Over Hill And Dale Part 30

"Will you marry me, Christine? You may want to think about it '

"The answer is "No"," Christine replied immediately.

"No? Oh, no!" Her answer was like a bullet to the heart.

"No, I don't need to think about it, Gervase. Of course I'll marry you."

' You will?" I shouted loud enough to turn the entire noisy restaurant silent. "You'll marry me?"

"Of course, I will."

Making his way to the bar was the claret-faced man who had heard the final rehearsal of my speech in the gents.

"Well done, lad," he chuckled, thumping me on the back. "I knew thy'd fettle it."

This was followed by a clatter of clinking gla.s.ses and noisy applause from the rest of the diners. I caught sight of Dr. Gore raising a very large brandy gla.s.s in our direction. He was smiling his vampire smile while Mrs. Savage, with her be ringed hand on his arm, had an enigmatic smirk playing about her lips.

"Ees everything all right?" It was the head waiter who had materialised at my arm.

"Oui! Oui!" I exclaimed jumping up, grasping him by the shoulders and kissing him on both cheeks.

"Ere, steady on, squire," he replied in a distinctly Yorkshire accent, looking acutely embarra.s.sed. "You've no need to carry on like that."

"Le rep as et ait excellent," exclaimed Christine suddenly, 'en de pit dufait que la soupe etaitfroide, la viande pas a.s.sez cuite, levin tie de et I'ambiance celled' un abattoir. A part ca, tout et ait super be "Thanks very much, madam," said the waiter with a wan smile. "Very kind of you, I'm sure." He looked distinctly uncomfortable. "I'm not all that good with French," he whispered, retaining the weak smile. "The boss just likes us to put on the accent. Gives the place a bit of cla.s.s, you know." He added in a feeble voice, "Actually, I was born in Barnsley." Then he continued as an afterthought, "They don't speak much French in Barnsley."

We let the taxi wait and stood with our arms around each other on the little hump-backed bridge in front of the restaurant. In the clear moonlight, the swirling waters beneath were speckled in myriad colours: rose-pink and silver, slate-grey and russet red, shimmering yellow and tender est blue. A few leaves eddied in the pools, while old dead oaks, garlanded in ivy, stood upright with roots agape to the sky and willows wept and shivered in the breeze. From its banks, shadowy pastures climbed up the fell side and the great buffs of limestone towered above us like tall castle walls. The smell of wet wood and honeysuckle mingled in the still air. A distant farm dog yapped, and high above an owl gave a hunting shriek.

Christine's blue eyes were bright with pleasure and her blonde hair shone golden in the moonlight. I stooped to kiss her.

"I'd like six," I said, wrapping my arms around her waist.

"Six what?" Christine asked.

"Children. I'd like six children."

"Let's think about that later, shall we?" she replied, reaching up to kiss me.

"You do want children?" I asked.

"Yes, of course, but not right at this moment and I might want eight."

"Ey up! Are that ready or what?" said a loud voice in my ear.

I very nearly tumbled off the bridge, and turned to face the taxi driver standing with hands on hips. "I've got a lot o' calls to neet tha knaws. Can't be messin' abaat whilst that looks at t'river. It's been theer since Battle o' Ribsd.y.k.e 'undreds o' years back. It'll still be theer in t' mornin'. So let's be 'avin' thee."

Christine and I hooted with laughter so loudly that it was the taxi driver's turn to jump with surprise.

"Are you two all reight?"

"We're champion, aren't we, Chris?" I exclaimed robustly, in true Yorkshire fashion. "Just champion!"

Remember Me? "Do you remember me?" asked the young man.

The old man at the bus stop, Shabby, standing in the sun, alone, Looked round.

He stared for a moment s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g up his eyes, Then shook his head.

"No, I don't remember you."

"You used to teach me," said the young man.

"I've taught so many," said the old man, sighing.

"I forget."

"I was the boy you said was useless, Good for nothing, a waste of s.p.a.ce.

Who always left your cla.s.sroom crying, And dreaded every lesson that you taught."

The old man shook his head and turned away.

"No, I don't remember you," he murmured.

"Well, I remember you," the young man said.

end