Table D'Hote Read online

  TABLE D’HOTE

  Douglas Clark

  © Douglas Clark 1977

  Douglas Clark has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1977 by Cassell & Company Ltd.

  This edition published in 2018 by Endeavour Media Ltd.

  For Sheila and Len Moor who lent me the fabric of Jackdaws to re-erect far away as Pilgrim’s

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter One

  The restaurant was a secretive place in so far as it was difficult to find without precise instructions as to how to get there. There was no sign post on the main road to suggest that the Bramblebush was just round the corner, tucked away, its front hidden by the jutted building line of the antique dealer’s shop. And the little side road itself came into the main road at the wrong angle to encourage passing trade. For those speeding away from London it angled away backwards, hairpinning left to obscure even the view of interested passengers. For those coming into London it posed a difficult right turn across heavy traffic, to lead to what . . .?

  You had to get there to find out. A board on the boundary wall of the property told customers there was a car park at the rear. Then, almost apologetically, the word Restaurant had been added. Anybody unfamiliar with the house would not know whether the arrow indicating the way to the car park also pointed to the restaurant, or whether the two messages had been ill-designed and so had become misleading where they were meant to guide.

  Wanda Mace had realised she was close to the turn-off because the instructions David Bymeres had given her were precise. “When you reach the triangular patch of green, you’re there. Coast along until you reach the end of it and then turn right. The Bramblebush is only twenty yards down the side road. Pass it and turn left into the car park.”

  She did as she had been told. The little lead-in to the car park ran past the open door of what was obviously a kitchen area, past a neatly stacked heap of beer crates and white metal barrels, and then turned on to a surprisingly large apron of tarmac laid out geometrically with broad white lines to indicate parking spaces for eighteen or twenty cars. There were probably a dozen already there, but David’s yellow Renault 17 was easy to pick out. She slipped the Mini into an empty space beside it, nosing the bonnet up to a low wall of peat blocks where skilful gardening had resulted in a cascade of blue lobelia fronting a raised border of South African marigolds, multi-coloured petunias and clumps of purple phlox. It was all so neat and colourful, without being twee, that she sat for a moment to admire it. She would have liked to see a honeysuckle on the old wall behind the bed. She thought it a pity to have such a south-facing expanse without making use of it. Perhaps a cordon-pear, apple, cherry or even more exotic fruits—peach or a grape-vine.

  There was a light tap on the roof of the Mini. Not the soft tap of finger ends, but the sharper sound of finger nails. David! She could see in her mind’s eye the well-kept finger nails playing the little drum roll. He had exquisite nails, very rounded at the ends, and worn slightly longer than most men. She remembered an occasion a few weeks ago when she had sat up in bed to polish her own nails, with David beside her, still asleep. One of his hands had been on top of the coverlet. In a love-urged gesture she had lifted it and started to buff the nails. It had wakened him, but he had lain there, quite still, allowing her to continue. While he had been asleep it had seemed merely an indication of affection on her own part, but after he had woken and made no effort to withdraw the hand, she had wondered whether vanity had not caused his acquiescence. Always vanity! She supposed all men had a flaw. With David, she had never discovered any, other than vanity. Vanity about clothes, his professional expertise, his skill at love-making. . . .

  “How about it then?” His face appeared at her open window. “Are you going to spend all day dreaming?”

  She leaned sideways and upwards to kiss him before opening the door. Getting out was a business. The adjacent vehicle was too close. But she knew she looked good, and could almost feel David’s appreciative gaze as she angled out, long legs foremost. Million-dollar legs, he called them. He was even vain about how expensive his women’s bodies looked.

  She was in a brown linen dress, cut square and moderately low at the neck. She had chosen it not to set off her tan, but rather to match it and to emphasise the almost bleached fairness of her hair, which she wore long. As she locked the car door, he said: “You found it all right, then?”

  “I’m here, aren’t I?” She felt disappointed. No comment on her appearance. No stroking verbal caress of compliment or pleasure at her arrival.

  The notice board had been right. The entrance to the restaurant was at the rear. David led the way off the tarmac and along a narrow path of paving stones across a little lawn no bigger than a billiard table to the door of a small vestibule. It was cool in there. The walls were cream washed and the single refectory table and wall bench shone with the patina of age. Somebody—Wanda guessed at whoever had done the garden—had placed a row of upright bamboos across the recesses on either side of the chimney breast and had trained variegated trailing ivy up to the low ceiling. She liked the atmosphere.

  “May we have a drink in here? Just the two of us?”

  He looked at his watch. “You’re just a bit late. I’ve a clinic at a quarter past two.”

  She tucked her handbag under her arm as a gesture of agreement that they should go straight to the table. He led the way without comment. Through the little room and left-about, up a step into the dining room. Wanda felt a pang of disappointment. The room itself was basically attractive, but somebody had found it necessary to do it up. The beams were still there, but the ceiling had been covered with some sort of tiles so that air extractors could be fitted in regimented rows. The tables and chairs were modern reproductions, with upholstery in bright red vinyl. Nor had the interior decorator foresworn the bogus horse-brasses and miniature warming pans which clutter so much lovely stud-work in old houses.

