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  ‘I can’t talk about it, Carol. I might cry.’

  ‘Don’t start or I will.’

  They avoided each other’s eyes, gazing fixedly at Fountains Abbey. And suddenly, there, behind them, between them, was Neville Badger, awash with immaculate goodwill.

  ‘How lovely you look,’ he said. ‘Two lovely young ladies, in love with two fine young brothers.’

  Carol and Jenny tried not to look too aghast.

  Neville ploughed on.

  ‘Members of the younger generation, making a go of things. And upstairs, sleeping soundly, two innocent baby boys, a future generation. Today, at least, I feel, there’s hope, there’s a future. Thank you.’

  Neville moved off, his job done.

  ‘Sometimes I think I preferred him when he was miserable,’ said Jenny.

  Rarely in their lives could the Brontë sisters have witnessed such an apparently cheerful scene. Neville beamed at Caroline Ratchett, of the furniture Ratchetts, whose three putts on the last green in 1978 had given Neville’s first wife Jane the last of her four ladies’ individual championships. He beamed at Graham Wintergreen, who was enjoying a long discussion with her, on the subject of golf. He beamed at Angela Wintergreen, who was having a long discussion about corn dollies with Eric Siddall. Neville failed to realise that they were spinning out their conversation in the hope of sparking resentment in Graham’s insensitive breast. Neville noticed nothing except laughter, smiles, champagne, beauty. The beauty of Liz. The beauty of the cake. The beauty of life.

  He approached his wife, beaming.

  ‘It’s going well,’ he said.

  ‘I wonder what’ll spoil it.’

  ‘I’m going to make a speech.’

  ‘I wonder no longer.’

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen. Ladies and gentlemen.’

  The Sillitoes returned.

  Jenny switched on the baby link.

  ‘Today is a happy day,’ said Neville. ‘Before we come to the cutting of the cake, I have an announcement. Will you please drink a toast to Ted Simcock and Corinna Price-Rodgerson, who have announced their engagement.’

  Sandra dropped a pile of plates. They crashed spectacularly to the floor. None of them would carry cake that day or any other day.

  ‘Oh hell,’ she said.

  She ran from the room.

  ‘Oh Neville,’ said Liz.

  ‘Oh Lord,’ said Neville.

  ‘Oh heck,’ said Ted.

  He rushed out after Sandra.

  As a badger to the sett, as a fox to the earth, as a catatonic to the womb, so Sandra made for the kitchen. There, dwarfed by the blackened ovens and the huge pots and pans, she turned and faced her foe.

  Her foe entered breathlessly. It was a long while since Ted Simcock had run anywhere. He advanced diffidently, and stopped beside the ovens, as if frightened that his cornered ex-lover would tear him to pieces if he came too close.

  ‘Sandra!’ he said. ‘Love!’

  ‘So!’ Sandra spat her words out. ‘You’re going to marry your tarty piece.’

  ‘I came out here to … er … mend a few bridges, if I could. To build a few fences, to try to … I don’t know.’ Ted’s words sounded hollow in the emptiness of the cold, lifeless kitchen. ‘But, Sandra! Don’t call her a tarty piece. Her father’s a bishop.’

  ‘He may be a bishop. She may be double-barrelled. Deep down, in her heart, where it matters, she’s a tarty piece.’

  ‘You never could judge character, could you?’ said Ted sadly.

  ‘No,’ barked Sandra. ‘I loved you.’

  ‘Ouch!’ Ted winced. ‘Sandra! Love!’

  ‘Why do you call me “love”? You don’t love me.’

  ‘No, I don’t. And you don’t love me.’

  ‘No. Not now.’

  ‘Love! You never did. We never did. Did we, love? We didn’t. It was affection. Friendship. Desire. Lust. It was never love, love.’

  ‘It was. Love curdles.’ Sandra’s tears began to flow again. Silent, reproachful tears. ‘Love and hate are two sides of the same coin. That’s what I reckon, anyroad. And I hate you.’

  The empty kitchen of a great restaurant is a sad place. There is desolation in its temporary calm. In the calm of the kitchen of the Clissold Lodge Hotel there was no desolation. Emptiness seemed its natural state. Sandra’s intensity rang strangely through this calm, cool place.

  Still Ted found himself unable to move closer to this young animal that had been ripped open by life.

