Date number 2 was the second post-mortem. ‘Retired antiquarian’ Henry Braithwaite was relegated to the ‘duds’ box with little hesitation. Effie quickly realised as they consumed a full-scale English tea in a small cafe – his choice – that her interpretation of his profile, which included a variety of acronyms, had been fatally flawed. ‘SOH’ did not stand for ` Sense of humour’, of which she thought she had plenty, but for `Student of Horticulture’, which was not her strong point, and ‘view to LTR’ did not mean he was aiming for a `Long-term relationship’ but ‘learning to rumba’, which was definitely not one of her talents. ‘Looking for TLC’ referred not to tenderness but to his search for a `Tall lady companion’, which Effie could not really claim to be at five foot five. But the main reason for his fall into the flop box was the look of him. He turned out to be carrying a sizable paunch with a completely bald head and a huge bushy grey beard which, by the time he had munched his way through a plate of toasted tea-cakes, was strewn with crumbs and other debris, which deeply offended Effie’s sense of hygiene and order, although he seemed to be finding the whole encounter highly amusing, laughing heartily occasionally for no obvious reason that Effie could discern. No, this Falstaffian character would not do.
And so to date number 3. This was Oliver who according to the profile was in his early 60s, a widower, tall and slim with a full head of hair, ran his own business, though was in the process of handing over to younger colleagues, was interested in historic buildings and antiques, theatre and films. He claimed to be looking for someone with similar interests and a good sense of humour. Oliver’s provenance was another site called ‘College Comrades’ and was meant to sift off a more intellectual group of people. ‘You might as well go for someone with a bit of a brain’ had been Susie’s recommendation. ‘I mean it’s so easy to get bored when the sex stuff has run its course.’
‘Must you!’ Effie straightened her posture. But ‘Oliver, interested in history and antiques’, sounded all right and they had exchanged a few emails so that she knew, this time, where he lived – not so far away – and she had agreed to meet him at a pub near his house. ‘I’ll be wearing a tweed jacket and I have glasses’ had been his aid to recognition. There was no photo.
‘He’s telling you he’s an intellectual’ said Susie excitedly. ‘Sounds like a good one.’
Effie was not so sure but prepared herself, nevertheless, taking care to wear what she thought was appropriate attire for an intelligent working woman of mature years, a skirt and top, shoes with a moderate heel, not her red jacket. Quietly attractive, was the idea. This time she drove, on the theory that it gave her a greater degree of control and there was no risk of an awkward trek home with a strange man. It was Friday night and the pub was full of noisy people celebrating the end of the week. How on earth was she going to recognise him? She pushed her way forward through the throng attempting to scan the horizon for a man with hair, glasses and a tweed jacket. She managed to reach the bar which she decided was a central spot, grabbing a stool as a definitely gorgeous young girl lifted her elegant bottom from it, and flicked her hair in Effie’s face as she ran her hand through long blond tresses. ‘Bitch’ muttered Effie making no attempt to disguise her comment amidst the din. The girl glared at her briefly and disappeared into the melee on the arm of an adoring young man. Effie hoped she had heard. Not a great start she thought as she placed her own ample bottom firmly on the bar stool. Daft place to meet.
She continued to scan the heads she could see but nothing matched her image. There was something to be said for Arcadia where at least she was surer of the meeting place. I’m too old for this, was her thought yet again and she was just about to cut her losses and order herself a drink when the man who was leaning on the bar beside her, who seemed to be well away, turned to her and laid his hand proprietarily on her arm. ‘Can I get you something, m’darlin’’ he enquired in an Irish accent. ‘Well,’ replied Effie who had a soft spot for the Irish, ` that’s very kind of you. Perhaps I will.’ And within a few minutes, perched there with a glass of Sauvignon Blanc in her hand and a gently drunken Irishman on her left who was soon making her laugh with his stories of life in rural Ireland, she could kid herself that she was one of the young city crowd milling around her.
Some twenty minutes passed in this fashion and Effie really was enjoying her Irishman whose name was Brendan when someone tapped her on the shoulder. ‘You’re not Effie are you? I’m Oliver.’
She turned and faced Oliver. A man more than middle aged, half bald with wisps of pale orange hair plastered down on his pate, tortoiseshell glasses perched on a long nose over light gray eyes, cheeks with high colour and, indeed, wearing a well-worn tweed jacket. Effie absorbed the impact in a flash causing her to mentally put a large negative slash across her fantasy man. Another dud. She glared at the ‘full head of hair’. Maybe twenty years ago. These men and their vanity. But the glass of wine and Brendan’s company had put her into a basically good mood so that she could respond graciously. ‘Hello there. Yes, I’m Effie. And this is Brendan. I’m afraid I rather gave up on finding you in this throng. Friday I guess.’
