Fair Do's Page 12

  Rodney emerged from the darkened restaurant, carrot juice in hand. He stepped under the tape, and sighed.

  ‘Still nobody?’

  ‘It’s only 7.37,’ said Jenny.

  ‘Rodney,’ said Betty urgently. ‘The apostrophe’s wrong. In ‘Sillitoe’s’. There are two of us. Two Sillitoes. So it should be s apostrophe. Not apostrophe s. Shouldn’t it?’

  ‘Oh Lord. I don’t know,’ said Rodney. He’d given the best part of his life to chickens. He didn’t know about apostrophes.

  ‘I don’t want to be unpatriotic,’ said Rita, ‘but I’m not sure the nation understands the apostrophe any more. Oh, incidentally, I should have told you, and perhaps I shouldn’t have done it, but … I’ve invited a friend. Tonight.’

  ‘Good!’ said Betty. ‘That’ll make six of us.’

  ‘Who is this friend?’ asked Jenny.

  ‘Oh, nobody special,’ said Rita. ‘Just a man I met in a pub. I don’t expect he’ll come, it was all very casual.’ But how she hoped he would, and how they knew it.

  The front door opened.

  ‘Somebody!’ said Rodney.

  Liz and Neville Badger entered.

  ‘Oh Lord!’ said Rita.

  A blast of cold air followed the Badgers into the warm bar. Liz was shivering. It was exceptionally cold for late April. A few unenthusiastic flakes of snow were drifting in the chill breeze that swept down Arbitration Road. Later, the Meteorological Office would announce that this was the coldest April day since 1907. That day, in fact, Dewsbury was colder than Rekjavik.

  Liz had dipped her toes cautiously into the waters of ethnicity, and was wearing a black, tiered, strapless dress with white spots, and a black shawl top with large white spots and green ribbon edging. Neville’s green tie bore no ecological clout. It was his rugby club tie.

  ‘Betty! Hello! It all looks lovely,’ enthused Liz, giving Betty an unprecedentedly warm kiss. There was a good old smacker for Rodney too. ‘Rodney! A proud day!’ For Jenny there was a flashing smile and another great kiss. ‘Jenny! Darling!’

  For Rita there was nothing. Liz walked straight past her.

  ‘Oh Lord,’ sighed Rita.

  Neville stopped to speak to her briefly.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘but she was very attached to that magnolia. Sorry.’

  ‘Neville,’ commanded Liz, as if she were Queen of England and he a naughty corgi.

  With one last ‘sorry’, Neville was off to join his wife at the bar.

  ‘Sir? Madam? What is your pleasure?’ said Eric dispiritedly.

  ‘Alcohol, but you haven’t got any,’ said Liz.

  ‘What do you recommend, Eric?’ asked Neville.

  ‘Well, I don’t know,’ came the unenthusiastic reply. ‘There’s fruit squash, or bilberry-cocktail or home-made kiwi fruit, raspberry and cinnamon punch, but I can’t speak for it personally. The Sillitoes enthuse over their carrot juice. It seems last year was a good year for carrots.’

  ‘It all sounds most intriguing and inventive and original,’ said Liz. ‘Orange juice, please.’

  ‘I’ll have a go at that punch,’ said Neville.

  ‘Juice of the orange and one special punch, can do, no problem, tickety-boo,’ said Eric, but his tone suggested that it was far from tickety-boo.

  Jenny joined them. She looked like a young lady with a mission. She was.

  ‘Mum? Can I have a word?’ she said.

  ‘Of course,’ said Liz pleasantly.

  The moment they were out of Neville’s earshot, Jenny revealed her purpose.

  ‘Mum. Don’t you think you’re being childish?’

  ‘No. How are the children?’

  ‘Fine.’ Thomas and his six-week-old sister Steffie were sleeping, in the crèche area thoughtfully provided by these newly-enlightened Sillitoes. ‘It isn’t Rita’s fault, Mum.’

  ‘No? Little Steffie’s cold better, is it?’

  ‘Much better, they’re both fine, can we stick to the point?’

  ‘The point.’ Liz spoke with low, controlled fury. ‘Rita gets elected to the council, the council plump for the outer inner relief ring road, and, lo and behold, what a surprise, the route lops a great lump off our garden, destroying eighteen roses and a magnolia. That’s the point, Jenny.’

  ‘All over the world people are losing everything they possess in earthquakes, floods, hurricanes and avalanches. Billions never even possess anything to lose in the first place.’

