Fair Do's Page 2

  Leslie Horton, water-bailiff and organist, who hated to be called Les, thundered through his limited repertoire without subtlety.

  The best man, a drainage engineer from Dundee, who had been Gerry’s best friend at school, though more perhaps in retrospect than at the time, glanced at his watch and sighed.

  Gerry smiled serenely at the new young vicar, who had not yet won the hearts of his congregation.

  The long-haired Carol Fordingbridge was the first to mouth the possibility that had begun to form in a hundred barely credulous minds.

  ‘Wouldn’t it be awful if she didn’t turn up?’ she whispered.

  ‘Carol! She wouldn’t,’ whispered her fiancé with less than his usual cynicism. ‘She couldn’t. That’d be … awful.’

  ‘I know,’ breathed the former Miss Cock-A-Doodle Chickens excitedly. ‘Awful.’

  They considered the awesome prospect in awful silence.

  ‘It’d be rather wonderful, though, wouldn’t it?’ she whispered.

  The moment Leslie Horton had dreaded arrived. He had exhausted his programme of suitable pieces. The buzz of speculation in the congregation was growing steadily louder. Hats bobbed in horrified excitement. The new young vicar looked at Leslie Horton and shrugged with his eyes. Leslie Horton sighed with his shoulders and returned to the beginning of his repertoire.

  The huge ribbed radiators had to fight valiantly against the stony chill of the abbey, even on this unseasonal day. With no joyous emotion to warm them, the ladies began to shiver. One of Rita’s uncles had a sneezing fit.

  The vicar advanced upon Gerry, who tried to smile confidently. His smile curled at the edges like a slice of tongue approaching its ‘sell-by’ date. The eyes of the congregation were upon them.

  ‘If she isn’t here soon,’ whispered the vicar, ‘I’ll have to truncate the ceremony.’

  ‘Truncate the ceremony?’ hissed Gerry Lansdown. ‘I don’t want a truncated ceremony. I haven’t paid a truncated licence fee.’

  ‘I don’t approve of divorcees marrying in church, even though I understand your fiancée was not the guilty party,’ whispered the vicar, who was still referred to by his congregation as ‘the new vicar’, as if he would have to prove himself before earning the dignity of a name. ‘My predecessor was less strict. I’ve inherited you as a fait accompli. I do not intend you to be a fait accompli worse than death.’ He laughed briefly, with more self-congratulation than humour. ‘I have another wedding later, the groom is a councillor, and I do not intend to have to delay an important wedding in my very first week here.’

  Gerry Lansdown’s hackles rose. His back arched. He was an insulted cat, ready for battle. But the vicar had gone.

  ‘She’s not coming, Rodney,’ whispered Betty Sillitoe, over-excited as usual. ‘She’s jilted him. How awful!’

  ‘She may have had an accident,’ whispered Rodney.

  ‘No. I know it. I feel it.’ She sighed. ‘I don’t know whether to feel glad or sad.’

  ‘I never do these days,’ whispered Rodney. Affection softened his florid face as he added hurriedly, ‘Except about you.’

  ‘Aaaah,’ said Betty, so loudly that several heads craned to identify the source. They heard her, oblivious to them, saying, ‘I’d kiss you if we weren’t in church.’

  In front of them, the ravishing Liz Badger whispered into the immaculate right ear of her husband, ‘Maybe Gerry isn’t getting married after all. Maybe you’ll still have cause to feel jealous.’

  ‘Liz!’ Neville’s protest was too heartfelt to be contained in a whisper. ‘I respect you far too much to feel that I need ever feel jealous.’

  ‘Oh, Neville,’ whispered Liz. ‘You’re hopeless.’

  The clock struck the half hour.

  ‘Five more minutes,’ whispered the vicar.

  Gerry’s lips twitched. ‘Your precious councillor will have to wait, vicar,’ he hissed. ‘I think you should know that I just happen to be the prospective Social Liberal Democratic parliamentary candidate for Hindhead.’

