Fair Do's Page 18

‘I might have to. Your true radio reporter’s never off duty. I mean, it might be a big ecological disaster – every fish in the Gadd poisoned by leaking drums of cyanide. Couldn’t stuff myself on smoked salmon while those poor silver-bellied fish are gasping for life, could I?’

  ‘Of course you couldn’t. I shouldn’t have … oh, Elvis.’ Jenny kissed him. Her eyes filled with tears. In the pools of her eyes, fish thrashed in frenzy before sinking lifeless beneath the rancorous, foamy waters. ‘Oh Lord. Those poor fish. I think I’m going to cry.’

  She rushed off as fast as her costume allowed, to the sound of muted applause from the oddly-garbed dancers. She fought back her tears. The dark, intense Alec Skiddaw, smiling darkly, intensely, offered her champagne. She accepted. One glass wouldn’t upset her milk too much.

  ‘How’s that husband of yours?’ enquired Alec Skiddaw solicitously.

  ‘Fine. Great.’ She gave a watery smile.

  ‘I’ll never forget how worried you both were because you felt you hadn’t treated me as a social equal.’

  ‘Oh … well … yes … silly.’ Please change the subject, Alec.

  ‘I said to myself, they may have problems but they’ll pull through. I know,’ said Alec Skiddaw with ghastly encouragement. ‘Well, I have this slight psychic gift inherited from a great aunt who married a chiropodist in Skegness.’

  ‘Oh, stuff your …’ Jenny’s green stalk wobbled with her distress. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Alec. Oh, Alec.’

  ‘Never mind, madam. It’s all in a day’s work,’ said Alec Skiddaw. He sounded calm and resigned, but his boil pulsated with hurt fury. Pity not Alec Skiddaw for his boils, gentle reader. They were the device whereby the poison of his dark intensity escaped.

  Ted hadn’t yet offered the Sillitoes a drink. It was a delicate subject, after their behaviour at the grand opening.

  ‘Er … champagne?’ he said. ‘Or are you still …?’

  ‘You may not have noticed,’ said Rodney, ‘but –’

  ‘At the grand opening of Sillitoes,’ interrupted Betty.

  ‘We both got –’

  ‘Slightly inebriated.’

  ‘It showed us the error of our ways.’

  ‘You’ve given up drink for good.’ Ted nodded his simulated approval.

  ‘No!’ said Betty. ‘We’ve got a full licence.’

  ‘You don’t have to be miserable to be a vegetarian,’ said Rodney.

  Behind them, the dance floor was steadily filling. Arab danced with squaw, teddy boy with drum majorette, vicar with belly dancer. A can-can girl waltzed sedately to the Dale Monsal Quartet’s unintentionally original rendition of Strauss’s ‘Rose from the South’. Ted Simcock, secure in the success of his glittering party, felt that it was time to take a magnanimous interest in the Sillitoes’ business.

  ‘How’s business?’ he asked.

  ‘Good,’ said Rodney.

  ‘Very good,’ said Betty.

  ‘Well … good. No, I mean that … that’s good.’

  ‘Good,’ said Rodney. ‘I’m glad you mean it, Ted.’

  ‘No, I do,’ said Ted. ‘I really do mean it.’

  ‘Well, yes, we believe you,’ said Rodney.

  ‘Good. Because I mean it. No, I really do. Our prospects are good, too. Corinna has made a flying visit to Nairobi. She’s already negotiated for four prime sites for our restaurants. She says the prospects are very good.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Very good.’

  Betty looked round the dance floor. She searched the tables. She glanced towards the bar.

  ‘Where is Corinna?’ she asked.

  ‘Where indeed?’ Ted sighed. He straightened his great Napoleonic hat nervously. ‘It’s the rift in the diamond. The flaw in the lute.’

  ‘What is?’ Rodney was puzzled.

  ‘Corinna’s timekeeping. Excuse me. That penguin’s eating all the salmon.’

  Rodney and Betty watched Ted as he scampered towards the laden tables.

  ‘I do hope nothing’s wrong,’ said Betty thoughtfully.

  ‘Oh, so do I,’ agreed Rodney fervently. ‘So do I. No, I really do.’

  ‘Good.’

  Simon Rodenhurst, of Trellis, Trellis, Openshaw and Finch, arrived arm-in-arm with his girl-friend, the short-sighted Lucinda Snellmarsh, of Peacock, Tester and Devine. Simon was wearing a long dressing gown, and carried a cigarette holder. His hair was smoothed back. Lucinda wore a low-cut black dress with a silver stole. She also carried a cigarette holder.

