stern and fusty study – or indeed from my own workaday domain!
For a couple of minutes he chatted inconsequentially, enquiring about my journey and the vagaries of the weather; and then rather to my surprise commented on features of St Botolph’s church with which he was apparently quite familiar: ‘Some very pleasing touches, but of course the Lady Chapel is entirely ruined by that monstrous Victorian reredos. Such a blot! Can’t you do something about it?’ He peered up at me with that intent and querulous gaze which I had seen many times on the face of his brother. (What on earth did he expect me to do – repaint the thing? Or was I expected to stash it out of sight in the belfry as I had once had to do with certain other artistic embarrassments?) I explained that it was in the hands of the Church authorities and not something over which I had much control.
‘Ah yes … the Church authorities ,’ he replied bleakly, ‘a fat lot they know about matters of taste – least of all my venerable brother!’ He gave a biting laugh and offered me sherry from a sparkling decanter. ‘Now, come and enjoy the view. My visitors always love staring down at the pavements – gives them a sense of detached superiority, I suppose.’ He took me over to one of the large windows with its tiny French balcony. And as we gazed down admiring the quiet square with its trees and discreet architecture, a woman emerged from a side street. She was about forty, nondescript, with a limp perm and flat sandals.
Claude gave a pained sigh and then murmured quietly, ‘Have you ever noticed that ladies who wear those Roman sandals with thick leather ankle straps are invariably of a certain ilk and bore the pants off one?’ I was startled by that – both the observation and its metaphor – and mumbled something to the effect that it had never really occurred to me. ‘Oh yes,’ he continued confidently, ‘and what’s more, it is always those with the thickest ankles who wear the thickest straps!’
I digested that piece of information and said that I would start to look more closely in future.
‘Won’t have to look far: should think Molehill abounds in them!’ He chuckled thinly.
‘Well, now that you mention it …’ I began.
‘Exactly! … Oh look – now that’s what I call a decent shoe, good ankle too!’ And gripping me by the elbow, he gestured towards the corner of the square. I could just make out another woman briskly exercising a wire-haired fox terrier. Dog and owner pranced along with nonchalant skip, and as she drew closer I could indeed discern a neat pair of ankles encased in tiny high-heeled shoes. The dog’s grey and white markings matched the check of her shapely suit, and I was struck by the pert slant of the pill-box hat.
He beamed. ‘One of the pleasures of London life. One sees so little of that sort of thing in the provinces … But still,’ he added archly, ‘we can’t stay here all day ogling the girls! Luncheon beckons, I fancy.’ And he ushered me into a small but exquisitely furnished dining room.
The fare was cold, concise, and meticulous: iced consommé and melba toast, poached salmon and asparagus, and a half-bottle of delicious ’55 Montrachet. Of the last I had not enjoyed such a treat since my father’s demise three years previously. We talked of this and that, of porcelain, curios, and cabbages and kings. Or rather he did, while I listened politely, abstracted with thoughts of the pig and how to get my hands on it.
Nicholas Ingaza had been right about Blenkinsop Minor being a windbag. The prattle was unceasing but not without humour, and now and again I was pulled from my cogitations by a sly witticism or barbed aside. At one point I enquired, perhaps mischievously, if he saw much of his brother.
‘Not if I can help it,’ was the acid reply. ‘He’s a dreadful bore, you know. Takes himself too seriously. Were he a woman he too would wear thick ankle straps!’ And he laughed
For a couple of minutes he chatted inconsequentially, enquiring about my journey and the vagaries of the weather; and then rather to my surprise commented on features of St Botolph’s church with which he was apparently quite familiar: ‘Some very pleasing touches, but of course the Lady Chapel is entirely ruined by that monstrous Victorian reredos. Such a blot! Can’t you do something about it?’ He peered up at me with that intent and querulous gaze which I had seen many times on the face of his brother. (What on earth did he expect me to do – repaint the thing? Or was I expected to stash it out of sight in the belfry as I had once had to do with certain other artistic embarrassments?) I explained that it was in the hands of the Church authorities and not something over which I had much control.
‘Ah yes … the Church authorities ,’ he replied bleakly, ‘a fat lot they know about matters of taste – least of all my venerable brother!’ He gave a biting laugh and offered me sherry from a sparkling decanter. ‘Now, come and enjoy the view. My visitors always love staring down at the pavements – gives them a sense of detached superiority, I suppose.’ He took me over to one of the large windows with its tiny French balcony. And as we gazed down admiring the quiet square with its trees and discreet architecture, a woman emerged from a side street. She was about forty, nondescript, with a limp perm and flat sandals.
Claude gave a pained sigh and then murmured quietly, ‘Have you ever noticed that ladies who wear those Roman sandals with thick leather ankle straps are invariably of a certain ilk and bore the pants off one?’ I was startled by that – both the observation and its metaphor – and mumbled something to the effect that it had never really occurred to me. ‘Oh yes,’ he continued confidently, ‘and what’s more, it is always those with the thickest ankles who wear the thickest straps!’
I digested that piece of information and said that I would start to look more closely in future.
‘Won’t have to look far: should think Molehill abounds in them!’ He chuckled thinly.
‘Well, now that you mention it …’ I began.
‘Exactly! … Oh look – now that’s what I call a decent shoe, good ankle too!’ And gripping me by the elbow, he gestured towards the corner of the square. I could just make out another woman briskly exercising a wire-haired fox terrier. Dog and owner pranced along with nonchalant skip, and as she drew closer I could indeed discern a neat pair of ankles encased in tiny high-heeled shoes. The dog’s grey and white markings matched the check of her shapely suit, and I was struck by the pert slant of the pill-box hat.
He beamed. ‘One of the pleasures of London life. One sees so little of that sort of thing in the provinces … But still,’ he added archly, ‘we can’t stay here all day ogling the girls! Luncheon beckons, I fancy.’ And he ushered me into a small but exquisitely furnished dining room.
The fare was cold, concise, and meticulous: iced consommé and melba toast, poached salmon and asparagus, and a half-bottle of delicious ’55 Montrachet. Of the last I had not enjoyed such a treat since my father’s demise three years previously. We talked of this and that, of porcelain, curios, and cabbages and kings. Or rather he did, while I listened politely, abstracted with thoughts of the pig and how to get my hands on it.
Nicholas Ingaza had been right about Blenkinsop Minor being a windbag. The prattle was unceasing but not without humour, and now and again I was pulled from my cogitations by a sly witticism or barbed aside. At one point I enquired, perhaps mischievously, if he saw much of his brother.
‘Not if I can help it,’ was the acid reply. ‘He’s a dreadful bore, you know. Takes himself too seriously. Were he a woman he too would wear thick ankle straps!’ And he laughed
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