Free The Story of Danny Dunn by Bryce Courtenay Page B

couldn’t recall having ever seen blue and green together in an ensemble in the Women’s Weekly . The manageress reached out and removed a smart-looking, deep maroon hat from the display rack. ‘Ah, lovely. Shall we try this, madam? Green and wine are simply divine.’ Brenda tried on the hat and was forced to admit that it suited her. Besides, she was going to a posh restaurant with a High Court judge, where there would be smart, fashionable people; she felt out of her depth. The manageress was confident and sophisticated and so she ended up with the deep wine-coloured hat, gloves and shoes, assured that, ‘The gorgeous green sets off your lovely little figure and titian hair, madam,’ and that the accessories were ‘understated and simply splendid’.
    Brenda was never what you might call beautiful, but at thirty-seven she still had her petite figure, and despite the years of hard toil, was pretty enough in her new glad rags to turn a few heads at the cocktail bar as she entered the restaurant at precisely six o’clock. When the maître d’ indicated the bar and suggested a pre-dinner cocktail she refused and asked to be escorted directly to her table.
    â€˜Of course, madam.’ He seated her, unfolded the large cone-shaped damask napkin and with a flourish placed it on her lap, then proffered the wine list in a heavy leather folder embossed with a gold coat of arms and the name of the restaurant. ‘I am expecting Dr Evatt,’ Brenda said, pausing before adding, ‘the High Court judge.’
    â€˜Ah, always a welcome guest, madam.’
    â€˜He’s in a bit of a hurry,’ Brenda added a little breathlessly, for a moment forgetting her poise.
    â€˜Always,’ the maître d’ said smugly, scoring a second time. ‘I shall advise the chef to prepare a rump steak and pommes mousseline .’
    Brenda had felt both of the previous putdowns and she’d had enough. ‘Whatever you wish to call them they’re still mashed potatoes,’ she said dismissively.
    While she’d been to some of the nicer restaurants in town at the invitation of various breweries, Primo’s was regarded as a cut above the others and this was confirmed when Brenda examined the wine list. While she didn’t have much call to sell wine at the Hero of Mafeking – none, in fact – except for the fortified varieties, sweet sherry, port and madeira, she was familiar with the wholesaler’s liquor price list and was quick to note that the restaurant mark-up on a bottle of chablis was three hundred per cent, sufficient validation in Brenda’s mind of the establishment’s stratospheric reputation. Fortunately Doc Evatt drank scotch (one hundred per cent mark-up) and she sarsaparilla, or very occasionally a dry sherry, having read in the Women’s Weekly that it was a ladylike thing to do in polite company.
    The Doc didn’t waste time on the usual pleasantries. He greeted Brenda with a nod and a grunt, sat down, ordered a scotch from the now obsequiously smiling maître d’, then a steak, any way the house liked to cook it as long as it came with mashed potatoes. With that out of the way he squinted through his thick glasses across the damask-covered table and came directly to the point. ‘So, Brenda, tell me, what’s the problem?’ he demanded.
    Brenda laughed. ‘But I haven’t ordered, Doc,’ she protested, turning to see the maître d’ had been replaced by a waiter wearing a white apron down to his ankles.
    â€˜Steak’s good,’ Evatt offered with an impatient flick of his wrist. ‘So, what can I do for you?’
    Brenda glanced up and said, ‘I’ll have the same as Judge Evatt, only half the portion.’
    â€˜Madam, I’m afraid all the steaks are the same size, aged beef, hand cut an inch and a half thick by four and a half inches across,’ the waiter replied