a hand to shake. Was
this also part of British tradition?
It’s hard to say whether Robert was trying to impress Cleo or playing
the fool to cover his shyness. He had indeed been an amateur juggler in his
early years, but knives had not been part of his act.
“Too dangerous, Robert,” said Cleo, quick to enter into the
spirit of things. “Can’t you do something a little less risky, like singing?”
With his eyes fixed on the T-bone steaks he was now wrapping, Robert
muttered that he would also be prepared to sing an aria.
“Well, that’s settled then. I’ll put you down as a singer.”
“But I won’t know which aria to sing.”
There was panic in Robert’s voice, but for a different reason.
He needed delaying tactics to stop Miss Hartley leaving the shop before he had had
time to ask her to go out with him.
“I’m sure we can solve that problem. You can ask Dorothy Price
or Laura Finch. They would both be able to advise you. How much?”
“How much what?”
“The steaks, Robert.”’
Robert had been hoping she would offer to help him to decide
which aria to sing.
“‘Oh, nothing. They’re on the house.”
“But only if you come to dinner and eat one of them, Robert.”
The words had slipped out before she could stop them.
In his wildest dreams, Robert had not been expecting that
reaction. Cleo interpreted his silence as a yes.
“Good,” she said. ”Is 7 o’clock OK?”
Robert nodded.
Cleo felt elated. She had long since come to appreciate Robert’s
friendliness. He had been the first to make her feel welcome in Upper
Grumpsfield, and even if that were only part of his sales tactics, she had been
glad of it in an otherwise hostile environment. Now things were OK between her
and the rest of the village, but unpleasant memories are hard to banish and it
helps if one can temper them with nice ones.
Robert was grinning from ear to ear.
“Don’t forget to come, will you?”
Cleo was in seventh heaven.
“Oh, I won’t.”
Robert was now on cloud nine.
Cleo felt decidedly light-headed. As she proceeded down the
street to the greengrocer’s to get salad, sweet corn, crème fraiche and big fat
potatoes to bake in their jackets, she wondered how she had had the nerve to
invite Robert to dinner.
Robert had seemed happy with the idea, but that didn’t stop
her being a bit apprehensive. It wasn’t very often that she entertained and was
a long time since she had cooked for a male friend.
An hour later, Cleo was starting to wonder if Robert had got
the wrong idea. Would he think she was what these quaint villagers called a
loose woman?
Of course, she had intended to ask him if he would like to try
American cooking sometime and had made up her mind that today would be the day
to broach the subject on a theoretical level, but actually ordering an extra
steak and inviting him to come and eat it that very same evening was as
unexpected to her as it had been to him.
If the steaks had been in the counter display, mused Cleo, she
might have just bought one and gone home. Did Robert really want to come, or had
he only been too polite to refuse?
Cleo felt like a young girl about to embark on her first date.
Instead of getting some gardening done, she spent half the afternoon in a
scented bath and chose her outfit with a lot of care.
Long before her guest was due to arrive, Cleo was running
round the kitchen preparing the food like her mom had done. Traditional
American cooking was something she didn’t usually bother with these days, but
today she would serve the steaks dripping with herb butter, a mixed salad
spiced with an American dressing, jacket potatoes dressed with a cream dip, and
sweet corn on the cob, a delicacy bought on Middlethumpton market a few days
ago. The English didn’t know how to cook, she reflected, remembering her
mother’s words. They stewed everything, including their salads. And what if
Robert had a partner she should have invited. She did not know if he was a
single. How embarrassing if he had had to leave someone at home.
At exactly seven o’clock, the doorbell rang and Cleo rushed to
open the door. Robert was carrying a large bunch of long-stemmed red roses that
he more or less pushed at her, Gareth Morgan style. The symbolism of those
roses was not clear to Robert, but fairly obvious to Cleo.
She blushed.
“Oh, you shouldn’t have. Come in, come in! I’ll put the
beautiful roses in water.”
Though Cleo Hartley was a well-built woman not far off 40, she
felt almost sylph-like and about 16 in the presence of Robert Jones, who was
built as tall and wide as the cottage door frames and reminded her of American
footballers. Cleo was accustomed to them being padded out, but this guy didn’t
need any wadding. She supposed the muscles came from wrestling with cows and
pigs, but she tried not to think too much about that.
Robert sat down on most of the sofa in front of a blazing fire
in the cottage tiny sitting room. Cleo served Martinis and Robert proposed a
toast to the evening. A smell of good cooking pervaded the air and he was
happy. So was Cleo, but they weren’t quite ready to tell one another that.
A well-cooked meal can work like ambrosia if the constellation
is right. Cleo and Robert lost all sense of time and talked about themselves. Day
was dawning before he took his leave, promising to return as soon as he had
closed his shop for the day. After almost no sleep, Cleo was in a strangely
intoxicated mood all through Thursday. It wasn’t that they had had what is
commonly known as a one-night stand. That
was much too soon, Cleo told herself. But she was walking on air and hardly
noticed who came into the library and left it; her conversation with Clare was
punctuated by deep sighs. Clare thought she must be sickening for something. Cleo
did not enlighten her.