  The head-waiter was small, very neat, and half Italian. “This way, doctor, please. And madame!” He led the way to a table at the far end of the room, well away from the other score or so people who were having lunch. After he had tucked her chair in behind her and left the menus, Wanda said: “You seem to be well known here, David.”

  He smiled—almost smirked. It irritated her. She was surprised enough by her own feelings to wonder why. Perhaps she had been a little put out by the rebuke that she was late for their appointment and had thereby done them out of a pre-lunch drink. But she didn’t really think that was it? It was David’s attitude. Was she becoming obsessed with his vanity? Seeing it where it didn’t exist? In his every action and gesture? Hadn’t that comment of hers about him being well known to the head-waiter tickled his vanity? Did even a thing as small as that pander to it? She decided it did. As she glanced through the menu she wondered whether she was going off David a bit. They hadn’t seen as much of each other these last three months as formerly. Had that been her decision, or his? Was he losing interest in her? She’d not considered this before now, but it seemed highly probable. The question, if she was right, was why? She made no demands of him. She was, she knew, a personable woman, but . . . but what? Well, she was no great beauty. Just average, made to look that much better by careful dressing, and she was thirty-two now, rising thirty-three. A
good thirty-three though. It wasn’t as if she’d had children to sag her figure, to draw worry lines on her face or to ruin her hands with everlasting nappy washes. Still. . . .

  “I can recommend the consommé.” It was said without a glance up from the menu. He’d thrown it at her, perhaps helpfully, perhaps dictatorially. She couldn’t quite decide. One thing she did know, and that was that she must stop this mental criticism of David or else end the relationship. And in spite of her doubts of the past few minutes she knew that to break with him would be almost impossible for her. She cared too much. Vain or not, he was a damned good lover.

  “One thing I’ve always remembered about you, David. Right from the time when you, Daphne and I first met. You’ve always liked consommé. You still do apparently.”

  He laid his menu aside. “I can’t stand thick soups.”

  “For medical reasons?”

  “Not really. For many years before I decided to become a doctor. Though there are clinical reasons. What goes in at the mouth comes out in the flesh, and you’d be surprised how many patients I see who are obese in the clinical sense.”

  “I suppose lush, thick soups do add to the ounces. Cream of tomato! I wonder just how much of that is eaten, with all the fattening cornflour or whatever they use to put body in it?”

  “When I was much younger. . . .”

  “Is this a reminiscence or a reason for disliking thick soup?”

  She thought she saw a slight frown of annoyance at the interruption, but he replied readily enough.

  “Both. When I was a child, my father used to eat and enjoy certain foods which were prepared especially for men. It was the custom with some old boys.”

  “Patum peperium? Gentleman’s relish?”

  “That sort of thing.”

  “The patum used to come in those lovely heavy pots with loose lids. Like milky glass.”

  He made no comment on her remembering such things, but ploughed straight ahead with his story. Another thought struck her as she listened. He appeared nervous. Was it because this was their first real meeting in public close to his own home and practice?

  “One of the things available in those days was a gentleman’s consommé essence. It was a dark brown fluid. Two tablespoons in a pint of clear stock were supposed to delight the men of the family, but women-folk—according to the blurb on the label—would generally not find it to their taste.”

  “They’d be found guilty of discrimination between the sexes if they were to say that today.”

  “Maybe. Anyhow, my father used to have it. It was specially made for him while the rest of us had Brown Windsor or whatever the soup of the day happened to be. I can still remember how proud I was when I was given my first serving of father’s consommé. I couldn’t have disliked it even if it had tasted like dishwater laced with boot polish. I felt then that I was a man at last. I think I was seven at the time.”

  She smiled at him. “So now, psychologically, you’re hooked on clear soup. It must be some form of virility symbol to you.”

  He nodded. “There may be something in that. But we have such excellent foods in beef and yeast extracts. Good nourishing foods that hardly have a calorie to the pint. They—and good stock—should be used as the ingredients of soup.”

  “I’ll remember that.”

  “Do. It’s a good hint.”

  “Right. I’ll have the consommé and a crab salad.”

  “Fine.”

  “Are you having the same?”

  “I’ve eaten so much salad this last week or two I feel I could hire myself out as a pub sign for the Green Man.”

  “Is Daphne low again?” She asked it tentatively, not sure how he would take this enquiry about his wife. But he seemed relieved to hear she had introduced the subject.

  “No more so than usual, but you know how she dotes on tennis, and during the Wimbledon fortnight she never produces anything that means she has to leave the TV set to prepare it. So salad it is, every day and twice a day.”

  “Poor David!” She put her hand on his across the table. He left it there just long enough to register her touch before picking up the menu again.

