Read Online 06 Educating Jack by Jack Sheffield - Free Book Online
Authors: Jack Sheffield
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in the space of a couple of sentences.
‘Jack … there are some delightful gentlemen’s shops in Bath. Not quite Oxford Street, but we girls could transform you while you’re here.’
‘I’m fine thanks, Pippa,’ I said. Even so, I was beginning to wish I’d packed my charcoal-grey suit, the one I used for weddings, funerals and parents’ evenings.
Pippa was now in full flow. ‘I could see you in a rather arty sky-blue cord suit with a flamingo-pink linen shirt and a slim Eighties maroon tie and, of course, a pair of modern lightweight steel-framed spectacles with large lenses.’
I felt a little embarrassed following this assault by the fashion police and I pushed my Buddy Holly spectacles further up the bridge of my nose. ‘I’m not sure
pink
has got up to Yorkshire yet,’ I replied.
‘Pity,’ said Pippa. ‘Clothes maketh the man.’
It was then I realized we were from different worlds.
The French restaurant had the feel of a London bistro, relaxed, comfortable, friendly and full of young professionals. The maître d’hôtel knew Pippa well and we were guided to a candlelit corner table.
I glanced at the menu, which was written entirely in French, apart from the prices … and they were extravagant. Pippa spoke fluent French and ordered for all of us. For a starter, she ordered
le sauté de grenouille persillé
, which turned out to be a sauté of frogs’ legs with button mushrooms, parsley, and lemon and garlic butter. There was also a huge bowl of the local speciality for us all to share: mussels cooked in cider, shallots and cream.
I played safe for the main course and, thankful for my O-level French in the Sixties, ordered
La poitrine roulée de porc
, which turned out to be the most delicious braised organic pork belly in cider, ginger and honey, a treat for a hungry Yorkshireman after a long day’s driving. Everything was perfectly cooked and I reflected that this was a long way from Sheila’s
if-in-doubt-give-it-anextra-ten-minutes
cuisine in The Royal Oak. Gradually I relaxed, and the conversation and red wine flowed in equal measure.
However, I sensed that, on occasion, behind the light laughter lay heavy thoughts. There seemed a superficiality to our conversation; what needed to be said appeared hidden. It wasn’t until towards the end of the evening when we were sipping liqueurs and Pippa and Beth had slipped out to the ladies’ room that Laura struck up a new conversation.
‘So how’s married life, Jack?’ she asked. She put down her glass of cognac and looked across the table into my eyes. Her stare was challenging.
‘It’s fine, Laura,’ I said evenly.
She dabbed her mouth with a linen napkin. ‘And is my sister happy?’
‘You would have to ask her yourself,’ I replied.
She smiled. ‘I have, Jack.’ Then she leant forward. Her skin was flawless, and the scent of her perfume was both light and fragrant.
‘And are
you
happy?’ she asked quietly.
It seemed a curious question and the pause before my reply seemed to last an age. A private cocoon of heavy silence surrounded us as I looked into her green eyes.
‘Yes, I am,’ I said.
Suddenly, Beth and Pippa reappeared. ‘And what are you two plotting?’ asked Beth with a grin.
‘Nothing, big sister,’ said Laura smoothly, ‘just thinking that Jack here needs pointing in the right direction.’
‘Really?’ said Beth.
‘Yes,’ said Pippa, ‘to a gentleman’s outfitter.’
‘Poor Jack,’ said Laura. ‘But, sadly, I have to agree.’
‘I think my dear husband is too set in his ways,’ said Beth reprovingly. ‘Not exactly the new-age Eighties man, are you darling?’
There was a moment when Pippa looked knowingly at Laura, who responded with a flicker of a smile. It was a brief communication that meant nothing to a mere man but, between women, spoke volumes.
It had been a long day and, back in our room, Beth switched on the television set and turned the volume low. The film was
They Call Me
‘Jack … there are some delightful gentlemen’s shops in Bath. Not quite Oxford Street, but we girls could transform you while you’re here.’
‘I’m fine thanks, Pippa,’ I said. Even so, I was beginning to wish I’d packed my charcoal-grey suit, the one I used for weddings, funerals and parents’ evenings.
Pippa was now in full flow. ‘I could see you in a rather arty sky-blue cord suit with a flamingo-pink linen shirt and a slim Eighties maroon tie and, of course, a pair of modern lightweight steel-framed spectacles with large lenses.’
I felt a little embarrassed following this assault by the fashion police and I pushed my Buddy Holly spectacles further up the bridge of my nose. ‘I’m not sure
pink
has got up to Yorkshire yet,’ I replied.
‘Pity,’ said Pippa. ‘Clothes maketh the man.’
It was then I realized we were from different worlds.
The French restaurant had the feel of a London bistro, relaxed, comfortable, friendly and full of young professionals. The maître d’hôtel knew Pippa well and we were guided to a candlelit corner table.
I glanced at the menu, which was written entirely in French, apart from the prices … and they were extravagant. Pippa spoke fluent French and ordered for all of us. For a starter, she ordered
le sauté de grenouille persillé
, which turned out to be a sauté of frogs’ legs with button mushrooms, parsley, and lemon and garlic butter. There was also a huge bowl of the local speciality for us all to share: mussels cooked in cider, shallots and cream.
I played safe for the main course and, thankful for my O-level French in the Sixties, ordered
La poitrine roulée de porc
, which turned out to be the most delicious braised organic pork belly in cider, ginger and honey, a treat for a hungry Yorkshireman after a long day’s driving. Everything was perfectly cooked and I reflected that this was a long way from Sheila’s
if-in-doubt-give-it-anextra-ten-minutes
cuisine in The Royal Oak. Gradually I relaxed, and the conversation and red wine flowed in equal measure.
However, I sensed that, on occasion, behind the light laughter lay heavy thoughts. There seemed a superficiality to our conversation; what needed to be said appeared hidden. It wasn’t until towards the end of the evening when we were sipping liqueurs and Pippa and Beth had slipped out to the ladies’ room that Laura struck up a new conversation.
‘So how’s married life, Jack?’ she asked. She put down her glass of cognac and looked across the table into my eyes. Her stare was challenging.
‘It’s fine, Laura,’ I said evenly.
She dabbed her mouth with a linen napkin. ‘And is my sister happy?’
‘You would have to ask her yourself,’ I replied.
She smiled. ‘I have, Jack.’ Then she leant forward. Her skin was flawless, and the scent of her perfume was both light and fragrant.
‘And are
you
happy?’ she asked quietly.
It seemed a curious question and the pause before my reply seemed to last an age. A private cocoon of heavy silence surrounded us as I looked into her green eyes.
‘Yes, I am,’ I said.
Suddenly, Beth and Pippa reappeared. ‘And what are you two plotting?’ asked Beth with a grin.
‘Nothing, big sister,’ said Laura smoothly, ‘just thinking that Jack here needs pointing in the right direction.’
‘Really?’ said Beth.
‘Yes,’ said Pippa, ‘to a gentleman’s outfitter.’
‘Poor Jack,’ said Laura. ‘But, sadly, I have to agree.’
‘I think my dear husband is too set in his ways,’ said Beth reprovingly. ‘Not exactly the new-age Eighties man, are you darling?’
There was a moment when Pippa looked knowingly at Laura, who responded with a flicker of a smile. It was a brief communication that meant nothing to a mere man but, between women, spoke volumes.
It had been a long day and, back in our room, Beth switched on the television set and turned the volume low. The film was
They Call Me
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