Джеймс Хилтон - Time And Time Again

But an even odder thing happened on the day following. It was a Sunday, and the Fuesslis could think of nothing better to do than drive a hundred miles to nowhere in particular along roads crowded with other Americans doing the same thing. Charles and Gerald were placed together in the back seat of the Buick, and the boy, who certainly seemed happy enough, pointed out many local landmarks, such as Woodrow Wilson High, the new Sears Roebuck, and the place where a holdup man had recently been shot in a police chase. Towards evening Charles was beginning to feel hungry, the more so as lunch had been of the picnic variety, eaten in the car too hurriedly to be enjoyed. He was still thinking about a good dinner when the car turned into the parking area of what was apparently a large and popular roadside restaurant.

‘I hope you like sea-food,’ said Mr. Fuessli, as they walked their way amongst innumerable cars towards an entrance festooned with life-belts.

‘Sea-food?… Er… fish, that is? Oh yes, I do, indeed.’ (Which was true enough, though this ‘sea-food’ set Charles thinking that he also enjoyed ‘land-food’, if such a term could be used to describe a really delicious entrecôte, or perhaps the poulet sauté américain, which was, he supposed, the nearest approach to a national dish.)

‘Then I can promise you something worth waiting for,’ continued Mr. Fuessli, pushing into the lobby.

It soon became clear to Charles that ‘waiting for’ had been no idle phrase; for the place was crowded, the restaurateur did not greet them, no table had been reserved, and there were twenty or thirty patrons standing in line for the next one available.

‘I guess you have to stand in line for EVERYTHING in England,’ said Mrs. Fuessli.

‘I believe my housekeeper does it very often,’ answered Charles, gently.

Not by a word or gesture did he convey his real emotions, and the only additional comment he permitted himself was at the spectacle of so many children waiting—and by no means all of them good-mannered like Gerald and Louise. ‘These youngsters,’ said Charles tentatively. ‘They —er—they don’t… their parents, I mean… do they—er —take them in to dinner here?’

‘Sure,’ answered Mr. Fuessli. ‘What else can they do with them?’

‘They look a little tired—the children, I mean.’

‘Oh, it’s just the drive. Kids love it, anyway. Besides, you can’t leave ‘em at home without a sitter, and you can’t always get a sitter, especially on Sundays.’

And true enough, when at last their turn came for a table Charles observed that the dining-room was quite overpopulated with children—some, like Louise, young enough to occupy high chairs supplied by the restaurant.

‘So they ENCOURAGE them to come here?’ Charles mused, still grappling with his private astonishment.

‘Oh, not by themselves—only with grown-ups,’ Mr. Fuessli replied. ‘Gosh, no—think of what this place would be like if they let the kids come in alone!’

Charles thought of it, and found the speculation indeed appalling. He noted meanwhile that there was even a special children’s dinner at half-price —which Gerald and Louise both ate with relish. The sea-food, incidentally, proved to be excellent, and the Californian wine that Mr. Fuessli ordered was equal to some Charles had tasted from far more familiar bottles.

Over coffee, which they drank in a hurry because the line in the lobby was still long, Charles was anxious to dispel any impression that he had not thoroughly enjoyed himself. ‘You mustn’t think I don’t appreciate your taking Gerald with you like this. It’s just that—well, I suppose one gets used to old-fashioned ideas in England—I mean, that children have their meals in the nursery and go to bed soon afterwards… and besides, of course, we don’t have places like this, even in peacetime.’

‘Maybe you would have,’ said Mr. Fuessli, ‘if there was a demand for them.’ (He had always found this principle valid in the hardware business.)

‘That’s very possible,’ Charles agreed. ‘And perhaps the truth is that some of us in England are TOO old-fashioned… for instance, I was twenty-one before my own father ever took me out to dinner.’

The Fuesslis looked incredulous.

Charles smiled. ‘Of course that was overdoing it. I’ll initiate Gerald much earlier.’

‘INITIATE him?’ Mrs. Fuessli echoed.

‘In a sort of way. After all, there’s a good deal of ritual in it— how to explore a French menu, the wines that go best with various foods, clothes to wear on different occasions, what people to tip and how much —quite a lot to learn.’

‘Don’t you think one can pick up things like that without exactly learning them?’ asked Mr. Fuessli.

‘Better to learn them, then you don’t pick them up wrong.’ Charles did not intend to be either didactic or crushing, but he thought he might have sounded a little of both and it disconcerted him.

Mrs. Fuessli twinkled. ‘And when do you think Gerry will be ready to start learning?’

‘Oh, I’d say when he’s at Cambridge—maybe eighteen or nineteen.’ Charles added, lest he should seem to be taking the whole thing far too seriously: ‘I’m already looking forward to it—a grand excuse to give myself what Lord Curzon once called a beano.’

They did not understand the allusion, so he had to explain that ‘beano’ was a sound if somewhat proletarian English word meaning ‘a good time’ (derived from ‘beanfeast’), but that Lord Curzon, a man of unproletarian perspectives, had assumed from its appearance that the word was Italian, and had therefore pronounced it ‘bay-ah-no’. Charles enjoyed dissecting the joke (for it had always had for him a flavour incommunicable perhaps to those who had not known Lord Curzon professionally); he hoped it might at least convince the Fuesslis that he had a sense of humour. But they merely smiled in a rather vague way, and after a pause Mrs. Fuessli returned to the subject of Gerald’s ‘initiation’.

‘And where will you go when you first take him to dinner?’ she asked. ‘Have you planned that too?’

‘You mean the name of the restaurant? Let’s see now… might be Michelet’s. You know it? You know London? It’s near the Covent Garden market. Festive but good.’

‘Was that where your father took you?’

‘Oh no, I don’t think Michelet’s was in existence then. We just dined at his club and had the ordinary club dinner—nothing special, except for the novelty it was to me.’

‘But you’d rather have Michelet’s for Gerry?’

‘ I would, yes—French cooking for me, any time—even the best London clubs aren’t famous for their…’ He realized that this was dangerous ground; the Fuesslis might think he was dissatisfied with their own table, which he certainly wasn’t—after England in wartime it was wonderful. He broke off by adding: ‘Please don’t think this is an old family tradition or anything absurd like that. It’s just that as soon as Gerald’s old enough there are so many things I’m looking forward to.’

He had to break off again because Mrs. Fuessli was giggling and he knew it was at himself. ‘Oh, do make it SEVENTEEN—not eighteen or nineteen —when you take him to Michelet’s,’ she pleaded. She looked very impish and provocative in such a mood. ‘Because he’ll grow up fast in America —our boys of seventeen are almost men.’

Charles thought that this might possibly be true if by men she meant (as she doubtless did) American men; and he reflected again how charming she was, and (with a rueful glance at Mr. Fuessli, who was bald and overweight) how secure must be the position of American womanhood.

Mrs. Fuessli then turned to Gerald. ‘Gerry dear, wouldn’t you like to have your dad take you to dinner in a big London restaurant on your seventeenth birthday?’