  ‘I know, and I’m sorry for them, and appalled, but I can only live my life, not the rest of the world’s, and heaven forbid that I should ever be accused of being parochial but that is a magnificent magnolia.’ Liz had been staring at the wall, whose exposed brickwork was broken only by a painting of a bowl of prunes. The artist had captured every wrinkle. But Liz, whose wrinkles were still mostly in the future, saw only her magnolia. Her anger grew colder still, as if ice could boil. ‘Rita’s done it deliberately, Jenny, and I will not speak to any member of the Simcock family, and I would urge you not to either.’

  With her mission in tatters, Jenny lashed out bitterly. ‘You must be thrilled I’ve split up with Paul then.’

  ‘No!’ Liz seemed immediately contrite. ‘Of course not, Jenny. Children need their father. I’m sad. However, yes, it is true that out of all that sorry mess the one consolation I can find is that you are no longer in intimate association with a Simcock. Oh, Jenny, I hope you find somebody else soon. Somebody nice. Somebody of your own … class. Oh yes, because I’m not ashamed of being a snob.’

  Another blast of cold air entered, along with a few flakes of unseasonal snow, and Ted Simcock.

  ‘Oh Lord,’ said Rodney. He was standing beside Betty and Rita. The three of them looked like a welcoming committee for refugees.

  Ted surveyed the scene grandly, and came forward to shake Rodney’s hand with dignity.

  ‘Hello, Rodney. No hard feelings,’ he said.

  He kissed Betty affectionately.

  ‘None of your doing, Betty, I realise that,’ he said.

  He looked straight through Rita, and moved off towards the bar.

  ‘Oh Lord!’ said Rita, hurrying after him.

  The Mayor, Alderman Spigot, entered with his sister, Netta Ponsonby, the Mayoress. The Mayor was small and corpulent. The Mayoress was large and corpulent. They were extremely conscientious, very kind, and hardly pompous at all, and almost everybody made fun of them.

  But not Betty Sillitoe. Over-deferential, as usual, she scurried across, made a small instinctive curtsey, and said, ‘Hello, your worshipfulnesses.’

  Rita caught up with Ted just before he reached the bar, which he was approaching quite slowly, as befitted one so unenthusiastic about its wares.

  ‘Ted!’ she said.

  ‘I’ve no wish to speak. to you, Rita.’

  ‘Oh, Ted. I hate to see you letting yourself down by being small-minded in public.’

  ‘Why should you care?’

  ‘I know. Silly, isn’t it, but I do. Maybe I still have some shred of affection for you. Some memories of happier times. Corinna all right?’

  ‘Yes, just late as usual. She was twelve days late coming into the world, and she’s never quite caught up.’ Ted’s face softened as he thought about Corinna. Then his expression changed abruptly. ‘But, Rita … I mean … what do you expect? I mean … you get elected to the council and push through a route for the outer inner relief ring road which means demolition of your ex-husband’s restaurant but leaves intact the nextdoor property, which just happens to be a vegetarian crank centre owned by his one-time best friend, where you are employed. In my book, that’s tantamount to municipal corruption.’

  ‘When I took the job I didn’t know the exact route. I have no power to influence the exact route. I’ve done nothing wrong.’ Rita was filled with the indignant frustration of one who is telling the truth but doesn’t expect to be believed. ‘I’m truly sorry about Chez Edouard, but you’ll get compensation.’

 
‘Oh, I know. Well, Corinna will, it’s in her name, but it amounts to the same difference.’ Ted’s face softened again. He couldn’t mention the woman without looking like a lovesick adolescent. He’d never looked like that with her. ‘But it’s nothing like what we’d get on the open market. It’s daylight robbery.’

  ‘It’s democracy. We can’t throw taxpayers’ money around willy-nilly.’

  ‘Politicians! When you’re refusing to spend, you’re saving taxpayers’ money. When you’re spending, you call it your money and pretend you’re giving it away. You’re hypocrites. I mean … you are.’

  ‘It’s the will of the people, Ted. Well, the will of the four people who gave me a majority in a 19.2 per cent turn out. Look, don’t you think I’m embarrassed that my first influence on world politics loses you your restaurant and Liz and Neville eighteen rose bushes and a magnolia?’

  ‘You what, Rita?’

  ‘The route lops the end of their garden off.’

  Ted gave a delighted laugh.

