words.
Dominic wanders off to the bar. There's a slight pause. 'Aunt Winnie?' I say, for something has been bothering me since this whole Monkwell thing started, 'how did we come to rent a house on the Pantiles estate and not at the army digs? Was it just because of the stables for Mum?' It's amazing what you don't query in childhood. I remember my parents buying Sophie and me mugs with our names on them when we were about ten, but they had run out of Isabel so they bought an Isaac one instead and sold it to me on the grounds that it was my name in French. If they could get that past my razor-sharp consciousness you can see why it never crossed my mind until now to ask why we moved to the Pantiles estate.
She shrugs slightly. 'Your parents thought it would be good for you and Sophie to be in the country for a while. And as I recall, my dear, you also wanted to ride horses.'
'Me?' I say incredulously. Surely she is thinking of a different Isabel, or should I say Isaac. This Isabel/Isaac wouldn't like to come within a metre of those smelly, hoof-stomping creatures.
'Your mother rode quite a bit and I think you got it into your head that you wanted to ride too. Of course, as soon as you fell off you decided that you didn't really like it.'
I lean forward eagerly. 'Was I travelling at speed when I fell off? Attempting some sort of jump?'
'No, dear, the horse was standing stock still in the yard at the time. You just lost your balance.'
Ah. This is probably the reason I have conveniently erased the entire episode from my memory. That and the smell.
'But how did my parents know the Monk—' I persist but Dominic's return interrupts us. 'I was feeling inspired by my nun so I got myself a Guinness,' he says.
'I hate Guinness.'
'I know, so I got. you a Drambuie and ginger ale.' Obviously.
He unceremoniously plonks two glasses on to the table and then goes back to collect his Guinness, which is breathing or settling or whatever they do to it.
'Are you sure I was on "I" before, Izz?' asks Aunt Winnie.
'Maybe it was "T"?'
'Ho hum, down the hatch anyway!'
We chink glasses and I take a tentative sip of my Drambuie and ginger ale. Interesting mix of flavours. I look over towards Dominic who is talking animatedly with the landlord. He is laughing at something, his head thrown backwards, and I find myself grinning too. Dom has the largest, most infectious smile I have ever seen. He's lovely-looking in a foppish kind of way, not usually my cup of tea, but very appealing when the man in question is as open and unarrogant as Dom. He has dark blond hair which at first I thought was artfully untidy but have since learned is simply untidy, a slim build and an engaging face. Extremely well-connected too; his family is renowned in London circles and Dom is considered to be very much the eligible bachelor. But even if I wanted to marry him, I doubt he would return the compliment. You see, I have just found out he's gay.
Dominic has no shortage of admirers but I have started to see a pattern emerging. He has never actually pursued any of these girls himself. His Aunt Agnes, presumably desperate for great-nephews and -nieces, regularly places girls in his path and Dom dutifully trots them around the block a couple of times and then politely bids them farewell. Girls from work, on the Tube, in the local coffee shop have all at one time or another pressed their numbers into his hand and begged him to call them. But instead of becoming big-headed by this and casually bedding them all, Dom takes them out, shows them a wonderful time, listens to all their problems and then duly deposits them back from whence they came.
I have never probed him about his actions because when your best friend is male it is sometimes difficult to talk about these things, but I did presume he'd had his wicked way with some of them although I never knew for sure because he never brought them back to our flat. Therein lies my error. Dom is a male of the pink-blooded
Dominic wanders off to the bar. There's a slight pause. 'Aunt Winnie?' I say, for something has been bothering me since this whole Monkwell thing started, 'how did we come to rent a house on the Pantiles estate and not at the army digs? Was it just because of the stables for Mum?' It's amazing what you don't query in childhood. I remember my parents buying Sophie and me mugs with our names on them when we were about ten, but they had run out of Isabel so they bought an Isaac one instead and sold it to me on the grounds that it was my name in French. If they could get that past my razor-sharp consciousness you can see why it never crossed my mind until now to ask why we moved to the Pantiles estate.
She shrugs slightly. 'Your parents thought it would be good for you and Sophie to be in the country for a while. And as I recall, my dear, you also wanted to ride horses.'
'Me?' I say incredulously. Surely she is thinking of a different Isabel, or should I say Isaac. This Isabel/Isaac wouldn't like to come within a metre of those smelly, hoof-stomping creatures.
'Your mother rode quite a bit and I think you got it into your head that you wanted to ride too. Of course, as soon as you fell off you decided that you didn't really like it.'
I lean forward eagerly. 'Was I travelling at speed when I fell off? Attempting some sort of jump?'
'No, dear, the horse was standing stock still in the yard at the time. You just lost your balance.'
Ah. This is probably the reason I have conveniently erased the entire episode from my memory. That and the smell.
'But how did my parents know the Monk—' I persist but Dominic's return interrupts us. 'I was feeling inspired by my nun so I got myself a Guinness,' he says.
'I hate Guinness.'
'I know, so I got. you a Drambuie and ginger ale.' Obviously.
He unceremoniously plonks two glasses on to the table and then goes back to collect his Guinness, which is breathing or settling or whatever they do to it.
'Are you sure I was on "I" before, Izz?' asks Aunt Winnie.
'Maybe it was "T"?'
'Ho hum, down the hatch anyway!'
We chink glasses and I take a tentative sip of my Drambuie and ginger ale. Interesting mix of flavours. I look over towards Dominic who is talking animatedly with the landlord. He is laughing at something, his head thrown backwards, and I find myself grinning too. Dom has the largest, most infectious smile I have ever seen. He's lovely-looking in a foppish kind of way, not usually my cup of tea, but very appealing when the man in question is as open and unarrogant as Dom. He has dark blond hair which at first I thought was artfully untidy but have since learned is simply untidy, a slim build and an engaging face. Extremely well-connected too; his family is renowned in London circles and Dom is considered to be very much the eligible bachelor. But even if I wanted to marry him, I doubt he would return the compliment. You see, I have just found out he's gay.
Dominic has no shortage of admirers but I have started to see a pattern emerging. He has never actually pursued any of these girls himself. His Aunt Agnes, presumably desperate for great-nephews and -nieces, regularly places girls in his path and Dom dutifully trots them around the block a couple of times and then politely bids them farewell. Girls from work, on the Tube, in the local coffee shop have all at one time or another pressed their numbers into his hand and begged him to call them. But instead of becoming big-headed by this and casually bedding them all, Dom takes them out, shows them a wonderful time, listens to all their problems and then duly deposits them back from whence they came.
I have never probed him about his actions because when your best friend is male it is sometimes difficult to talk about these things, but I did presume he'd had his wicked way with some of them although I never knew for sure because he never brought them back to our flat. Therein lies my error. Dom is a male of the pink-blooded
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