Oliver smiled amiably and nodded at Brendan. ‘Yes, I’d forgotten how crowded it can get. Sorry about that. Took me a while to find you. I see you’ve had a drink already.’ He eyed the empty glass on the counter. ‘Look why don’t we go back to my place where it’s quieter and we can talk.’
‘Good idea’ said Effie, throwing caution to the wind, easing herself off the bar stool. Her instant gut feeling was that this man was completely safe. ‘Nice to meet you Brendan and thanks for the drink.’
‘Pleasure, m’darlin.’ He emptied the remains of his beer in one gulp. ‘so, Oliver, you’ve got yourself a lovely lassie here... another pint, John, please, another pint.. ‘. and he turned away to the pleasures of his beer.
It had been a long time since Effie had spent any time in a pub, let alone perched on a bar stool chatting to a strange man at the same time as she was introduced to another that she barely knew. This was a half formed thought in her mind as they negotiated a path through the noisy throng, Oliver ushering her along protectively, a gesture which softened her initial dismissive response. It had been so long since a man had offered her this kind of attention, and it felt good. She knew where he lived, a quiet street of semi-detached houses with small front and rear gardens frequented mainly by young families and the odd retired couple. It was a street which had a well-worn feel about it as though, once there, people stayed. Oliver had revealed in his emails that he had lived there for twenty six years with his wife and three children who had all now left home. A daughter lived just round the corner and popped in from time to time. His wife had died some four years ago after a long illness so that it was eventually something of a relief when she died. He sounded matter-of-fact about it for which Effie was grateful.
Number 37 was not one of the smartest houses in the street but looked homely enough as Oliver opened the front door revealing a hallway which was cluttered with coats and a pile of shoes and wellington boots. He ushered her into the living room which had a similar rather cluttered appearance. There were shelves covered in nick knacks, books, CDs, papers in no particular order. The sofa, where Effie perched herself, looked as though it had seen better days. She disliked the candelabra wall lights and the chairs covered with a pink chintzy material - old fashioned - but her scan of the room hovered briefly on a handsome cut-glass decanter and a cabinet housing some elegant champagne flutes. She had to admit that she did need the reassurance of a drink to help settle remaining nerves. The decor was far from her own taste which was for cheap and cheerful contemporary design, a preference which she dated back to her parents’ house in the north of England which had been furnished with heavy dark furniture and dull wallpaper that had only added to the rather oppressive family atmosphere. This brief moment of reverie and then she was back with Oliver who, thank god, was offering her a drink.
‘So, what can I get you, Effie? I’ve a not half decent scotch – my preference – or a sherry – medium I think?’
Sherry! Effie had no idea it still existed.
But Oliver was peering at a green bottle which looked as though it had been dug out from the back of a cupboard. ‘Yes, medium... or perhaps there’s some gin here somewhere. Alice always liked her gin.’
From which Effie gathered ‘Alice’ was the dead wife. And here she was again, faced with having to make a decision in tricky circumstances because what she really wanted was a glass of wine. Her tactic, was to wait for a cue.
‘Might be something else back here,’ from Oliver who was still rummaging in the cupboard.
So am I the first date he’s had since his wife died? she wondered.
‘Ah’, exclaimed Oliver, extracting his head from the cupboard and in the process scraping the top of his head on the shelf above and dislodging the orange wisps of hair so that they hung like damp string at one side of his face, a sight which was both pathetic and comic and which precipitated Effie into an explosive guffaw. Oliver stared at her in surprise but did not seem to take offense. He flicked the offending hair back into place and suddenly grinned.
Effie, however, felt the need to apologise. ‘So sorry. I guess I am a touch nervous.’ She grimaced as though to prove the point.
‘’Oh quite all right. Here, you do need a drink and so do I. Would the gin do?’
‘I don’t suppose you’ve got any wine?’ Somehow the guffawing had made it easier to ask.
‘Oh, wine! Why didn’t you say! Hang on, I think there’s a spot in the fridge.’ Upon which he disappeared into what Effie presumed was the kitchen, returning a few minutes later with a green bottle in hand. He held it up to the light. ‘Yes, there’s a bit in there.’ How long’s it been there, she wondered, but had already decided that she would drink it whatever it tasted like. She had never yet suffered from drinking elderly wine. Oliver was waving the bottle around as though he was searching for something. A glass?
‘Can I help?’ offered Effie, eager to speed up the process.
‘yes, yes – in the kitchen. Glasses in the cupboard by the stove.’
