They sat at the dark oak dining table; two candles set between them; outside beyond the panes of glass in the window it was not yet quite dark. George Crombie seated at the head of the table, young Ivy Reid at the other, a little formal in their placing but so was the setting out of cutlery, glassware and china. Between them a bottle of wine in an ice bucket, a well-chilled bottle of Chablis - a Mont de Milieu - a premier cru though Ivy was not, perhaps, to know that though it did say Chablis Premier Cru on the buff coloured label. Fine wines were not her 'thing.' Certainly, she thought it very good: though whether her description would have gone beyond 'nice' or, rather better, 'refreshing,' to 'steely' or 'elegant, floral and racy' as George Crombie would have described the wine, was another matter. She took another sip from the crystal glass in front of her.
"I've been here a week... a whole week."
"Indeed! And it has been a pleasure."
Ivy raised an eyebrow.
"Well, in many ways." He smiled and began talking about the contrast with going to help Doris and others. How refreshing it had been to have a young person around; hearing each day how her work was progressing; listening to her observations from a different and young perspective.
Ivy had meant to raise the question about moving on. Would he mind her staying for a few more days? She had already been looking in the 'Evening Standard,' had put feelers out at work. She did not want to overstay her welcome. No doubt the old man was enjoying the sex, but he would want his home back and not have a young person disrupting his routine. Did he really want her knickers and bras hanging up over the bath to dry? It seemed though this was not the time to raise it. George seemed very comfortable in his little dinner party for two. It was clear he had been at work on it most of the day what with shopping and preparing and cooking. She watched him swirl the greenish yellow wine in his glass and savour its bouquet. It was very nice. Ivy settled deeper into the comfort of George Crombie's dining room and let him talk.
Not really a week, it was Friday after all, and she had made that dreadful journey on the Sunday, but it was a whole working week, though it had seemed much, much longer. New experiences slow down time. The regularity of routine speeds it up. Time does not really march at a constant pace. To live longer you need to do new things!
Good, with the meal over and the dishes cleared away, to move into the front room by the fire. It was a cosy domestic scene. George Crombie and his young lodger or, someone might well have thought, Uncle George and his niece Ivy. They talked quietly finishing the bottle of Chablis and then, without George mentioning it, Ivy hopped up to get the cocoa. She knew some of George's habits after a week with him. He did not like coffee before bed, even after a good dinner.
He smiled as he watched her disappear for the kitchen. How charming she had look as she had leapt up, the hem of her dress that had been a little raised whilst she sat, falling down around her knees. Ivy had seen how he had set the table and had dressed rather more formally than for a mere supper at 'home,' she had bathed on return from work, had taken trouble with her hair and even put a gold chain around her neck. It was her best dress, a cotton print from 'East' which she had managed to buy in the sale back in the summer. A pretty green that she thought, and so had the shop assistant, set off her hair rather well.
George appreciated women looking like women. He was not over keen on seeing them in jeans or trousers. Old fashioned maybe, but probably Doris and many others of his friends would have agreed. He took a last sip of his Chablis and set down the glass. It had been a rather fine week. He would not push his luck, but he rather hoped young Ivy might humour him again, perhaps ask to read from a book, perhaps get the old penis out of his trousers and do things with it.
Again, they sat talking, cocoa mugs on their knees; tweed clad in George's case, nylon clad in Ivy's.
Ivy put her mug down, "Would you like me to read to you?"
"It is a pleasure to hear you. There is something rather special about being read to, I think. The words slow down the progress; instead of almost skim reading, our rapid scanning of pages even missing out works when reading in our heads, each word is vocalised, and the prose enjoyed the more. Might I suggest 'Three Men in a Boat' by Jerome K. Jerome. A most perfect comic novel of Edwardian times - you have read?"
It seemed Ivy had not read and, actually, a comic novel was not quite what she had in mind (though she found only the next day that George had searched out a copy and placed it on her bedside table. She had not wanted to read the book, but once started she read it all... it was very amusing. Evocative of a different age yet so modern in many ways. The toothbrush, Uncle Podger hanging a picture, the cheese in the railway carriage... and the maze).
"I was thinking of something like Beatrice."
George Crombie smiled, "something risqué?"
"A bit more than that!"
"You are a naughty girl, Ivy, and what happens to naughty girls?"
"They get spanked, Mr Crombie."
"Why so they do! And what else?"
Seeing Ivy's eyes go suddenly downcast as if she was contrite and sorry for some naughtiness sent a shiver through the old man."