  The vicar smiled thinly. ‘He’s a serving councillor, not prospective. And he’s chairman of the Tower Appeal Fund Committee. Five minutes.’

  The hum of conversation grew louder still. Leslie Horton’s playing grew slower. The sun lit up the garish battle scenes in the modern stained-glass window, dedicated to the King’s Own Yorkshire Light Infantry.

  Ted’s eyes were drawn to Liz’s again and he realised that he was smiling. Hurriedly he tried to look horrified.

  The new young vicar made a signal to Gerry.

  Gerry nodded resignedly. A crescent of blue, reflected from a stained-glass window, was falling across his face.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ said the vicar. ‘It looks as if something has happened. I’m afraid we have no alternative, for the moment, as we have further nuptials pending on a tight schedule at this ever-popular venue, but to respectfully suspend the wedding for the moment. Mr Horton, would you please play us out?’

  Leslie Horton, water-bailiff and organist, who hated to be called Les, would wonder to the end of his days why he played ‘The Wedding March ’ at that moment.

  The vicar raised his eyes to heaven, but received no immediate help.

  In the town the traffic moved slowly. A police horse, en route to football duty, crapped hugely outside the Abbey National Building Society. Four overweight railway enthusiasts, sitting on the top deck of a bright yellow corporation bus, with engine numbers in their notebooks and no rings on their fingers, peered at the hats and morning dresses without envy, so far removed from any of their remaining hopes was the glittering scene. A six-year-old girl with an empty water pistol said, ‘There’s no bride. Mam, there’s no bride.’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ said her mam, giving her a whack for her accuracy.

  The wedding guests stood uneasily in the tactless sunshine. The women had to hold onto their hats as another gust announced the fragility of the fine weather. The men found no opportunity to wear their top hats and wondered why they had hired them. The funny little man with big ears who turned up unbidden at all the weddings walked slowly away, shaking his head.

  All those who were saddened by the turn of events wore long faces, to prove that they were saddened.

  All those who weren’t saddened wore even longer faces, to hide the fact that they weren’t saddened.

  Nobody looked sadder than Ted Simcock, except perhaps the photographer, the pasty-faced Wayne Oldroyd, from Marwoods of Moor Street. He cast a last baleful glance at Gerry, before shuffling off with his unused tripod.

  Out of the inhospitable gravel on the south side of the church there grew a lone tree, a sickly, unshapely ash. Around this tree a munificent council had placed a round slatted seat. Onto this seat jumped Gerry Lansdown. His face was pale. His eyes were hot. His complacency was a distant memory.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he cried, and silence fell instantly. Everyone wanted to hear what he would say. What could he say? ‘Ladies and gentlemen. It seems that something has delayed Rita … or something. Until we find out what … and bearing in mind that many of you have travelled a long way, many from Hindhead and some from even further afield … and as the reception … er … and it seems criminal to waste all that lovely food.’ Gerry’s voice gained assurance as he touched on political matters. ‘We in the Social Liberal Democratic party believe that all waste of food is totally unjustified in a world where so many haven’t enough to eat … so, whatever has happened, if indeed it has, I think the best course will be to proceed with the reception as if nothing had happened … I mean, as if nothing hadn’t happened. Thank you.’

  Gerry jumped down off the seat, and marched firmly through the throng, which parted before him like the Red Sea before the Israelites.

  Ted’s spine tingled as he realised that Gerry was about to confront him. Illogically, he flinched. But Gerry’s voice was mild, almost pleading.

  ‘You know Rita better than any man on earth, Ted. Why has she done t
his to me?’

  ‘Look on the bright side,’ said Ted encouragingly. ‘She could have had an accident.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I mean, not that I … just a minor accident. I heard a siren.’

  ‘I’ve checked. There’s been no accident. That was an officer going home for his lunch.’ The public figure in Gerry rose to the surface even at this moment of private grief. ‘I shall write a strong letter of protest.’ Then the private anguish returned. ‘She’s jilted me, Ted.’

  The guests, drifting past towards their cars, tried to ignore them.