  “So . . . I’m torn between the pâté and the dish of the day.”

  “Liver and bacon? In this weather?”

  “I dote on it, my sweet. Liver, I mean.”

  “Now why didn’t I know that? I’ve . . . I mean, we’ve . . .”

  “Known each other for years and done quite a bit of going to bed together? And despite all this you didn’t know I liked liver and bacon? Is that it?”

  “More or less.” She smiled again. “Strange that one can know so little about a person with whom one is so very friendly.”

  “Intimately friendly?” This time it was he who stretched out his hand for hers.

  After a moment—

  “Darling, should you? Hold my hand? One of your patients might see you.” There was no protest in her voice. Her doubts had gone. David seemed to have recovered from his bout of nervousness. She decided that she had been imagining things. This luncheon, here, in this restaurant, was a new departure for them, and though it was nothing but a delight for her, the implications could just conceivably be serious for him.

  “Not in here, they won’t. We’re four miles from my surgery and so nicely tucked away out of sight that nobody who doesn’t live in the immediate neighbourhood would know about it.”

  “You’re not local.”

  “But I’m one of the people who goes out of his way. . . .”

  “To find good places to eat?”

  “That—and to find dishy women.” He lifted her hand and leaned forward to kiss it.’

  “Darling, please! Be careful.”

  He let the hand go and smiled at her. He was feeling very pleased with himself. The faint feeling of unease he had at the outset was gone. This little party was going off better than he had hoped.

  “As long as you’re not one of my patients even the B.M.A. cannot frown on my conduct.” He said it gaily, almost carelessly.

  “Not officially.” Now it was her turn to be serious. “But what about Daphne? Does she suspect?”

  He frowned a warning that the head-waiter was approaching. The conversation died.

  “Are you ready to order, doctor?”

  “We’ll both have consommé. Then crab salad for one, and I’ll have liver and bacon.”

  “Vegetables, sir?”

  “What about some of your delectable whole broad beans? They’re on, aren’t they?”

  “Yes, sir. And some new potatoes?”

  “Just right. Can you leave me the wine list?”

  As soon as the little black-clad man had swirled away, Wanda asked quietly: “Does Daphne suspect?”

  “She suspects all right.”

  “David! I’m supposed to be her great friend.”

  “Oh, she doesn’t suspect you.” He said it airily.

  “What then?’

  “Simply that I go with another woman.” As he said the words, the feeling that it tickled his vanity to be considered a Lothario by his wife returned strongly to her mind.

  “Thank heaven for that! Anybody in particular?”

  This time he grinned widely. She thought he was a handsome devil. The thought came vividly to her how often she had held his face in her hands and drawn him down. . . .

  Her thoughts were interrupted. “Funnily enough. Daphne thinks it is Miss Hector, our practice secretary. Poor Miss Hector! I haven’t a clue as to what passions she nurtures in her bosom, but I can assure you that a yearning for me is not among them. I rather think she fancies Roberts, our second senior partner. He’s a widower, you see, and so is available in Miss Hector’s eyes. Consequently it is not a sin to hunger after him.”

  “Whereas you, as a married man, are out of reach and so must be out of mind?”

  “At a guess, yes.”

  She wondered. If Miss Hector was a decent sort of woman, she would mother a man like David—if she like
d him enough to do so. But from David’s tone, she had gathered that the Hector woman didn’t like him. If this were so, the question was—why? David was not at the top of the group practice tree, but he was the bright boy among the eight doctors in the group. That, at least, she knew to be true. She had known David and Daphne for years and was well aware of his academic and clinical record. It was good. Of that there was no doubt.

  “I shall order half a bottle of hock to go with your crab and chianti for myself. Does that sound all right to you?”

  “Perfect. Is chianti one of your great loves, too?”

  “Would I be fool enough to drink a wine I didn’t like?”

  “I’ve known you order wine on many occasions, but I can’t recall chianti.”

  “Simply, my sweet, because usually I’m choosing a wine for communal drinking. If we were to have just one wine for both of us today I wouldn’t choose chianti because it’s not to everybody’s taste. Some people think it too rough. But it suits me very well.”

  “You’ve always indulged your fancies, David.”

  “Do I detect a note of censure?”

  “Of warning.”

  “About what?”

  “Women. Don’t be fooled by them, David. I think you would be foolish to suppose—harking back to Miss Hector—that out of reach necessarily means out of mind.”

  “Thank heaven for that, otherwise you and I. . . .”

  He stopped as a waitress brought the consommé. After she had gone he changed the subject. “She’s the head-waiter’s wife.”

  “Quite a family affair.”

  “It is. If they need more than the two of them on duty, her mother helps, and after that, his mother. Both families live in a biggish old house just down the road.”

  “Mmm . . . this is good.”

  “What were we talking about?”

  “David, I think it was a mistake meeting here, so close to your home and practice. I feel so much safer in the cottage a nice, comfortable twelve miles away.”