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“Hello? Hello? Are you still there?” Geoffrey is sounding quite worried. Good!
“Sorry, Geoffrey,” I say, calmly. “That was the telly: ‘Family At War’.” Dad looks as if he is going to say something but settles for slamming the door.
“Please come out with me, Rosie. We could have something to eat, as well.”
“I don’t fancy a Wimpy, tonight,” I say. Talk about last of the big spenders. Geoffrey’s idea of giving a girl a good time is to let her have first nibble at his choc ice—he wipes it on his handkerchief afterwards, can you imagine? I don’t want to sound like a gold digger but Geoffrey is tighter than a new roll-on and after asking for Natalie he deserves to suffer a bit.
“I wasn’t meaning a Wimpy,” he says. “I thought we might have a bite up West.”
“The West End?” I say. You have to be careful with Geoffrey. He could be talking about West Chingford.
“Of course. Oh Rosie. Do say you’ll come. You don’t know how much I’ve missed you.”
“You’re sure you wouldn’t rather take out Natalie—or my mother?” Sometimes I am so nasty I amaze myself.
“Rosie! Don’t be like that. We’ll have a great evening. I know we will.”
I don’t mean to be unkind to poor Geoffrey but he is so easy to push around that I can’t stop myself. I am much better with the mean, moody and magnificent types—at least, I would be if I could ever find one. I have not got any nearer than the mean type, so far, which brings me neatly back to Geoffrey.
“Oh, all right, Geoffrey,” I say graciously. “You’ll be round about seven, will you?”
“If that’s all right. Then I can show you my new car.”
“A new, new car?” I ask.
“Oh yes. It’s one of these new Japanese jobs. Goes like a bomb.”
I can remember the last car of Geoffrey’s that went like a bomb—it disintegrated on impact with the road.
“Sounds great, Geoffrey,” I say. “See you later. ’Bye!” I ring off as Natalie comes out of the front room.
“Who was that?” she says.
“Just Geoffrey,” I say, stifling a yawn. “He wants to take me out to dinner and the Wembley tennis.”
“Should be very nice if you don’t mind eating off your knees,” says my revolting little sister. “I had to pack him in. He’s so mean and he only thinks about one thing.”
I ignore her bitchy remarks but at the same time I can’t help thinking about the sex angle. Natalie has suggested before that Geoffrey is a bit of a handful passion-wise. With me he has always acted as if weaned on Horlicks tablets. Could it be that he finds me less desirable than Natalie? Of course, she does behave like a little trollop and wear the most obvious clothes—I will never understand why Mum lets her get away with it—but I would have expected Geoffrey to see through that. Still, he is a man—I think—and they can be very stupid sometimes.
I stick my head round the front room door. “Sorry, Dad,” I say.
Geoffrey arrives just when I knew he would. At ten to seven while I am still in the bath. This is not a great hardship because he goes into the kitchen and helps Mum with the potatoes—I can tell by the peel down the front of his Eastwood Tennis Club blazer. Mum thinks that Geoffrey is the greatest thing to happen to a girl’s marriage prospects since Artie Shaw. She is always telling me what a gentleman he is and what good prospects he has. I think she fancies him a bit, herself.
“Sorry I was a bit early,” he says when I come down at twenty past seven. “Gosh, you do look nice.”
“She’s not a bad looking girl, is she?” says Mum, almost swinging up and down on the bell rope.
“Mum, please!” I say. “Geoffrey, will you look after these, for me?”
Geoffrey pockets my lipstick and compact and leads me out to the car. I must say, it does look snappy. Pillar box red with white wall tyres.
“I can let the seat back a bit if you find it cramped,” says Geoffrey.
“That’s all right,” I say. “Just give me a shoe horn to get in.”
I am not kidding. With both Geoffrey and me inside we have to open one of the windows before the door will shut properly.
“Precision engineering,” explains Geoffrey. “No draughts.”
“You mean, if we have all the windows closed, we suffocate?”
“Not if you remember to switch on the air conditioning.”
“That’s reassuring,” I say. “This wasn’t made by the same firm as the kamikaze planes, was it?”
“I don’t know,” says Geoffrey seriously. “I’ll have to look at the handbook.” Poor Geoffrey. He doesn’t cause Jimmy Tarbuck any sleepless nights.
“I heard a rumour you were giving up nursing,” he says.
“Natalie told you?”
“Well, she sort of mentioned it.”
Typical, I think to myself. I’ll have to wait until Friday to see if she has put an advertisement in the local paper.
“I decided I couldn’t make it my life work,” I say.
“What are you going to do now?”
“I haven’t really made up my mind. I might go into teaching.”
“I hear there’s a big shortage.” Geoffrey makes it sound as if that is my only hope. I think he said the same thing when I told him I was going to become a nurse.
“I think it could be stimulating,” I say.
“I think you’re stimulating.” Geoffreys hand drops onto my knee like a lead spider.
“Keep your hands on the wheel,” I scold, secretly glad that there is asign of red blood coursing through the Wilkes veins.
“It’s not easy,” pants Geoffrey. “It’s been so long.”
I am not quite certain what he is talking about so I don’t pursue the matter.
“We’re going to the tennis first, are we?” I ask.
“I’ve booked a table for ten.”
“But there’s only two of us.”
“I meant ten o’clock,” says Geoffrey.
“I knew you did!” I nearly scream at him. “I was making a little joke.”
“Oh, I see. Yes, very good.”
“Where are we eating, Geoffrey?” I say patiently.
“This new place I was telling you about.”
