Fair Do's Page 11

  ‘Having the last laugh. Is that why you’re marrying me?’

  ‘No! Love! ‘Course not. But it’s an enjoyable by-product.’ Ted frowned. He could hardly get the words out. There was something wrong with his speech. And his head was swimming. He was ill.

  ‘Are you drunk?’

  ‘What?’ He was indignant. ‘On champagne? On French gnat’s piss?’ Several people turned their heads to seek out the source of this mild vulgarity. He suddenly remembered what he had thought it would be impossible for him to forget – that Corinna was a bishop’s daughter. What was wrong with his brain? ‘I feel odd, Corinna. Why should I feel odd? It’s odd that I should feel odd. I never feel odd normally. Normally I feel absolutely normal.’ Was he drunk? He couldn’t be. And not so quickly. Not hard-headed, tough as old boots Ted Simcock. ‘I can’t be drunk. I haven’t had much. Not much much, anyroad. Hardly at all much. If that.’ His command of language was disintegrating. He was swaying. He was drunk. ‘I’m drunk, Corinna. I mean, I am. How? Oh heck.’

  Corinna took his drink, sniffed it, and sipped it.

  ‘There’s vodka in this,’ she said.

  ‘That’s Sandra! Sandra!’

  His legs were giving way. His head was swirling. Corinna had hold of him. He felt awful. She was guiding him into a chair. She was so strong. He felt wonderful.

  Andrew Denton, husband of the pregnant Judy, approached the pregnant Jenny.

  ‘Do you know what I said to the side of the church as I left?’ he asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Aisle, be seeing you.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Joke. The aisle is the side of the church, so I said, “aisle, be seeing you.”’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Bit of a nave, aren’t I?’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Aren’t you font of my jokes? Are they an apse of taste?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You looked sad. I’m cheering you up.’

  ‘Ah. Thank you, Andrew.’ Jenny tried to look cheered up. It was impossible. ‘Terrific.’

  Elvis approached them purposefully.

  ‘Not interrupting, am I?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. Terrific,’ said Jenny, showing a flash of enthusiasm at last. ‘Bye, Andrew.’

  Elvis had placed two chairs facing each other across an occasional table. She allowed herself to be seated on one of them. Elvis sat opposite her. Between them was a rather cowed cactus. Elvis clasped his hands together as he searched for a telling and authoritative yet sensitive and sympathetic opening question. All around them people were chatting. Elvis Simcock, chat show host, was oblivious to all talk except his own and that of his interviewee.

  ‘How are things really between you and Paul, Jenny?’ he asked.

  ‘Not very good. We’re having terrible rows.’

  ‘Would you mind telling me what your row this morning was about?’

  ‘On the surface it was about boiled eggs.’

  ‘M-hm.’ Elvis shifted gear from chat show host to media psychiatrist. ‘And what was it about under the surface?’

  ‘Trust.’

  Elvis’s showbiz sheen fell away, revealing a rather gawky young Yorkshireman. ‘You what?’ said the rather gawky young Yorkshireman.

  The words began to pour out. ‘I’m finding it hard to trust him, after what he did with … and he says I’m not trying to trust him, and today, when all that’s going on under the surface, we’re arguing about boiled eggs and I’m crying and Thomas is upset because he’s very sensitive and … oh, Elvis!’

  Jenny’s appeal wrung Elvis’s heart-strings. He didn’t see Rodney and Betty until they were almost on top of him.

  ‘How’s the interviewing technique coming on, Elvis?’ asked Rodney, still smarting after discovering that he had been used.

  ‘Rodney! Please!’ pleaded Elvis frantically.

  ‘Have I said something wrong?’ said Rodney.

  Elvis began to edge away from the scene of the crime.

  Jenny pursued him.

  ‘What does he mean, “interviewing techniques”?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ve said something wrong.’ Rodney realised that the revelation was going to hurt Jenny, his most recent recruit. He back-pedalled. ‘Nothing, Jenny. Absolutely nothing.’

  Elvis turned and faced Rodney.

  ‘Tell her,’ he said. ‘I’ve nothing to be ashamed of.’

  Rodney was doubtful about telling now, but Betty leapt in.

  ‘He wasn’t well,’ she explained. ‘I took him upstairs, laid him on the bed.’

  ‘Yes, we heard,’ said Jenny.

  ‘Did you? Oh Lord.’ Rodney tried not to think of all these people listening to their cuddling. ‘We heard voices from the 100. Elvis was playing back conversations he’d secretly recorded with me and Simon. Hello, Simon.’