  ‘Hello, Simon. Hello, Lucinda.’ Bathing in his triumph, Ted welcomed them like old friends.

  ‘I’m Noël Coward,’ said Simon.

  ‘Of course you are.’

  ‘I’m Mae West.’

  Ted cast an unflattering, chauvinistic glance towards Lucinda’s bosom.

  There was an awkward pause.

  ‘Quite a few people already,’ said Simon.

  ‘You’ll have to do a bit better than that,’ said Ted.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘As Noël Coward. Be a bit more sparkling.’

  ‘Oh. Yes. Right. Absolutely.’

  There was another awkward pause.

  ‘Well come on, Lucinda,’ said Ted, abandoning Simon as a dead loss. ‘Say something outrageously provocative and sexy.’

  Lucinda thought hard. ‘Oh lorks!’ she said. ‘I don’t think I can.’

  The two young estate agents moved on into the swirling party. The cynical Elvis Simcock slouched towards them.

  ‘Hello, Noël,’ he said. ‘Say something amazingly witty, then.’

  ‘Oh belt up, you stupid twit,’ quipped Noël Coward.

  ‘Very good. Such elegance,’ said Elvis with mock elegance. ‘Anyone got a pencil? I must write that down.’

  ‘I’m beginning to wonder if this was such a good idea,’ confessed Simon Rodenhurst, of Trellis, Trellis, Openshaw and Finch to Lucinda Snellmarsh, of Peacock, Tester and Devine.

  The self-satisfaction brought on by Elvis’s rout of Noël Coward lasted 2.17 seconds. Then he came face to face with Carol Fordingbridge. Carol was wearing a striped low-cut Victorian dress with a large bustle. Elvis knew straightaway that she was supposed to be a woman from the past. Beyond that he hadn’t a clue.

  ‘Hello, Carol,’ he said. ‘You look …’

  ‘Ridiculous?’

  ‘No. Great.’ She did. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Marie Lloyd.’

  ‘Ah! Right. Who?’

  ‘She was a legendary comedienne and singer of music hall songs. My dad had this thing about her, so I’ve sort of grown up with her.’

  ‘Oh. Right. Well, terrific.’

  ‘I like your outfit,’ said Carol. ‘Very imaginative.’

  Carol left Elvis wishing just for a moment that he had come in fancy dress.

  Ted recognised Carol instantly.

  ‘Hello, Carol.’ He kissed her. ‘Fantastic! You’ve got Vesta Tilley off to a tee.’

  ‘I’m Marie Lloyd.’

  ‘Absolutely. There’s champagne, caviare, asparagus, wild salmon, Dale Monsal. Enjoy yourself.’

  ‘By heck, it sounds quite a classy do,’ said Carol.

  ‘Don’t sound so surprised,’ said Ted. ‘He’s quite a classy fellow, Ted Simcock.’

  There was applause as the Dale Monsal Quartet reached the end of ‘Rose from the South’ without any major disaster. Ted strolled round the edge of the floor, inspecting his absurd troops. He smiled at a Roman, beamed at a clown, nodded approval of a witch. He passed a man covered from head to foot in bandages. He had tiny slits round his eyes and mouth and was trying to drink champagne through a straw.

  ‘Don’t tell me,’ said Ted. ‘The invisible man!’ He chuckled. ‘And you’re sweating in there and wondering why the hell you chose it.’

  The invisible man nodded, and grimaced invisibly.

  A man dressed as a police sergeant appeared in the doorway. Ted intercepted him, still smiling at the invisible man’s discomfiture.

 
‘Bad luck,’ he said. ‘We’ve got a policeman already.’

  ‘Mr Simcock?’ said the man, who had ginger hair and freckles.

  Ted nodded, thinking, ‘You shouldn’t have come as a policeman. It doesn’t go with ginger hair.’

  ‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you some questions,’ continued the newcomer.

  ‘Yes, yes, you’ve got all the chat,’ said Ted. ‘Champagne?’

  They both had this routine off to a tee.

  ‘I don’t when I’m on duty,’ they said in unison.

  ‘Very good,’ said Ted. ‘Brilliantly original. Well done.’

  ‘No, sir. I really am a police officer.’ The man showed Ted his identification. ‘Sergeant Mallet, B Division. Do you know a woman called Jessica Mardenborough?’

  ‘No.’ But Ted’s smile wobbled. His face was a half-set jelly.

  ‘Also known as Fiona Benbow-Jones,’ said the man who called himself Sergeant Mallet. ‘Also known as Corinna Price- Rodgerson.’

