nodded. ‘Yes, I’d like that. I’d be very interested.’
‘They were born in Gujarat,’ she began, ‘which is on the west coast of India, in a village not far from the port of Okha. Their families were poor but my father had his sights set on coming to England, right from an early age. He had a very menial job first, working in one of the government’s offices, but he worked his way up in their accounts department. Much of his money went to supporting his younger brothers and sisters but eventually he managed to save enough for the plane ticket here. He tells how he arrived with all his belongings in one bag and trekked the streets until he found a job as a clerk with a firm of accountants. He studied in his spare time, and once he had a decent income and a permanent address, he sent for my mother. They were married in a registry office and I was born a year later. My father made a lot of sacrifices to get where he is now and he is a very proud man. He’s strict with me and so is my mother – she wants me to do the right thing. My father would give my mother and me anything, but he’s frugal. I suppose it comes from knowing what real poverty is. He won’t ever buy anything unless he has the money.’
‘There’s nothing wrong in that,’ Mark said. ‘I know too many people sinking under the debt of credit cards. We live in a gotta-have-it-now culture. Never mind if you can afford it. I think your father’s attitude is right.’
It pleased Aisha considerably that Mark agreed with and upheld her father’s principles, and it gave her the confidence to continue.
Presently they turned off the A1 and Mark braked as a sudden squall sheeted against the windscreen and momentarily blocked their vision. He upped the wiper speed. Aisha looked out of the side window at the trees bending over in the wind.
‘I’m glad I’m not driving,’ she confessed. ‘My car is old and doesn’t like the rain. I’m always worried about being stranded with a breakdown or flat tyre.’
‘Don’t worry, you’re safe with me,’ Mark said. ‘She hasn’t let me down yet.’
And, yes, Aisha felt safe sitting beside Mark, his broad shoulders squared into the seat, his large hands covering the steering wheel, she felt very safe indeed. Mark emanated a confidence, an assurance, that whatever befell them he could deal with it. He was someone, she decided, who’d had enough experience of life to be in control of it rather than at its mercy, as she sometimes felt.
The sign for The Crooked Chimney presently appeared out of the trees, swinging in the wind and rain. It had always reminded Aisha of the signboard for The Jamaica Inn – the pub on the edge of Bodmin Moor: the oil painting of the old inn sign creaking as it swung from its tall metal stand. Mark made the left turn then drove a little further along the B road and pulled into the restaurant’s car park. The car’s tyres crunched over the gravel to one of the few remaining spaces on the far side.
‘Stay put and I’ll get the umbrella from the boot,’ he said, cutting the engine, ‘I’ll impress you with my chivalry. And don’t forget to tell Belinda.’
Aisha laughed easily, she felt far more relaxed now. Mark reached behind her, unhooked his jacket from the rear, slipped it on, and threw open his door. The wind and rain sprang to seek refuge inside the car before he slammed the door shut. Aisha heard the boot open and close, and then he was at her window, shaking out a large golfing umbrella, which he pointed into the wind. He opened her door and she got out and stood beside him, close, but not quite touching. With Mark holding the umbrella like a shield into the wind, they began across the car park. Aisha looked down and concentrated on trying to avoid the little potholes that were quickly filling up with water.
‘Who would ever live in this country?’ Mark shouted against the wind. ‘It’s a wonder any of us survive in this climate.’
‘My father would,’ she shouted back. ‘He wouldn’t live anywhere else.’
‘He must be mad!’ he said. ‘But I’m glad for my sake he is, otherwise you wouldn’t be here now.’
The door to the restaurant was opened from inside as they approached and to Aisha’s small surprise she found that not only was the maitre d’ waiting for them, but that he knew Mark. ‘Nice to see you again, Mr Williams,’ he said with a small nod. They shook hands. ‘It’s been a while. I hope you’ve been keeping well?’
‘Yes, and yourself?’
‘Very well, thank you.’
Mark passed him the umbrella, and then helped Aisha out of her coat.
‘Your table is ready,’ the maitre d’ said. ‘Or would you and your guest like a drink first?’
Mark turned to Aisha. ‘I don’t know about you, but I’m famished. Shall we go straight through and order a drink at the table?’
She nodded and ran her hands over her skirt, wishing she’d changed out of her office suit. Now she was inside, the restaurant seemed very grand and she felt underdressed. The maitre d’ led the way from reception, down a small carpeted hall and into the dinning room, which was full and buzzed with conversation and the chink of cutlery. A huge inglenook fire roared orange and yellow and above it rose the crooked redbrick chimney from which the inn had taken its name. To their right a large party of a dozen or more were opening champagne for a birthday celebration, while the other tables, nestled between the exposed oak pillars, were occupied by small groups and couples. The room was warm and cosy and not as formal as Aisha thought it might be. The maitre d’ led them down the centre aisle, between the tables with their single candles and flowers. Aisha noticed that the other diners, men and women, looked up as Mark passed, their gaze lingering. It wasn’t just Mark’s stature, she thought, although it was true he didn’t stoop as some tall men do, but he had that unmistakable quality – that presence of being – that drew people’s attention. Aisha felt proud that she was with him for she also noticed that as a diner’s gaze left Mark, it went to her, as though some of his charisma was rubbing off.
The maitre d’ removed a reserved sign from a table in a secluded alcove and drew out a chair for Aisha. He eased it under her as she sat, while Mark took the chair opposite. The maitre d’ handed each of them a large leather-bound menu. ‘Would you like a drink now, sir?’ he asked as a waiter appeared and hovered, ready to take their order.
Mark looked at Aisha. ‘A mineral water, please,’ she said.
‘And a gin and tonic for me, with ice and lemon,’ Mark added.
‘Very good, sir,’ the maitre d’ said and, with another slight nod, left, followed by the drinks waiter.
Aisha opened the menu and propped it between the table and her lap. She began studying the extensive list of dishes presented in flourishing italics.
‘Well?’ Mark asked after a moment. ‘What do you think?’
‘I’m not sure yet. There’s so much to choose from.’
‘No, I mean the restaurant. Do you like it?’
She looked up with a nervous little laugh. ‘Oh, yes, it’s very nice. I’m so pleased you suggested it.’
‘Good. Although I can’t take all the credit. I ran it past Belinda first.’
Aisha laughed again. ‘Belinda has very good taste.’
‘Absolutely,’ Mark said, and his eyes lingered admiringly until she