  Nobody could have counted the number of times that Simon Rodenhurst had steamed merrily in on a group of people, molars flashing, and been sandbagged. Yet still he came back for more. Now he looked well and truly sandbagged. His smile died swiftly.

  ‘With me?’ he said to Rodney. To Elvis he said, ‘You swine!’ To the Sillitoes he said, ‘And you listened?’

  ‘We couldn’t help it,’ protested Betty. ‘We tried not to.’ It sounded unconvincing even to her.

  ‘You swine, Elvis,’ repeated Simon.

  ‘I’ve done nothing I’m ashamed of,’ said Elvis.

  Simon erupted. ‘Broadcasting to the Sillitoes that I got my fellow godfather’s wife pregnant, and you’re not ashamed!’

  It was sheer bad luck that Andrew was leading his pregnant wife to the sandwiches for a little nibble at exactly that moment. The Dentons heard every word of Simon’s eruption.

  ‘What?’ said Andrew, appalled.

  ‘Simon!’ reproached Judy desperately.

  ‘Judy!’ said Andrew accusingly.

  ‘Oh, Andrew,’ said Judy. ‘I love you, Andrew. I do.’

  She staggered towards a chair. It was occupied by Liz’s skeletal, ramrod Uncle Hubert. He leapt up with an alacrity that belied his years. He was a man made by temperament and breeding for giving up his seat to women. In the long years out East he’d had few opportunities to exercise this talent, for he was also a man made by temperament and breeding for not giving up anything to the natives.

  ‘Oh my God,’ said Simon, watching them.

  ‘I didn’t know anyone was listening,’ said Elvis.

  ‘Nor did I!’ said Simon.

  Jenny found Elvis’s tape recorder under the cactus. She hurled it furiously at him. He ducked. It sailed on towards Neville, and Liz. Neville, a keen cricketer in his day, caught it adeptly, and stared at it in bewilderment.

  ‘So,’ said Jenny angrily, while Rodney and Betty fluttered anxiously, and several people, alerted by the flying tape recorder, watched. ‘Your questioning of me, Elvis, all that concern …’

  ‘… was genuine. It has to be when interviewing people. You don’t use people.’

  ‘I didn’t know it was an interview,’ screamed Jenny. She tried to control her anger. People were listening. ‘You used me,’ she said more calmly, as Rita hurried over to see if she could be of help. ‘Used the collapse of my marriage.’

  ‘Collapse?’ Rita was appalled.

  ‘We’re splitting up. Oh Lord. I didn’t mean to tell you. Not today.’ Jenny smiled. ‘It’s amicable.’ She meant her smile to be encouraging and cheery. ‘Quite happy really.’ It only succeeded in looking bravely forlorn. ‘Not at all sad. Sorry.’

  ‘Oh, Jenny,’ said Rita sadly. She turned on Elvis. ‘Oh, Elvis!’ She hugged Jenny.

  Sandra swirled into the Brontë Suite, still vibrant with indignation and pride.

  Ted tried to leap to his feet. It wasn’t a success. He hadn’t felt as drunk as this since he’d sampled every bottle on the top shelf of the Überwasser Bierhalle in Osnabruck when he was nineteen. Corinna tried to restrain him. He shook himself free and lurched towards Sandra.

  ‘S
andra!’ he said. ‘You’ve been spiking my drinks.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Sandra. ‘ ’Cos I hate you. I wanted her to see you drunk and pathetic. She has. I’m glad.’

  Eric Siddall, barman supreme, scurried up to rescue Ted from his unprofessional colleague. ‘Leave this to me, sir,’ he said. ‘No problem. All in hand. Can do.’

  ‘Belt up, Eric,’ said Sandra.

  She gave Eric a fierce shove, fuelled by fury. He staggered backwards and fell to the floor. Morris Wigmore, deputy leader of the Conservatives, rushed to his rescue, tripped, and fell into the arms of Charlotte Ratchett. She smiled a champagne smile, kissed the top of his head, and said ‘Morris. I never knew you cared.’

  Neville and Liz watched the disintegration of the Christening Party with growing horror.

  ‘Oh Lord!’ said Liz.

  Neville was speechless.

  Sandra turned back to Ted, wiping her hands after disposing of Eric.

  ‘Why did you have to come here, anyroad?’ she yelled. ‘Following me. Haunting me. Taunting me.’

  ‘Sandra!’ Ted raised his voice, to compete with hers. ‘I wasn’t.’

  ‘ ’Course you were,’ yelled Sandra. ‘Why else would you come?’

  ‘Because they’re Christening my baby,’ shrieked Ted.

  The room fell completely silent.

