THE CLUB

Ian was too excited to concentrate any longer. He closed the book and looked at his watch, 9.30 pm. Redman’s Landlord and Tenant could wait. Only another half hour and he would see Rachel. He had though about little else since they had met the night before. He checked for the umpteenth time; kitchen, sitting room and bedroom, all clean and tidy. He was nervous. He had never brought a woman back to the house, and for Rachel it had to be perfect.

He got there too early, but ten minutes later she emerged, calling a goodnight to the old boy guarding the stage door.

‘Hello Ian, that’s better, you look almost human.’ He had deliberately not worn his suit. ‘Where shall we go?’

‘I have booked a table just over there,’ He pointed at Raphaels on Upper Borough Walls.

‘I bit too posh for me I think.’

‘No don’t worry, it’s on me.’

‘Nice thought Ian, but I pay my own way, then there’s no obligation at the end of the evening.’

Yet again, the same corner seats in the Garrick, she with her Guinness, he with a small glass of the cheapest plonk, his normal Highland Park abandoned, because he knew she would insist on buying the next round.

‘You are Jewish, aren’t you?’ Ian was surprised by the question, never before asked, nor referred to.

‘Yes, how did you guess?’

‘Not a guess, it takes one to recognise one. Don’t forget, my surname is Jacobs. Welcome to the club.’ She lifted her glass in a mock toast.

‘Not a practicing Jew, gave up five years ago. You?’

‘Part-time, when I am at home, Reform not Orthodox. The whole performance at home on Friday nights, all the family candles, gefilte fish, chicken soup, course after course, but I love it. Why did you lose faith?’

An extract from chapter fifty-one of – ‘Go Swift and Far – a Tale of Bath’ The first book of The Westcott Chronicles