  ‘I wanted to say … why I came out here was to say … you’re a grand girl,’ he said. ‘A right smashing lass.’

  ‘You must be an idiot to give me up, then.’

  ‘Maybe I am, Sandra. Maybe I am. I didn’t intend to, love. I didn’t want to, love. Then it burst upon me. Love, love.’

  ‘You love her?’ Sandra sounded incredulous.

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘She loves you?’ Sandra sounded even more incredulous.

  ‘Oh yes. I wanted to come in here … embarrassing though it is …’

  ‘Big of you!’ There wasn’t a knife in the kitchen that could have cut as sharply as Sandra’s scornful sarcasm.

  Ted winced, but carried on. ‘To say, I’ll never forget you. You gave me something wonderful at a time of low ebb.’

  ‘I warmed you up for her. ’Cos I haven’t got a double-barrelled name and money and I keep dropping things, which I only do when you’re around.’

  Sandra began to sob again. Ted at last found the courage to move towards her, uttering the inappropriate words, ‘Well, there you are, you see. We’re best apart.’

  A slightly-built, shinily-suited, middle-aged man entered. He had a toothbrush moustache and shiny black hair that had long ago been combed into submission. Had he been found with a speck of dust on his waistcoat, he wouldn’t have slept for shame. He was Mr O’Mara, the duty manager.

  Ted and Sandra hurriedly decided that they would indeed be best apart. They leapt apart.

  ‘What’s going on?’ asked Mr O’Mara. Despite his name, there was no trace of Irish in his voice, which was slightly fruity, and just too large for him, like his suit.

  Ted thought swiftly.

  ‘I expressed a desire to see the kitchens of a great hotel,’ he said. ‘Your excellent, efficient, helpful waitress kindly obliged.’

  ‘Yes.’ Sandra was trying hard to hold back her tears. ‘This is Ted Simcock, Mr O’Mara. Mr O’Mara, the duty manager.’

  Ted and Mr O’Mara shook hands. Mr O’Mara’s handshake was weary. He’d been shaking hands for seventeen years.

  Sandra turned to Ted. ‘These are the main ovens,’ she sobbed. ‘They can cook enough roasts to serve two hundred and fifty portions of meat at a sitting, which we often do, being known for our functions.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Ted with feeling. ‘I know.’

  ‘Why the tears?’ said Mr O’Mara.

  It was Sandra’s turn to think quickly.

  ‘I’m that proud, Mr O’Mara,’ she said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Of the kitchens. Of the hotel. It’s that clean, that gleaming, that well-kept.’ She struggled unavailingly against the flow of tears. ‘I thought of when it’s full and smoky and all the orders and all the cooking and all the satisfied customers and how we cope and I felt … right proud, Mr O’Mara.’

  ‘That’s wonderful, Sandra,’ said the duty manager. He turned to Ted. ‘Seventeen years in hotels, Mr Simcock. Given my life to the group.’ Ted nodded numbly. ‘Passed over for assistant manager five times.’ Ted shook his head at the injustice of life. Mr O’Mara gave a tiny, bitter twitch. ‘Outsiders brought in over my head.’ Ted nodded his sad agreement at the ways of this harsh old world. ‘Wondering, am I wasting my time? Here’s my answer.’ There was a tiny sob in Mr O’Mara’s voice. He looked down at his shiny shoes, then straight into Ted’s face. ‘This is what makes it all worth while.’ Ted nodded. Mr O’Mara turned to Sandra. ‘Thank you, Sandra,’ he sobbed. ‘Oh Lord, I …’
He took out a tiny handkerchief and blew his shiny nose.

  ‘Thank you, Mr O’Mara.’ Sandra resumed her tear-ducted tour of the kitchen. ‘This is the toast-making machine.’

  The emotion was too much for Mr O’Mara. He fled, clutching his handkerchief. As he shut the door, Sandra’s words rang in his ears.

  ‘At peak breakfast times this can handle four hundred slices an hour.’

  ‘Oh, Sandra.’ There was a distinct tremor in Ted’s voice. ‘That was brilliant. Very clever. You’re smashing. Oh, Sandra, I’m sorry.’

  Ted also began to sob. The proud face that had launched a thousand boot scrapers crumpled with sorrow and shame.