  Neville and Liz gazed at the achingly still tableau with growing horror.

  ‘Oh Lord!’ said Neville.

  Liz was speechless.

  ‘Ted!’ said Rita.

  Nobody else spoke. Ted went white. He looked round the room and saw, mistily, his future wife, her face a shocked white buoy in an orange sea. He saw the blurred, horrified faces of his former wife, of the mother of his boy, of her second husband, of his ex-mistress Sandra, of his deeply embarrassed son, whose cynicism was proving so shallow, of his unhappy daughter-in-law, of Elvis’s neglected fiancée, of his former good friends, the suddenly sober Sillitoes, of Eric Siddall, barman supreme. And beyond them, the shocked faces of people of the kind Ted had so often tried so hard to impress: Neville’s partner, Matthew Wadebridge; the bluff, egg-shaped Graham Wintergreen, coarsely relishing the situation; his golfophobe wife Angela, her tight, whippy mouth wide open; Liz’s skeletal, ramrod Uncle Hubert looking at Ted as an example of what happens to a nation when you let an empire go. The three ruined abbeys forgotten, the ruined buffet forgotten, the ruined cake forgotten, all of them gazing in horror at the ruined Ted Simcock.

  He tried hard to retrieve the situation.

  ‘Oh heck,’ he said. ‘I didn’t really … I didn’t mean … just a joke. In bad taste, I realise that now. You know what they say. In vino … in vino a load of absolute cobblers.’ He tried to walk. ‘Oh … I can’t … my legs.’ He had rubber legs. It was a nightmare. He wasn’t really here. It was only a dream.

  But the Sillitoes, grabbing him, lifting him up, they weren’t part of a dream.

  ‘Come on,’ said Rodney.

  ‘Soon have you off the premises,’ said Betty.

  ‘Man of your age, can’t hold your drink,’ said Rodney.

  ‘Let go,’ demanded Ted. ‘I’m all right.’

  They let go. For a few seconds he was all right. Then his legs buckled and he began to crumple backwards. Rodney and Betty grabbed him again.

  ‘Leave it to us,’ said Betty. ‘We’re the experts. Upsydaisy.’

  Slowly, the Sillitoes lifted Ted into an upright position.

  ‘Off we go,’ said Rodney. ‘Nice and quiet. Easy does it.’

  Slowly, Betty and Rodney led him out of the Brontë Suite.

  At the door, he turned.

  ‘Sorry,’ he told the stunned gathering. ‘Sorry, everybody.’ He tried to smile at Corinna. ‘Sorry I lied, my honey bee.’

  ‘I forgive you,’ said Corinna Price-Rodgerson. ‘Many wouldn’t.’

  ‘What a womanful wonder you are,’ said her befuddled fiancé.

  Corinna followed Ted out. At the door she turned, smiled graciously, said, ‘Goodbye. Thank you for inviting us. We’ve had a simply marvellous time,’ and made an exit that was, under the circumstances, a masterpiece of dignity.

  Conversations began to break out all over the room. Charlotte Ratchett, of the furniture Ratchetts, bemoaned that the nation could no longer hold its drink. Hubert Ellsworth-Smythe spoke of rubber workers rendered mad by strong drink. Morris Wigmore, deputy leader of the Conservatives, felt it safe to smile again.

  Could it be that the worst was over?

  Not for Jenny. She burst into tears. Rita hurried over to comfort her.

  ‘It wasn’t amicable,’ wailed Jenny. ‘We’ve had a terrible row and split up. Today. Forever. Oh Lord. I shouldn’t have told you. Not today.’

  ‘Yes. You should,’ said Rita. ‘Oh, Jenny, how could he?’

  ‘It’s my fault as well. Always two sides.’ Jenny flung a tiny glance in the direction of Liz. ‘I expected too much from marriage, despite my mother.’

  Rita hugged Jenny.

  Elvis, who had been standing close by with Carol, hurried across to them.

  ‘Paul has no idea how to treat a woman,’ he said.

  ‘Just like his brother,’ muttered Carol.

  ‘OK, Mum. Leave this to me. Please!’ said Elvis decisively.

  He put an arm round Jenny. Rita found herself obeying her suddenly masterful son.

  ‘Jenny! Love!’ said Elvis. ‘I do care. I wasn’t using you. I do. He’s hopeless.’

  He kissed his younger brother’s wife tenderly.

  ‘Oh, Elvis,’ said the watching Rita. ‘Oh, Paul. Oh, Jenny.’

  ‘Just like his ruddy brother,’ sobbed Carol.

