The Primrose Pursuit Read Online Free

would be ropey. She replied that regarding the latter she wasn’t sure but wouldn’t mind taking bets; and as to the former, it was clear that her experience of al fresco gatherings was considerably wider than mine. Well I thought it best not to argue, and as things turned out the matter never arose: it rained. Heavily.
    Thus huddled in Topping’s flat – the one in that cottage Miss Dunhill lets out at those outrageous prices – we smiled politely and sipped amontillado and warm Piesporter. Primrose sampled both, made the most awful I-told-you-so faces and continued to imbibe at the rate of knots. She was wearing that rouched taffeta frock, which I have to admit rather suits her, plus the dangling jet earrings inherited from her mother and those stilt-like heels her brother gave her (goodness knows why: I don’t think Francis knew anything about clothes – or women). The effect, as you might guess, was quite striking; and being tall, even without the shoes, she towered over Topping, making him look like a benevolent gnome.
    Less gnome-like, but equally benevolent, was the headmaster. We had passed the auditing test with flying colours and I rather suspect that his consumption of the Piesporter was a mere stomach-liner for something more abrasive when he got home. Anyway, he was certainly on good form and was heard to murmur to Hutchins (Geography) that the school was fortunate in having such a generous member of staff. Hutchins, not noted for his prodigality, observed that the next time the new member chose to put his hand in his pocket he might consider atlases rather than alcohol … There is something rather Stygian about Hutchins (a common trait with geographers perhaps?) but Mr Winchbrooke affected not to hear and just smiled. He has Not Hearing down to a fine art – surely an invaluable asset in a headmaster, particularly at Erasmus House.
    Thus things were progressing fairly well – the theme of juvenile imbecility getting its usual airing and glasses being quaffed with genteel abandon: rather unwisely guests had been invited to help themselves from the sideboard. But then I noticed the absence of our host. Nothing odd in that you might think, probably popped to the kitchen for some more crisps. But neither was there any sign of Primrose, seen only moments previously being condescending to the German art mistress. As you know, Primrose does not exactly melt into the shadows of a room and she was definitely no longer amongst us. Intrigued by the coincidence of the double displacement and bored with Mr Neasden’s lugubrious banter, I slipped from the room ostensibly en route for the lavatory, where in any case I might have found Primrose and we could have had a little pow-wow.
    I had just moved a few feet along the passage when I was brought up short by seeing her pressed squarely against the study door in what can only be described as ‘listening mode’. ‘Primrose,’ I gasped, ‘what are you doing?’ There was no answer except the furious mouthing of, ‘Shut up!’ Then re-applying her ear to the panel she signalled me to go away – which I did in some haste. Back in the drawing room I avoided Neasden, sought out the peanuts and thought the more.
    A minute later Primrose reappeared, scowled at me, beamed at everyone else and engaged in animated conversation with Hutchins. Actually that is not quite accurate as animation is not Hutchins’ forte. It was, you might say, a unilateral engagement. Then two minutes after that Topping returned; and also beaming, including at me, bustled about replenishing drinks and being generally obliging. The noise waxed, the drink waned and little Milly Hopkins got one of her migraines and had to be taken home ….
    Yes, on the whole it was a successful evening and one which certainly enabled the new member of staff to win nodding approval from amongst his colleagues: a sort of self-baptism by grape I suppose … But approval, nodding or otherwise, was hardly