  ‘Liz isn’t speaking to me,’ said Rita.

  ‘What? How petty can you get? How small-minded these snobbish types can be.’

  ‘Who’s being hypocritical now?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You weren’t going to speak to me.’

  ‘That’s different.’ Ted saw that Rita didn’t believe him. ‘It is! I mean … eighteen rose bushes and a magnolia, that’s hardly concomitant with a temple of gastronomy as recommended by Egon Ronay, is it?’

  ‘“As recommended by Egon Ronay”! You never even opened.’

  ‘We would have been, with our cuisine.’

  Ted thought wistfully of all the awards he would have won, the Michelin stars, the rave in the Good Food Guide, the popular TV series Supper with Simcock. Then his wistfulness was replaced by the soft absurdity of middle-aged infatuation. Following Ted’s gaze, Rita saw Corinna Price-Rodgerson standing in the doorway, making an entrance. Where before she had been orange, all was now rust. Ploughing her way through the colours of autumn decay, thought Rita uncharitably.

  ‘Here’s Corinna,’ said Ted unnecessarily. ‘I’ll be polite to you, but only so as not to show myself up in front of her for what I … well, not for what I am, but for what folk might wrongly think I was if I did. Hello, my petal.’

  ‘Hello, darling.’

  They kissed.

  ‘Just chatting to dear old Rita here. No point in being petty.’

  ‘Absolutely not.’ Corinna flashed a dazzlingly insincere smile at Rita. ‘Neither of us blame you personally, Rita. Goodbye, Rita.’

  Corinna swept Ted on towards the bar and its array of green, red and purple drinks.

  Eric Siddall wasn’t looking as dapper or indeed as ageless as usual. There was in his face a pursed, wrinkled echo of the prunes in the painting. He hadn’t even set his bow tie at its usual jaunty angle.

  ‘Good evening, sir. Good evening, madam,’ he droned. ‘What can I do you for?’

  ‘You’re a ray of sunshine, Eric,’ said Ted.

  ‘Well … it just isn’t me, isn’t carrot juice,’ said Eric Siddall, barman supreme.

  Gradually, more guests began to arrive. Melissa Holdsworthy, the tall, handsome sculptperson, creator of the bar’s central feature – who, despite a brief affair with the suave Doctor Spreckley, was said to be a lesbian on the slender evidence of her being both tall and unmarried – entered with James Whatmore, who wrote for children and had never hit the jackpot. Betty Sillitoe introduced Prunella Ransom, the parliamentary candidate for the Green Party, to the Mayor and Mayoress, who were too polite to say that they already knew her. Betty hurried over to greet the long-haired Carol Fordingbridge, who was looking very attractive in a navy cotton jersey cross-over balloon-style dress.

  ‘Elvis not with you?’ said Betty, kissing her warmly.

  ‘He’s hardly likely to be. We’ve split up,’ said Carol.

  ‘Oh, Carol. I’m sorry,’ said Betty. ‘We had no idea.’

  Rodney emerged from the darkened restaurant, carrying his carrot juice. He dipped under the uncut green tape.

  ‘Where’ve you been?’ Betty asked him.

  ‘Just checking the buffet. Everything’s fine. Hello, Carol.’ He kissed her warmly. ‘Elvis not with you?’

  ‘Rodney!’ said Betty. ‘Tact.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘They’ve split up,’ mouthed Betty.

  ‘Oh Lord. I’d no idea.’

  ‘I thought I’d come, anyroad,’ said Carol. ‘Why should I have to skulk around?’

  ‘Absolutely. You, skulking? It’s a contradiction in terms.’

  ‘I’ve … er … well, thanks.’ Carol acknowledged Rodney’s compliment rather belatedly. ‘I’ve … er … I suppose I shouldn’t have, but … I’ve invited a friend.’

  ‘Good. Why not?’ Betty glanced round the half-empty room. ‘The more the merrier.’

  ‘He may not come, with it being vegetarian and non-alcoholic.’ Carol looked mortified. ‘Oh, I shouldn’t have said that. Not today.’ She recovered quickly. ‘But I thought, no harm in letting Elvis see I’ve other nuts to fry.’

  ‘You what?’ Betty was puzzled.

  ‘I’d have said other fish to fry, but you’re vegetarian.’

  ‘Very good. Very droll, Carol.’ Rodney laughed. Betty joined in. ‘Why Elvis should think you aren’t clever enough for him is beyond me.’

