An English Compliment, Second Installment

Well, dear readers, I hope you thoroughly enjoyed your introduction to Ian Turnbull's "An English Compliment."  Get ready for the second installment!  You are most welcome to leave him a comment or two at the end. 

 

 

 

Chapter 2: The Steak house bar

Bernard walked through the entrance of what he and any other person would know was just a low rise industrial unit, no matter how well it was dressed up, and it really wasn't, that well dressed up! He saw her. She was well dressed up, looking great and she was working tonight. He had been pretty sure that she'd be on, for he didn't want his last night and last Steak Shack steak to be without her company. Angela was there, standing behind the bar with a smile that was greeting him already. He'd never asked whether she used the same dentist as Sam, but with her it wasn't just her smile that was dazzling. He just liked the way she looked, the way she talked, the way she stood. He knew it was her job to make folk feel welcome, but she did more than that, and she did a lot more than that for him.

As he approached the bar she had already seen him “Hello Bernard, are you okay? Last night then, I'm glad you've come here“

“G and T?” She added Anglicizing her accent, ribbing Bernard.

“Yes please Angela, I've been looking forward to it” Bernard words didn't actually convey just how sincere he was in this, just how much he had looked forward to that drink, or more who was pouring the drink.

The G and T was already in front of Bernard as he lowered himself on the stool. Angela was wearing her usual style of black dress, the cut of which suited someone who had done hours of aerobics. When he looked at her, he couldn't help but admire what he saw. There was nothing there that shouldn't be; she was the consummate woman. If Bernard had the skills of an ancient Greek sculptor, he couldn't imagine a form more perfect for his Venus. Indeed if Angela was a living sculpture he might be scared to touch her, in case her flesh would crack and that immaculate form be ruined.

She certainly was no statue though for the way Angela moved was perfect and she could glide around the bar getting drinks, reaching for whatever her customers needed, dipping down to low shelves and stretching to high ones, but never did anything get revealed that shouldn't be. Her modesty remained intact. Neither did she ever wobble on her patent high heels, every step, every turn was graceful. Watching Angela behind the bar was like watching a ballerina on her own personal stage. Bernard suspected nothing that Angela wore was expensive, for he had gotten to know her circumstances and that she was on a tight budget, yet she always looked immaculate. He was sure she dyed her hair as each strand was so uniformly blonde, yet it shone, and there seemed an honesty about it. It was as if she wasn't trying to deceive anyone with the change. When Bernard saw Angela perfect was the word that sprung to mind; he knew she couldn't be perfect, but nothing he could see, and nothing he heard her say or watched her do, wasn't perfect.

He'd had many conversations with Angela for the restaurant stayed open late, and that suited Bernard's dining habits. Not many other folk came to the Steak Shack for a late dinner so the opportunity to chat with Angela was there. He was amazed that she did stay and chat to him, for he was in such awe of Angela, that it took him a while to relax in her company. Even though he knew her, and knew something of her life, it was as if she was a goddess and he a mere mortal standing in her presence. She had no airs and graces, no aloofness because of her beauty; she was just genuine and lovely.  Yet because of how he felt about her, he could blurt and bluster for a quite a few sentences. She had such a charming manner, she'd chat away, whilst Bernard acclimatised to her presence.  She'd tell a story or relay an earlier event so that Bernard would soon be feeling at ease and just enjoying her company.

He'd learnt she was a single mother, having got pregnant at school, and had missed out on a lot of her education. She wasn't from a well off family, indeed her mother was single mother too. Angela's mother had stood by her daughter and whilst Angela worked her shifts had looked after her granddaughter, who was now at college, and no longer needed babysitting.

He knew that she worked for John, who was a bit of a control freak who liked everything done to a schedule, and on time; everything organised straight, tidy and clean. Yet he was fair, he paid good wages and the tips were split between her and the chef, and he didn't take any cut, even from the credit card tips.

Angela was a hard worker. She had learnt how to instruct aerobic exercise classes, and would rise early to do two classes for other early rising women, before they left for their work each day. Her mother would get Ellen, her daughter, up and ready for school. Angela getting home in time to see her on to the bus. Then she would get a nap, rising later to do her chores, before she got dressed and ready to come to the restaurant.

It wasn't just a physical attraction with Angela, he liked the way she took life in her stride, how she had managed to fit in taking her exams, even learning first aid and life saving, so now she could become a gym supervisor. She'd dedicated years to raising her daughter, and now with less demands on her time from her teenager, she was making up for lost time, getting a career.

She and Sam had more than just perfect teeth in common. To Bernard they represented what was good about the American dream.  The meritocracy that was oft vaunted was apparent here. They could make it; life in a town that was poor and shabby wasn't holding them back, they were going places. They weren't just bar tenders and receptionists, they persevered, they had ambition, and an infectious confidence that they would succeed. They were more than that too, they had extended such a welcome, they were sincere in what they said, and sincere in what they asked about, they had become Bernard's friends. Well friends within the environment within which they'd met.  They were part of Bernard's regeneration. He wanted more than anything to build on that friendship with Angela, but how? What would you say to a goddess?

There was the ever present Rick at the bar. Rick who seemed unable to talk to anyone with more than one syllable in their name, to whom he had become Bern..... really Bern? Nobody calls Bernard, Bern! Some of his friends called him Bernie, Angela was Ange to Rick. That abbreviation was a travesty, Angela was a name that deserved all its syllables; it could roll off the tongue in a sensual way. Ange in comparison sounded tacky and cheap. If Angela and Sam were the personification of the polished marble and stainless steel of the town's few high points. Rick was the broken metalled roads, the sagging signs over long defunct businesses, the boarding erected over broken windows.

Bernard had let his eyes fix on Angela without really meaning to and she turned around and responded to his attention. “Is there anything I can do for you?” She said smiling. Bernard was a bit embarrassed that his gaze had been noticed and tried to respond sensibly “Er no, no nothing, everything's just fine! Can I do anything for you?” Well he hadn't responded sensibly; he thought why did I splutter out “can I do anything for you?” Bernard had put an American lilt in his accent, as if to counter Angela's earlier gentle gybe. It didn't work as well as he'd hoped, mostly his jokes worked but when they didn't he wasn't always able to rescue the ensuing verbal car crash. He could feel heat coming to his cheeks and felt like shrinking under the bar, Angela answered him, in an act of kindness, as if to stop him looking as foolish as he should. “Bernard, your American accent is no where near as good as my English accent! “

Bernard hoped that wasn't true, as Angela's English accent might be her Achille's heel, her one weakness, a flaw in that perfection, yet he had heard far worse emanating from Hollywood.

She added, “you could Bernard, you could pay me a compliment!”

Bernard was taken a little aback, but before he could give any response, the dreaded Rick responded.

“Hey Ange, yerrrr always gettin' compliments off me and the other guys! Ain't we always telling you what a great piece of..”

Angela interrupted Rick with an unfamiliar sternness in her voice;

“Don't say it Rick, I don't like that expression, and those aren't compliments, they're just trash talk!”

Angela turned to face Bernard directly, as if to exclude anyone else from the conversation, “I'd like an English compliment Bernard, that's what I'd like!”

“Right Angela, an English compliment you shall have, I'll just go and wash my hands” This was Bernard's normal routine, to go and wash before his steak was served, but this time it gave him some breathing space, he had to think about what an American lady or indeed an American goddess would consider an “English compliment”.