  The jelly set rapidly. ‘If this is a joke …’ began Ted uncertainly.

  ‘I’m afraid it isn’t a joke, sir.’ Sergeant Mallet spoke quietly, deferentially. Respect for authority had been branded into him, and it was difficult to speak other than deferentially to a man dressed as Napoleon. ‘The woman, whose real name, incidentally, is Mavis Stant, has been arrested at the airport. She was trying to leave on a false passport.’

  ‘If this is a joke, you’re in trouble, pal.’

  ‘It’s no joke, sir. She’s a con artist and bigamist. I’m sorry, sir.’

  There was a tiny twitch on Ted’s face. Just a quiver on the lips, as if the jelly had been poked with a feather.

  ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Oh heck. Oh utter and confounded heck.’

  Neville Badger appeared between them, smiling with vaguely bold roguishness. ‘Hello hello hello,’ he said, in his funny-policeman voice. He smiled at Sergeant Mallet, including him in the jape. ‘I’m going to have to ask you to accompany us to the station.’

  ‘Oh, belt up, you twerp,’ said Ted savagely.

  Ted rushed out into the corridor. The Dale Monsal Quartet ground out ‘Hello, Dolly’ remorselessly. The real policeman glared at the false policeman and hurried out after Ted.

  The Dale Monsal Quartet played ‘All I Do Is Dream of You’ in their own style, which had more than once been described as inimitable. Marie Lloyd danced with Batman, a kilted Scotsman attempted a Scottish dance he didn’t know with a crimson-cheeked cowgirl who didn’t know it either, and a green pepper refused on moral grounds to dance with a bullfighter. People toyed with smoked salmon and indulged in asparagus. Some ate caviare with enjoyment. Others pretended to eat caviare with enjoyment. One Queen Elizabeth talked happily with Sir Walter Raleigh. The other Queen Elizabeth talked not quite so happily with a police officer. Noël Coward cracked an elegant bon mot to a gangster’s moll. The moll didn’t laugh.

  The music ceased. Mild applause spattered out. Dale Monsal leant forward and spoke. His voice was like a bulb field in November.

  ‘The word “gay” has developed conurbations which make it impossible to use in its original meaning,’ he announced. ‘I can’t talk today about “Gay Paree”. Nevertheless, it is to the elegant capital of “La Belle France” that we turn next for our musical inspiration. Take it away, maestros. Un, deux, trois.’

  The maestros took it away. Strains of ‘The Skater’s Waltz’ filled the room.

  Ted returned to face his public. He tried to smile at the vicar, who was actually Sid Crabtree from the wet fish shop in Tannergate, where they shopped for fish of a Saturday because Corinna liked … Corinna!

  The vicar smiled back, so Ted’s smile must have worked. He smiled at the vicar’s partner, the spotty schoolgirl from the Stag and Garter, Ted and Corinna’s new … Corinna! They’d just begun to find their feet in the Stag and Garter, which had been called the Star and Garter until an elderly signwriter had made an error and a soft-hearted brewery official had allowed the mistake to stand – in olden days, when there were horse-drawn cabs and brewers with soft hearts.

  The spotty schoolgirl with her jolly-hockey-sticks garb and the stick-on spots from the joke shop in Arbitration Road smiled back. His smile was working! Amazing. Arbitration Road! Where he and Corinna had planned … Corinna! All roads led to her. All thoughts ended with her. Smile at the polar bear. ‘Hello, Dave, all right?’ Smile at Mrs Fortescue from Flat 3, dressed as a horrible baby … silly old … Flat 3. The flats. Corinna.

  This wouldn’t do. He must at least simulate normality, if he was to survive. He set off across the crowded floor towards that incongruous couple, the policeman and Queen Elizabeth the First. He threw little remarks at the throng as he passed. ‘Enjoying yourselves? Good. Well done. Love your outfit. Keep at it.’ To his amazement his voice sounded quite normal, as if his world hadn’t ended.

  ‘Ted’s bearing down on us,’ said the policeman. ‘Let’s dance.’

  ‘No,’ said Queen Elizabeth. ‘If you won’t dance with me because it reminds you of Jane, I won’t dance with you just to avoid … hello, Ted.’

  ‘I wanted a word with Neville,’ said Ted.

  ‘Nothing’s private in our marriage, Ted,’ said Liz. ‘Remember what our children said. Marriage is a totality of shared experience.’

  ‘Pompous know-all pipsqueaks, fat lot of good it did them. Well … all right, then. You needn’t go, Liz.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ Liz gave a mock salute.