  ‘What can I say, Gerry, except …’ Ted fought to keep the tell-tale gleam out of his eyes ‘… I’m very, very sorry. I mean, I am. I’m shattered. Devastated. Goodbye, Gerry.’

  He held out his hand.

  ‘There’s no need to go now,’ said Gerry, spurning the proffered extremity. ‘You may as well come to the reception.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘We’re colleagues now. Members of the same exclusive club.’

  In the distant, ordinary town, another siren blared urgently.

  ‘He’s had his lunch,’ said Ted, and immediately wished he hadn’t. ‘Exclusive club? What exclusive club?’

  ‘The club of men who’ve been made miserable by Rita Simcock.’

  ‘Ah. Well. Yes. I suppose we … but, I mean, even so, is it appropriate that I, her ex-husband, should be present at …’

  The elegant yellow lady turned to smile at Ted as she passed.

  ‘Thank you very much, Gerry,’ said Ted.

  So Ted found himself back in the Garden Room of the Clissold Lodge Hotel, where, at another wedding, he … he didn’t even want to think about it.

  The Clissold Lodge was situated in large, gently rolling grounds that had once belonged to Amos Clissold, the glue tycoon, whose slogan, ‘Ee! Buy gum! Buy Clissold’s’, still occupied a prime site on the station forecourt. Now it was a country hotel on the edge of town. ‘The hotel where country meets town,’ as its brochure claimed. Its red-brick exterior was austere and forbidding. The interior was more gracious, but slightly faded. In the appropriately chintzy, over-furnished lounge, four slightly faded chintzy ladies were keeping amnesia at bay with an afternoon game of bridge.

  The Garden Room was a spacious function room of pleasing Georgian proportions. Outside its French windows, the low January sun shone on a charming walled garden. Bouquets of hot-house red tulips and imported freesias studded the room. The guests were chatting animatedly. Two smiling waitresses in smart black and white outfits were dispensing non-vintage Moet. There was a splendid three-tiered cake. On the long buffet table there sat a superb Bradenham ham, a magnificent sea trout in wine jelly, a large walnut and spinach terrine spiked with green peppercorns, fleshy langoustines from Brittany, cold roasts of Scotch beef and Welsh lamb, bowls of green salad, Waldorf salad, salade niçoise, bean salad, avocado and mangetout salad, and not a tuna-fish vol-au-vent in sight. It was a perfect reception, save only, a purist might complain, for the absence of the bride.

  Gerry Lansdown was doing the rounds, welcoming, smiling, urging people to eat, not that they needed urging.

  ‘It seems wrong to enjoy anything on such an awful occasion,’ said Liz Badger, ‘but I have to admit, this sea trout in wine jelly is absolutely delicious.’ She was wearing a black and white tunic with sweetheart neck, black skirt, and an elegant black cocktail hat.

  But Neville Badger, now the only Badger in Badger, Badger, Fox and Badger, wasn’t listening.

  ‘I must go and say something to Gerry,’ he said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’m not an unimaginative man, Liz. I can imagine how he must be feeling.’ Neville searched for the mot juste. ‘Upset. I mean, I was thinking how I’d have felt if Jane hadn’t turned up at our wedding.’

  ‘But not me?’ Liz’s voice was icy. The sea trout was forgotten.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You married me as well. Or had you forgotten?’

  ‘Of course not. How absurd!’

  ‘It’s just that it was Jane not turning up that you instinctively thought of, because she meant so much more to you than I do. Thank you, Neville.’

  ‘No, Liz! Of course not. I love you. I’m the father of your child.’ Ted sauntered past, trying not to look down at the stain on his hired trousers. ‘Hello, Ted.’ He turned back to Liz and lowered his voice. ‘Well, no, not actually the father, but … no, I mentioned my marriage to Jane, I suppose, because I was married to her for so much longer than to you.’ Liz glowered. ‘So far,’ he added hopefully. ‘Anyway, Gerry needs support and it’s up to me to give it.’

  ‘Why you?’