So Effie entered the totally strange kitchen which had an even more cluttered appearance than the hall, and having negotiated a dog bowl placed strategically right in front of the cooker, she opened the cupboard to reveal a selection of glassware, mainly tumblers or beer mugs plus a couple of chipped wine glasses, one of which she grabbed. With a satisfied ‘aha...’ she turned on her heel only to send the dog bowl skimming across the kitchen floor scattering debris as it sped. ‘Damn!’ She crashed the glass down on the table shattering it. More mess! She bent down to pick up the broken pieces, but where to put them? There must be a dustpan and brush somewhere to sweep up the remaining shards of glass. A panicky feeling impelled her to brave a rummage in the dark depths under the kitchen sink, with no success. Nor could she see a broom and in desperation she opened the nearest door. Surely it was a broom cupboard? It housed an old boiler but no broom. She was shutting it as quietly as she could when Oliver made her jump. ‘What are you doing, Effie?’
Fifteen minutes later the floor was back the way it had been, Oliver having finally produced a rather tatty old broom at Effie’s insistence and they had between them swept up and disposed of the offending dog food. Effie had still not had anything to drink since Brendan and breathed an audible sigh of relief as she sat down again on the chintz sofa sinking back this time into its soft cushions finally able to swallow a deep gulp of Chilean Chardonnay. She felt as though she had been with Oliver for hours and had hardly spoken to him. She also suddenly realised she was hungry and it was not at all clear whether a meal was on the cards. She foolishly had only snacked at lunch time and the wine was rapidly going to her head. But Oliver seemed in no hurry to suggest eating. He wanted to talk about Alice telling Effie much more detail than she wished to hear about her illness describing a nice comfortable sounding lady, an amateur artist – Effie had to admire paintings on the wall – a dog lover - so where was the dog? - and an excellent mother. Effie made appropriate noises about the photos of happy smiling children scattered around the room.
‘But no point getting too down about it’ he asserted once the tale was told. ‘so tell me a bit more about you, Effie’. So she in turn tried to tell a bit of a story about herself, her work doing accounts for the hotel group, her children, a quick skate round her marriage and, in an attempt to steer the conversation round to food, describing her interests as ‘cooking’ and ‘going to restaurants’
‘I maybe didn’t tell you that bit in my emails.’
At last Oliver picked up the cue. ‘Restaurants? Well, you must be hungry. But I thought we’d just stay here now. I’ve got some stuff in the fridge. Let’s see.’
What Effie soon saw as Oliver busied himself digging around in the fridge - was this man obsessed with having his head inside small spaces? - was the remains of a shop shepherd’s pie which he pulled out triumphantly. Effie stared at the foil container inside of which clung bits of half-burnt potato and scraps of brown matter.
‘Just bring down a couple of plates, would you?’ Oliver’s mood was cheery and he dived again into the recesses of the fridge producing this time some wilting leaves and a couple of drooping carrots. ‘Can we have these raw?’
No we certainly can’t, was her thought, but she gamely took her cue and fished around in a grimy pot by the sink till she found a vegetable peeler and sharp knife, prepared the offending items and stuck them in a pot of water which Oliver pushed in her direction.
‘It’s so nice to have someone who knows about these things’ he breathed excitedly. Effie inwardly shrugged and set about making the place fit for a meal which was obviously what was wanted. She found out how to work the stove, transferred the remaining pie into a smaller cleaner dish and stuck it in the oven for twenty minutes which she assessed would be long enough to kill off germs without burning it completely. Oliver meanwhile pottered around pushing the objects on the table to one side in order to make a clearing in which he placed a couple of old knives and forks together with a much-dripped candle. The talk became more relaxed as Effie got into her stride and they even shared a few jokes so that when they finally sat down together to sample the shepherds’ pie and two veg the scene could have been mistaken for an old married couple dining in their own homely kitchen.
Oliver was putting on the kettle in order to make coffee when there was the sound of a key in the door and a loud panting noise followed by a burst of barking. Here then was the missing dog. A black Labrador bounded into the kitchen and went straight for Effie, tail wagging as though she was his long lost friend. The poor creature is missing Alice, she thought, letting it jump up on her excitedly. She was so busy with the dog that she only gradually took in the person who had brought him in, a young woman with short brown hair and a fresh face, Oliver’s ‘round the corner’ daughter, June.
‘Hi there, Dad. Hello Effie,’ she said, quite at ease, as though she’d known Effie all her life. ‘So how was the pub?’
‘Marvellous’ came the enthusiastic response from Oliver. ‘Effie and I have had a great time. So nice to have someone around again.’ He beamed at Effie who responded with a gentle smile but said nothing. What she wanted to say was that she wasn’t Alice, she wasn’t the least bit like Alice. She couldn’t be the same as this woman who liked chintz covers and had a messy kitchen. She wasn’t going to be sucked in to being a replacement Alice, even if the last part of the evening had been pleasant enough. Pity, since the daughter was friendly and she liked the dog.