  ‘It’s just that …’ the emperor gulped, ‘… I find apologising difficult.’

  ‘I’d have thought you’d get enough practice.’

  ‘You see why I wanted to talk to Neville alone.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  Ted turned to Neville. Behind them Judy, alias Larry Benson’s lady wife, was touching Sherlock Holmes in ways that no lady should attempt with a man who is not her husband to so demure a tune as ‘The Skater’s Waltz’. Even Doctor Watson would have deduced that she was dancing on thin ice.

  ‘I’m … er … sorry if I was a trifle … angry and rude earlier,’ began Ted pawkily.

  ‘Don’t worry, Ted,’ said Neville. ‘I’m used to it. I try to be pleasant to everybody and then I think, “Oh Lord. They’re going to be rude to me.” And they are! It gives me a certain grim satisfaction at my accurate prediction.’

  ‘It’s just that – you dressed as a policeman, and there being a real policeman here – I –’

  ‘Why was the real policeman here?’ asked Liz.

  ‘Ah. Er …’ He couldn’t bring himself to admit the ghastly truth, as if making it public would make it irrevocable. ‘They’d had a message from Corinna. She … can’t come. Touch of flu.’

  ‘And she rang the police?’

  ‘Forgot the name of the hotel. Not herself, poor darling. Semi-delirious.’

  ‘And the police came to tell you?’ The lawyer in Neville was outraged. ‘And they claim they’re grossly under-manned!’

  ‘So … er … I was that disappointed – about Corinna – that I flew off the … sorry.’

  Ted fled, smiled with excruciating brightness at a Mexican who was clinking champagne glasses with a flapper, said, ‘Having a good time? Great. Don’t stint. There’s plenty more where that came from,’ and blundered on, going nowhere.

  Rita pursued him.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ she said.

  ‘Wrong? Why should anything be wrong? You can’t believe things can go right for me, can you? Well, they can go right and they have gone right, and nothing’s wrong. All right?’

  ‘You don’t live with someone for twenty-five years without getting to know them. And I know that something is wrong.’

  Ted opened his mouth indignantly, intending to voice an unequivocal denial. He heard himself, as from a great distance, say, ‘Want to gloat, do you?’

  ‘What a small-minded prat you can be, Ted.’

  ‘Rita!’

  ‘I do not want to gloat. Maybe t
he sort of person I was would have gloated. The sort of person I find I can be doesn’t want to gloat. What’s wrong, Ted?’

  ‘It’s Corinna.’ His voice was so low that passing onion sellers and transvestites couldn’t possibly hear, and even Queen Elizabeth the First had to lean forward to catch his whisper. ‘She’s gone.’

  ‘Gone?’

  ‘Gone. None of it was true, Rita. Her name even. I’ve been conned. Me, Ted Simcock, man of the world, blunt no-nonsense Yorkshireman, shrewd businessman, conned. Because of love.’

  ‘Oh, Ted. Did you ever really … no.’

  ‘Did I ever really what?’

  ‘Well … oh Lord … I can’t say it.’

  Ted was indignant. ‘I’m a mature businessman with a strong character and personality,’ he said. ‘So don’t patronise me, Rita. All right?’

  ‘All right. Well … I mean … didn’t it strike you as rather unbelievable that a beautiful … elegant … sophisticated … wealthy … virgin should fall head over heels in love with you on sight?’

  Ted opened his mouth desperately, like a poisoned fish in the polluted Gadd. No sound emerged.

  ‘Well … didn’t it?’

  ‘Well, yes. Yes, of course. I was right suspicious from the word go. I mean … I was.’ Ted’s lie began to gather pace as it rolled unstoppably downhill, like his life. ‘Right from the start I thought, “Hey up, Ted. What’s this one’s game?” “Double-barrelled?” I thought. “Give over. Father a bishop? Whole family conveniently far away in Africa? Pull the other one. She’s a … tarty piece underneath.”’ Ted’s eyes filled with wonderment, as he realised that he was echoing Sandra’s words. Wonderment, and just a tear or two. ‘But.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘Love, Rita. I loved her.’

  ‘Oh, Ted. Forget her.’

  ‘How can I? The cow’s gone off with all my money.’

  ‘What? What money? I thought you didn’t have any.’

  ‘Rodney gave me quite a whack for the foundry.’ He smiled mechanically as Big Ears and Noddy passed. ‘It was a prime site.’

  ‘But you went bankrupt. Didn’t it all go to the creditors?’

  ‘Rita! You don’t give it all. You keep some back. I stashed some away in a secret account in Jersey. What do you think I am – naive?’