A Pearl Amongst Oysters

ISBN 978-1-80068-638-0

Chapter One

No one goes to Grimsby unless they have to, the name is so appropriate to the grimly unfashionable nowheresville on Britain's east coast. The town was my new workplace and, I discovered, harboured more than just fishing boats. There I met her; you know, the one to quell desire for greener grass on the other side of the cliché.

February 1976 was the depth of the coldest winter for nigh on thirty years. Sleet stung my face as I hastened along Cleethorpes Road, past run-down Victorian terraces and interventions of small shops, ventures once pregnant with potential now miscarried with time: a grocer with a whiff of Indian spices; a newsagent offering fags and risqué magazines; an open all hours greasy-spoon cafe.

A frigid wind from distant tundra swirled litter in a redundant shop doorway and carried an odour of gutted fish from the harbour's filleting sheds. A discordant chorus of incontinent seagulls circled like vultures. Stooped raincoats with upturned collars and downturned heads scurried past, candidates to model for the last Lowry painting.

I was relieved to arrive. A battery of glass panes adulterated the Victorian grey brick facade and neon signage emblazoned "Lotus House", the lettering inferring its oriental character. Condensation rendered the menu illegible but I was here by recommendation: "Feast your eyes on more than the food" a work colleague commented with a wry smile.

Accompanied by an unwelcome draught I ventured inside, shaking the icy snow from my coat and hat. A young firmly built Chinese man approached; his smarmed jet hair and black attire redolent of my father's undertakers. His inscrutable expression betrayed no sign of welcome. I followed to an outer row of tables, removed my coat and sat on the red faux-leather couch seating. I chose from the "Special Businessmen's Lunch" selection before considering my new surroundings.

A blend of food aromas and smouldering joss sticks garnished the warm atmosphere. Businessmen in dark suits munched keenly, the drone of their conversation and clinking cutlery vying with the resonant oriental muzak. Paintings of mystical rural scenes and glowing red lanterns endeavoured to create a Chinese ambience. A dozen white-clothed tables, religiously arranged in rows before the altar of an illuminated bar, completed the visual mosaic.

A cheerless waif-like waitress served. The chicken and cashew nuts, egg fried rice and vegetables in oyster sauce impressed more than both she and the decor suggested, but my contented digest was interrupted when the door from the kitchen swung open to reveal a second waitress: the "Feast your eyes ..." intrigue.

Her uniform of white blouse and black skirt hugged graceful curves and a waterfall of lustrous black hair splashed her shoulders framing ebony eyes and a joyous smile. She wandered around the tables and captured every gaze. I watched, not with the dubious motive of a voyeur, but with the appreciation of an enthralling work of art.