Ever the optimist, Effie had decided to make the most of her experience with Quentin by trying to re-create the amazing raspberry soufflé or something equally impressive. It was Friday morning, her day off, and she had invited some of her female friends round for a light supper that evening. Dissatisfied with what she found in her own collection of recipe books she had gone on line only to find that her computer stubbornly refused to work and was stuck with a bug. Her usual rescuer for such a glitch, son Leo, was working and could not help. Her solution was to catch a bus and go to her local library.
The building had recently been refurbished and had the pleasant clean feel of fresh paint about it. One end of the large rectangular room was now set aside with twenty or so computers at long tables. There were also bays in which were wooden desks and work tables which on this particular day were half full with people either using the computers or reading. Effie liked the place which did not feel too much like a public building. Young people from the nearby comprehensive used it as well as a medley of locals. She found the atmosphere of quiet study stimulating, and it also satisfied a certain voyeuristic pleasure in being able to sit and watch the life that passed through the doors of the establishment. The chance to enjoy a private laugh at the goings on was rarely disappointed.
Today she felt purposeful and went straight to the shelves where she knew she would find recipe books. She carried three heavy tomes across to the free computer space she was allocated by the librarian, an amazingly young-looking girl with long slim legs poking out of a tiny stretchy skirt that clung to her buttocks like sellotape. Tiny pert breasts protruded from an equally clinging top. She peered at Effie through a pair of John Lennon glasses and two heavily made up eyes. Her voice, however, was perfectly grown up.
‘You can have it for an hour.’ She flashed a smile revealing pearly white teeth. Effie dutifully sat at the appointed desk conscious of easing herself as elegantly as possible onto the seat under the gaze of the nymphet. Goodness, I could get two of her into me, she thought as she watched the girl walk briskly away on a pair of equally insubstantial kitten heels. Well, if you insist on making rich desserts, was the annoying thought.
Effie sighed but opened a book and was soon absorbed in her search. She logged on to her computer and entertained herself with browsing through a series of photographs of tempting –looking dishes which made her mouth water. A dark chocolate cake caught her attention. It looked moist and inviting. Too rich. Stick to the idea of a fruit soufflé or definitely something fruity. She flicked on to the section on fruit tarts and flans but was distracted by the sight of a man who was trundling a laden supermarket trolley round the room muttering to himself from time to time. He had a straggly beard and wild gray hair while he sported a coat that looked as though it had once been smart which was now ragged and tied round the middle with a piece of string. The nymphet took no notice, continuing to tap away at her keyboard. In fact nobody took much notice and Effie guiltily cast her eyes back to her screen. The tramp proceeded to push his trolley slowly round the room, pausing occasionally to inspect a book on a shelf, still muttering as though engaging in a private commentary.
Effie turned her attention back to the computer and continued to flick through the recipes, stopping at a picture of a magnificent frothy edifice which appeared under the heading of ‘pistachio and greengage soufflé ‘. A huge greeny- gold dome of froth rose like the Taj Mahal above a white porcelain dish.
‘That’s a beauty’ drawled a loud well-educated voice beside her that shattered the discrete quietness of the library. Momentarily everybody looked up in Effie’s direction. It was the tramp, who had decided to park his trolley next to Effie and was bending to inspect the picture on the screen.
‘Yes, it is rather fine,’ said Effie as quietly as she could. The tramp was silent, apart from breathing noisily. Effie was aware of a distinct odour coming from the tramp’s proximity. Doing her best to ignore him, she flicked on to the next page praying that he would go away. He, however, was clearly interested in the images and had no intention of moving. He stood there, silently, as Effie flicked the controls at mounting speed, her eyes glued to the screen. Why did he have to pick on her? She was aware that the rest of the assembled company had all returned to their studies and were obviously going to leave her to deal with the situation. She tried glaring at the man sitting opposite, willing him to look up and come to her rescue. But his eyes stayed resolutely down. Bastard!
The tramp began to rustle paper in his trolley within inches of Effie. She did not dare look for fear of what she might see. She was beginning to break out in an uncomfortable sweat and feared that she too might be smelling. Concentration was impossible. Prayer seemed futile. Rational argument? It could be you, she told herself, reduced to tramping around with all your possessions piled up in a trolley. And with this attempt to take a more benign view of the situation Effie turned to him. ‘So are you looking for something?’ Her voice was calmer than she felt.