“I remember that, Geoffrey,” I say grimly. “What is it called?”
“Oh, um, Star of—no. The White—no. It’s somewhere near Goodge Street.”
“You’ve been there?”
“No. A bloke I know told me about it.”
“Can you remember what his name was?” I say sarcastically.
“I think it was Reg Gadney. No, wait a minute, it was—”
“It doesn’t matter.” Honestly, Geoffrey is impossible. I can think of people I have seen on the party political broadcasts who inspire more confidence.
“Don’t worry,” he says. “I’ll recognise it when I see it.”
Unfortunately, Geoffrey reckons without the fiery Latin temperament of one of Stanley Kramer’s tennis stars. He hits a ball at a line judge and it catches Geoffrey smack in the eye. I am furious—Geoffrey’s choc ice goes all over my new skirt—and poor Geoffrey can hardly see anything. His eye swells up and he sits there for the rest of the match with his handkerchief over his face. The officials offer him a free ticket but I can’t see what good it is going to be if he can’t see anything.
Some of these lithe, superbly muscled tennis stars with their film star good looks and brown hairy legs ought to make more effort to control themselves. They may think that they can get away with murder but as far as I am concerned, they are absolutely right. When I look at them and I look at the star of Eastwood Tennis Club I think that Geoffrey would be better off strapping both his tennis rackets to his feet and emigrating to Alaska.
I keep hoping that the player who zapped Geoffrey will come over and apologise so that I can ask for his autograph, but at the end of the game he vaults over the net, punches his opponent senseless and disappears—goodness knows what would have happened if he had lost.
“It’s over now, Geoffrey,” I say. “Are you sure you’re going to be able to see to drive to the restaurant?”
“I think so,” he says. “You may have to help me get the food in my mouth, though.” Geoffrey is very English because he only makes jokes when he is suffering.
The journey to the West End is a nightmare because I can’t drive and Geoffrey has to control the car with one hand over his injured eye and the other changing gear and holding the wheel. I start off by trying to help but when we have driven over the flowerbeds outside the town hall I leave it to Geoffrey. I feel such a fool because he has to cock his head to one side to see properly and I notice the other drivers nudging each other at the lights. They must think I have just socked him one for getting fresh. Fat chance of that!
When we get near Goodge Street it is absolutely hopeless. Geoffrey can’t see anything and can’t remember anything and we drive up endless streets full of parked cars and dustbins.
“You call out the names and I’ll see if any of them rings a bell,” says Geoffrey. “What’s that place over there? ‘Felice’? That rings a bell.”
“Is it a vegetarian restaurant?” I ask.
“No. I don’t think so.”
“Well it can’t be that one. That’s a florist.”
We go on for another ten minutes and I decide I can’t stand it any longer. “Let’s stop anywhere,” I plead. “If I don’t get something to eat in a minute I’m going to start chewing your plastic banana.”
“What?” says Geoffrey, hopefully.
“The thing you’ve got hanging from the rear view mirror.” I tell him. “Come on, this place will do: ‘Borrman’s German Restaurant.’ I’ve never had any German food.”
Well, I can tell you right away. This is not one of my best ideas. The minute the waiter overhears Geoffrey saying that he reminds him of Hitler I know we are going to have problems.
“Ze var is over,” he screams. “Whole generations ov nazis have grown up who av never eard ov concentration camps.”
“Exactly,” I say. “You’re absolutely right. Now, what would you recommend?” You can’t fault me on the humble meter, can you?
Unfortunately, the waiter clearly feels he has an axe to grind. I have noticed before how Geoffrey manages to rub people up the wrong way.
“Recommend?” he shouts. “Vott, you zink zere is something wrong with some ov it? Gott in Himmel, that the Führer should be alive today.” He throws down the menu and we don’t see him again for twenty-five minutes.
“The decor is nice,” says Geoffrey.
“How much longer are you prepared to sit there?” I hiss. “Are you a man or a mouse?”
“Which do you prefer?” says Geoffrey. You know, I really think he means it.
“Tell him we want some food or we’re getting out,” I say. “There’s no excuse for the delay. We’re the only people in the place.”
At first I think that Geoffrey has developed a cold in the throat. Then I realise that his nervous cough is attempting to attract the waiter’s attention. Honestly, talk about an evening with Steve McQueen. I am not surprised that Geoffrey once missed the mixed doubles final because he shut his fingers in his racket press. I am just on the point of taking matters into my own hands when two enormous plates of sausage and red cabbage arrive on the table.
“We didn’t order this,” says Geoffrey.
“‘Order’!? You don’t know ze meaning ov ze vord order,” screams our waiter, fingering his duelling scar. “Ze Panzers, ze knew vot an order vos!” Before we can say anything he sweeps the plates onto the floor and dives behind one of the tables.
“This definitely isn’t the place my friend told me about,” says Geoffrey.
“Don’t be so defensive!” I tell him. “We all make mistakes.”
“Ze died vere ze lay!” screams the waiter. He starts pulling the side plates off the tables and hurling them towards the kitchen.
“Boumf! Boumph!”
“Do you want to stay?” says Geoffrey.
“Are you mad?” I say.
“No, but I’m a bit worried about him.” Geoffrey stands up and clears his throat. “We are leaving now,” he says. He might be repeating “How now brown cow”.
The waiter picks up a knife.
“Come on, Geoffrey!”
“Egon Ronay will hear of this.”
“Geoffrey!” I will remember that terrible man standing at the door and shouting “Schweinhunds!” after us till my dying day—in fact, I thought it was going to be my dying day.