  The steady hum of conversation in the bright, busy Brontë Suite contrasted so startlingly with the echoing emptiness of the kitchen that Ted almost flinched. He had washed his face, and, because there were no towels, had bent down to dry it under the hand-dryer. This lack of dignity had pleased him, for he was honest enough to feel that he deserved it. He had stood on the steps in front of the hotel, and had felt only the clammy handshake of that foetid day. His poise had only been partially restored. He glanced uneasily towards his fiancée, wondering how she had taken his abrupt pursuit of Sandra. Before he could find out, he was accosted by his son.

  ‘So, how are you feeling now you’re engaged, Dad?’

  ‘Very happy. Delighted.’

  ‘And how do you feel about … about Mum?’

  ‘What is this? Panorama?’

  Elvis sounded hurt. ‘It’s your son showing an interest in his father, Dad. Do you regret what happened with Liz?’

  ‘ ’Course I do, son. And I regret it didn’t work out with your mother. Bitterly. I mean … course I do. And now I must go to Corinna. She’ll be upset.’

  ‘She doesn’t look upset.’

  ‘Elvis! You know nothing about women.’

  Ted grabbed a glass of champagne and drank without tasting it. He smiled at the bluff, egg-shaped Graham Wintergreen, but hardly saw him. He approached Corinna. She looked as calm as she was orange.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ he said, trying to sound as if it hadn’t been important. ‘Are you upset, my petal?’

  ‘Of course not,’ she said calmly. ‘It’s perfectly understandable. You wanted to try to help her retain some shreds of dignity.’

  ‘You’re an amazingly understanding woman.’

  ‘My father’s a bishop.’

  Charlotte Ratchett was the first to see Sandra return. She carried a tray on which there were just two glasses of champagne. Charlotte Ratchett, whose tastes were as expensive as her furniture, tried to catch her eye, but Sandra had eyes only for Ted and Corinna. She thrust the tray under their noses, giving them a fixed, bright, dreadful smile.

  ‘Champagne, sir? Madam? To celebrate your engagement?’

  ‘Oh, thank you, Sandra,’ said Ted. ‘That’s very … that’s extremely … thank you.’ He drained his glass rapidly, grimaced, put the empty glass on Sandra’s tray, took the nearest full glass, realised that he hadn’t shown good manners, and looked sheepish as Corinna took the remaining glass.

  Sandra moved off, still smiling.

  Ted raised his glass to Corinna, drank, and grimaced again.

  ‘I don’t like this very much,’ he said.

  ‘Oh!’ said Corinna. ‘I love it.’

  ‘You’re amazing,’ said Ted. ‘You don’t seem jealous of Sandra at all.’

  ‘Why should I be?’ Corinna seemed astonished by the thought. ‘It’s over. I can tell that from the way you constantly cosset me. I might feel very much less secure if you stopped cosseting me.’

  ‘We’ll leave soon,’ said Ted. ‘I’m going to take you home and cosset you like the clappers.’

  He took another hefty sip, and grimaced.

  The immaculate Neville Badger took a delicate, immaculate sip, and beamed anxiously as he surveyed the progress of the party. At his side, seemingly inseparable from him as she had never been from Laurence, Liz watched with more acerbic, astringent eyes. She was a proud cockerel, and he the mother hen.

  ‘Everybody’s happy,’ said Neville. ‘Isn’t it wonderful?’

  ‘Jenny’s very upset about Paul,’ said Liz. ‘Carol’s very upset about Elvis, Ted’s very upset about Sandra, Sandra’s very upset about Corinna, Rodney and Betty are rather shocked to find their health food complex is next door to Chez Edouard, Simon is dreadfully scared about something, and I’m very upset that Rita’s election will push through the outer inner relief ring road. Apart from that … as far as I know … people are ecstatic.’

  Neville looked shattered.

  ‘Will you speak to Rita, Neville?’

  He leapt hurriedly into life. ‘Of course,’ he said decisively. ‘Leave it to me.’ Then he thought. ‘What about?’

  ‘The outer inner relief ring road.’

  ‘Well, what can I …? Yes, all right. I’ll have a word with her some time.’

  ‘Now.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Now.’

  ‘Now.’

  ‘Jenny?’ said the former big wheel behind Cock-A-Doodle Chickens to the young lady with whom he had so often argued over the ethics of battery chicken farming. ‘Would you at some time – after you’ve had your … er … of course – consider working for me?’

  ‘For us!’ Betty Sillitoe’s indignation was marinaded in affection.