  ‘Oh, Carol,’ said Rita. She hurried over to hug her. ‘Oh Lord. Where did we go wrong with them? Was it my fault? And there’s me, going into politics, thinking I can change the world.’

  ‘Oh no,’ wept Carol. ‘You mustn’t give up. You must change the world. Somebody must.’

  White-faced, Neville and Liz Badger surveyed the wreckage of their elegant shindig. Their eyes went to Jenny and Elvis, crying in each other’s .arms, to Rita and Carol, holding each other tenderly and sobbing, to Andrew and Judy, weeping gently together.

  ‘Oh Lord!’ said Neville. ‘I must go to … somebody.’

  ‘Oh, Neville,’ said Liz. ‘How about me?’

  ‘Are you upset?’

  ‘Of course not! I’m having a simply wonderful afternoon.’ Liz’s body went taut. ‘Sssh,’ she said. ‘Ssssh!’ she repeated louder. ‘I think I can hear the babies. Sssh everybody.’

  ‘Sssh!’ called out Neville urgently.

  Conversations were swiftly dropped. Sobs were slowly stopped. Once again, complete silence fell upon the Brontë Suite.

  Into that silence, over the baby link, there came the noise of two babies, crying.

  ‘They learn so quickly, don’t they?’ said Rita.

  Third Do

  April:

  The Grand Opening of Sillitoe’s

  ‘Nobody’s going to come, are they?’ asked Rodney Sillitoe, the joint big wheel behind Sillitoe’s. He was standing in the middle of the bar area of what he hoped would become the most celebrated health food complex with wholefood vegetarian restaurant in Yorkshire. He was wearing green trousers, a green and yellow check shirt, a white apron emblazoned with the legend ‘Sillitoe’s’ and a straw hat with a wide green sash.

  Beside him stood Rita Simcock and her daughter-in-law Jenny. They were wearing green dresses, green and yellow check blouses and white aprons emblazoned with the legend ‘Sillitoe’s’.

  Jenny had a glass of orange juice, Rita blackberry and apple, and Rodney carrot juice.

  ‘Perhaps it was a mistake to advertise “mystery celebrity”,’ suggested Jenny.

  ‘Jenny could be right,’ said Rita. ‘If it’s somebody really impressive, perhaps you should have said who it is, Rodney.’

  Rita invested the word ‘Rodney’ with a faintly questioning air. He didn’
t bite.

  ‘Oh Lord,’ he said. ‘It’s going to be a flop. Poor Betty! I can take it, but she gets so worked up, bless her.’

  He looked round anxiously, as if hoping that Betty would materialise through the walls of exposed brick, which gave the room the air of a converted factory, which wasn’t surprising, since it was a converted factory – it had made flanges – or that she would suddenly appear from under one of the stripped pine tables, which, with the stripped pine chairs and bare walls, gave the bar a rather antiseptic aura. This was not a bar where serious drinking was expected. It served only non-alcoholic drinks, as befitted an establishment owned by those reformed characters, the Sillitoes.

  Behind Rodney a green tape hung across a large arch which separated the bar from the restaurant area, which was still in darkness. ‘Where is she?’ he repeated, moving off towards the restaurant, dipping under the tape.

  ‘Men!’ said Rita, as soon as he had disappeared into the darkness. “‘She gets so worked up, bless her”! Who’s getting worked up? He is. I expect she’s as cool as a cucumber.’

  Rita and Jenny shared a little laugh about the foolish ways of men.

  Behind the bar, in front of his rows of non-alcoholic drinks, Eric Siddall sighed deeply. He was wearing green trousers, a green and yellow check shirt, a white apron emblazoned with the legend ‘Sillitoe’s’ and a straw hat with a wide green sash. He did not look ecstatic.

  In the centre of the bar area there was a large sculpture, a cross between a twisted pillar and a dead tree. It was the creation of a local sculptperson, Melissa Holdsworthy. Around its trunk there was a gnarled shelf on which drinks could be put.

  Betty Sillitoe, the joint big wheel behind Sillitoe’s, emerged out of the darkened restaurant, dipped under the tape, looked round the bar, and sighed.

  ‘Oh Lord!’ she said. ‘Nobody here yet! Nobody’s going to come, are they? It’s going to be a fiasco.’ She was wearing a green dress, a green and yellow check blouse, and a white apron emblazoned with the legend ‘Sillitoe’s’. She carried a glass of carrot juice.

  ‘It said “from 7.30”. It’s only 7.36,’ Rita pointed out.

  ‘I don’t mind so much for myself, but it’s Rodney,’ said Betty. ‘He gets so het up, bless him. Oh! The apostrophe’s wrong.’