  ‘Rodney!’

  ‘Well, I’ll go and get a drink,’ said Carol, but before she could fulfil her stated intention she was button-holed by Elvis, who had just walked in and had been horrified to see her.

  ‘Carol! Are you here?’ he exclaimed.

  ‘That’s an incredibly interesting question, Elvis.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘A solipsist might say we could never know, because I might only exist in your imagination. I know that’s not true, of course, but I don’t know that you don’t only exist in my imagination.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘Because I’m not clever enough for you, before we split up, not knowing we were going to split up, I got these philosophy books from the mobile library, so I might be able to hold my own when you came out with incredibly intelligent questions like “Carol! Are you here?” I’ve got a question for you now. It’s not exactly philosophical exactly, well, I suppose it is, sort of.’

  ‘Fine.’ Elvis bent down slightly, as if Carol’s question would be easier to answer if they were on the same level. ‘Well, fire away. I’ll do my best.’ He smiled slightly, as a teacher might smile at a pupil who deserved encouragement.

  ‘OK,’ said Carol. ‘It’s this: why don’t you get stuffed?’

  She swept off to the bar, where she plumped for a peach juice.

  The smile froze on Elvis’s face. Neville approached the bar and Elvis smiled again. Neville turned towards him, beaming with infinite good humour, saw who it was, wiped the smile from his face, and turned away. Elvis sauntered off, trying to look insouciant. Jenny approached him, and her smile didn’t fade when she saw him.

  ‘Have you ever had the feeling that it isn’t your day?’ he asked.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nobody seems exactly pleased to see me.’

  ‘I’m pleased to see you.’

  Elvis was pleased that Jenny was pleased to see him. ‘Well, I’m pleased to see you,’ he said.

  ‘Who wasn’t pleased?’

  ‘Well, Carol, obviously. And Neville just ignored me.’

  ‘Mum is instigating a feud between the Simcocks and the Rodenhursts, because of the ring road.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’

  Simon Rodenhurst, of Trellis, Trellis, Openshaw and Finch, burst in from the chill of the street. He flashed his glorious molars and hurled an enviably uncomplicated ‘Hello’ in their direction.

  ‘Simon!’ commanded his mother imperiously from afar.

  ‘Coming, Mother,’ he called out. To Elvis he said, ‘Talk with you in a moment,’ as if offe
ring the prospect of a treat.

  ‘I wouldn’t bet on it,’ muttered Elvis.

  ‘I know he sometimes seems a bit of a twit,’ said Jenny, ‘and it’s a pity he’s an estate agent, of course, but he’d never do anything deliberately to hurt me.’

  ‘Why would his not talking to me hurt you?’

  ‘Because I think I’m falling in love with you.’

  ‘Jenny!’

  Jenny seemed almost as astonished as Elvis by her words.

  Simon burst insensitively upon their amazement.

  ‘Hello, Jenny,’ he said.

  He gave Jenny a brotherly kiss and walked straight past Elvis.

  ‘It gives me no pleasure at all to be proved right,’ said Elvis.

  ‘He doesn’t know he’s hurting me, because he doesn’t know I’m falling in love with you, because I’ve only just found out myself,’ said his brother’s wife.

  More people were arriving all the time. Rodney and Rita stood between the bar and the door and welcomed them. Where was Betty?

  ‘I hope we haven’t invited too many,’ said Rodney.

  ‘A few minutes ago you were worrying nobody would come.’

  ‘I know. Aren’t they silly things, nerves?’

  Rodney was particularly pleased to see Gordon Trollope, whose butcher’s shop in the Buttermarket was unrivalled. Gordon had taken the Sillitoes’ conversion to vegetarianism hard. Betty had written him a lovely letter when his wife had died, and he had now decided that friendship was more important than principle. Where was Betty? She’d be thrilled to see their old friends, the abstemious Pilbeams. The Pilbeams, who had watched with disapproval the excessive consumption of hard liquor in the Crown and Walnut Angling Club, had become almost embarrassingly friendly since the Sillitoes had become teetotal.

  Betty appeared at last, curtseying under the uncut tape, carrot juice in hand.

  ‘Where’ve you been?’ asked Rodney.

  ‘Just checking the buffet.’

  ‘I’ve just checked it.’

  ‘Just checking to see you’d checked it thoroughly enough.’ Yet more people hurried into the room, shivering. ‘Good Lord! People are pouring in. It’s going to be a success.’