  ‘Absolutely,’ agreed Rodney hastily. ‘Slip of the tongue. Old habits die hard. Us.’

  ‘Well, I’d love to,’ said Jenny, without enthusiasm. ‘Thanks. Terrific.’

  ‘Rita’ll be working for us.’ Betty could hardly contain her excitement at the prospect.

  ‘Terrific,’ said Jenny listlessly. ‘It’s all very exciting,’ she added flatly. ‘I feel … very excited.’

  She drifted off. Rodney and Betty watched her with concern.

  Neville was not approaching Rita with quite the dispatch that might have been expected. He stopped, with unprecedented eagerness, to listen to a golfing joke from Graham Wintergreen, to ask Mrs Wadebridge whether she’d had enough to eat, to begin to apologise to Mrs Wadebridge in case she construed his remark as a comment on her amplitude, and to stop in mid-apology in case the apology made matters worse. He exchanged polite nothings with Morris Wigmore with an intensity that suggested that a smile from Neville might ease the painful memory of his son’s sticky end in Brisbane.

  But all too soon he found himself confronting Rita. She was staring out of the window at her life.

  He coughed. She jumped.

  ‘I … hello, Rita,’ he said. ‘Liz is a little … not worried … a little concerned … and she’s asked me to … to ask you … so here I am. If this isn’t a good time, please forget it.’

  ‘Please forget what?’

  Neville hesitated only fractionally. ‘The outer inner relief ring road.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of asking you to … try to get us any special dispensation … to attempt to change the route in any way … I know that you wouldn’t … you couldn’t … we …I understand that.’

  ‘So what are you asking?’

  ‘Ah.’ In the absence of any alternative inspiration, Neville smiled. ‘Well, I’m glad we’ve had this little chat.’

  ‘Are you?’ Rita was astounded. ‘Good Lord.’

  Neville walked off, quite swiftly at first, to get away from Rita, then much more slowly as he came closer to his wife.

  He made a little detour, which took him, as it happened, past the table with the champagne, where the dapper, ageless Eric Siddall had been serving his former boss with an icy professional dignity which, he had hoped, would make Graham Wintergreen feel ashamed about sacking him, but which had made Graham wonder why he had put up with him for so long.

  ‘There you go, sir. Tickety-boo,’ said Eric to Neville. ‘It’s a pleasure to serve some people.’

  Neville also paused briefly, to compliment Charlotte Ratchett on her appearance. She r
eceived his compliment, which consisted of the sentence, ‘Charlotte, you’re a model to us all on how to age gracefully,’ with less delight than he had expected.

  Now at last there was no escape from Liz.

  ‘Well?’ she said.

  ‘I put our points. Very forcibly.’

  ‘Good. Well done.’

  ‘If obliquely.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Sometimes, in politics, one needs to be oblique. I … left her in no doubt of what we were asking, though.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘She made no definite promises. She’s too much of an old hand for that.’

  ‘Old hand? She’s only been elected two days. You should have twisted her round your little finger.’

  ‘Yes, well, as Bing Crosby once said, I did it my way. And although she didn’t say anything, I have no doubt what Rita will do.’

  Liz looked as though she had no doubt either.

  ‘You’ve given me back something I thought I’d lost forever.’

  Corinna Price-Rodgerson looked pleased.

  ‘Status.’

  Corinna Price-Rodgerson looked less pleased.

  ‘I thought you meant love,’ she said coolly.

  ‘Oh well. That too. That especially, of course, my petal. But also status. Reputation.’ Ted leant forward to whisper, and almost lost his balance. ‘Because there are people in this town who thought me a berk.’

  ‘I find that hard to believe.’

  ‘I know. It’s barely credible, but it’s true.’ He swayed slightly. ‘Anyroad, the last laugh’s on me. Restaurateur. Marrying a bishop’s daughter.’

  Sandra approached them as before, smiling as before, with two widely-spaced glasses as before.

  ‘More champagne?’ she asked.

  ‘Lovely.’ Corinna gave her a flashing smile.

  This time Ted remembered his manners and let Corinna take her glass first.

  ‘Thank you very much indeed, Sandra,’ he said, as he emptied his glass and replaced it with the one glass remaining on the tray.

  Sandra moved off, still smiling.

  ‘Where was I?’ Ted asked Corinna.