‘Looking for something?’ His voice boomed out, and he turned his head towards the window, staring for a while. ‘Now that is one of the deep philosophical questions of the age’ he intoned. `We are, all of us, undoubtedly looking for something. We search. We ponder. We search again. And sometimes we find.’ His gaze came back to Effie. ‘And you, fair lady, no doubt are no exception. You have the air about you of someone who is searching, searching I think not just for the culinary delights of this world but also for its masculine pleasures. Yes, a fair lady in search of her gallant knight.’ With this he took a deep sigh and stood quite motionless, eyes fixed on Effie.
She shrank inwardly and outwardly. The damp feeling under her armpits was now a trickling stream and she knew her face was scarlet. What to do? Get up and go? Engage him in conversation? She shot a furious glance over to the nymphet who was still doggedly ignoring the drama despite the penetrating voice. Eyes flicked down as Effie’s glance roved angrily around the room. Was chivalry completely dead? The tramp seemed to be transfixed to the floor as was his gaze fixed on her as he muttered to himself and occasionally laughed lightly. He raised his arm and for a terrifying moment Effie thought he was going to stroke her hair.
Her phone rang and at this sound the nymphet’s head shot up. She stared accusingly. ‘Please, no mobile phones’.
Effie grabbed the phone and marched herself out of the room into the corridor, glaring at the nymphet as she passed, but hugely grateful to see that it was daughter Jane who had come to her rescue. ‘Thank god, darling, I’m being propositioned by a tramp and it’s not my thing.’
Jane was suitably sympathetic and chatted with her mother for several minutes. ‘But, Mum, don’t turn him down on my account.’ ‘For god’s sake, Jane, it’s no laughing matter. I don’t fancy him and he won’t go away. Any suggestions? I can’t go till I get my stuff.’ Effie was peering through the glass door of the reading room. ‘Hang on, I think he’s moving. Damn. He’s coming this way. Must go.’
She jammed the phone in her pocket and dived into the ladies room which luckily was close by. Surely he wouldn’t follow her there? She hovered behind the door trying to hear if he was moving off. There was a shuffling noise outside precipitating a further retreat and flight into one of the cubicles locking the door firmly. What now? She felt angry, a bit frightened and utterly ridiculous, a prisoner in the cubicle, but she did not dare go out until she was quite sure he had gone. For the moment she could only hear her own breathing and heart thumping. Was that the door? Wasn’t that a familiar bad smell? She had seen in the movies people caught in situations like this and knew that the tell-tale fact was that your feet could be seen under the door. She quietly put down the toilet lid and hoisted herself up keeping her head down for fear it would be visible over the top of the cubicle. Someone was running water and it sounded as though they were washing their hands. She stayed still, her thoughts racing. The water continued to run. She crouched precariously on the loo seat and tried to calm herself by calculating the amount of water that got flushed away if the loo was used every twenty minutes eight hours a day... and wasn’t that a waste of public money... and wasn’t it a waste of her time being stuck in a public lavatory, a conclusion which triggered a seriously angry thought about Quentin. After all, it was because of him that she was trying to do the damn soufflé in the first place, and her fault for trying to impress the girls. Oh woe the sin of pride, or was it vanity, we are meant to avoid?
At that moment there was the sound of someone humming, and humming in a female voice. The water had stopped and there was the buzz of an electric hand dryer. Effie dared to peep over the top of the cubicle whereupon a pretty young red-head screamed: ‘My god! You gave me a shock!’
Effie clambered down and opened the door, apologising as she did so and hastened to explain her behaviour as best she could. The girl shrugged. ‘Well, there’s no one out there now.’ Which there wasn’t, so that Effie was able to return to her desk with comparative dignity to gather up her things and flee the building leaving a trail of cookery books behind. There was no way she was going to attempt a soufflé tonight. No, it would be fruit salad and half-fat crème fraiche, a healthier option anyway. And no raspberries.
Her spirits were down, however, as she walked home from the supermarket, a shopping bag in each hand. It was hard not to feel discouraged by the events of the day, although she could imagine that recounting the story of the tramp would raise a few laughs from her friends that evening. But for Effie it only succeeded in adding to her feeling that the task of finding herself a suitable partner was becoming something of an emotional minefield.
She reflected on the cast of characters she had met so far – admittedly only 4 - 5 if she included the tramp - but it felt like a multitude. In her present mood she could only see them as oddballs, flawed or inadequate and she was not at all sure that her friends that evening could help her shift her view to see them less harshly: could they be intriguing, impressive, novel? The funny thing was that the most perceptive person she had met to date was the tramp.