  Neville stared at Liz in astonishment, as if the answer were self-evident.

  ‘Because I’m a man of the world. An experienced professional man. A man whose working life brings him into daily contact with sorrow and distress. A man who knows what to say.’

  ‘What are you going to say?’

  ‘I don’t know. Oh Lord.’

  Neville wandered off, to prepare himself for his errand of mercy. Left alone, Liz flashed a dazzling smile at the world, reducing the dazzle level sharply when she realised that she was smiling at Ted.

  Ted approached his ex-lover cautiously.

  ‘Marvellous spread,’ he said.

  ‘Paid for by him, I should imagine. And rather more generously than the one poor Laurence laid on for Jenny’s wedding. Not a tuna fish vol-au-vent in sight.’

  ‘Odd, isn’t it?’

  ‘I think it’s very sensible. I hated those tuna fish vol-au-vents.’

  ‘I meant …’ Ted lowered his voice and looked quickly round the room, hoping most people weren’t looking at them, hoping the woman in yellow was looking at them. ‘I meant you and me, here, in this very room, where, less than two years ago, in this very room, we … went upstairs to the very room above this very room and … made love.’

  ‘I had remembered.’

  Liz looked up at the ceiling, then at Ted, and shook her head ever so slightly at the memory of what she had done.

  ‘How is my baby?’ whispered Ted.

  ‘Flourishing. I wish you wouldn’t talk about him, Ted.’

  ‘I care about him. Does he … er … still takes after me, does he?’

  ‘No. He’s losing the resemblance rapidly. Which, I would say, shows a remarkable degree of tact for an eight-month-old baby.’

  Liz walked away. Ted went to the buffet table, seeking a displacement activity. He grabbed the first bit of food that didn’t need cutlery – it was a slice of leek and stilton quiche, as it chanced – rammed a great piece into his mouth, and chewed slowly while he tried to regain his composure. He looked up to find the attractive yellow lady at his side smiling radiantly. He chewed desperately, tried to swallow, chewed again, tried to smile, chewed, and mumbled, ‘Hello. I’m Ted Simcock,’ through a porridge of half-chewed quiche.

  ‘Of course you are,’ said the symphony in yellow.

  ‘You what?’

  ‘I’ve had my card marked.’

  At last the quiche was gone, and he could speak freely. He failed to take full advantage. ‘What?’ he said.

  ‘You’re opening a new restaurant in Arbitration Road.’

  ‘What?’ Really he might as well take another mouthful, if he couldn’t do better than this.

  ‘I’ve made it my business to find out about you.’

  Her voice was cool, but not cold. It was classy without being shrill. He liked it. He liked her. He tried to think of something interesting to say. He said, ‘Good heavens.’

  ‘You interest me.’

  ‘Good Lord.’

  There was a loud crash of plates.

  ‘Good God.’

  It couldn’t be.’

  He turned slowly, towards the kitchen door.

  It was.

  It was Sandra. Sandra, whom he’d met at the DHSS. Sandra, whom he had found a job at Chez Albert. Sandra, with whom he lived.
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  ‘Oh no,’ he said. ‘Oh heck.’

  As she bent down to pick up the broken plates, the cake-loving Sandra Pickersgill flashed Ted a look of defiance. The left leg of her tights had snagged.

  Gerry Lansdown, hoping that the dreadfulness of his predicament would disappear if he ignored it, was holding a determinedly casual conversation with his best man and his best man’s wife. They had exhausted the charms of Dundee and its environs, the state of the jam industry, the rope industry, and the royal burghs of Fife, and had turned to his native Surrey, far from this hard North Country into which he had strayed with such disastrous results.

  ‘I love that whole area,’ he was saying. ‘Farnham. Guildford. The Hog’s Back.’

  Neville approached, concern creasing his bland face.

  ‘I’m not interrupting, am I?’ he said.

  ‘No. No.’ Gerry excused himself reluctantly from the enjoyable geographical chit-chat.

  ‘Only, I … er … I felt I had to come and talk to you. You see, Gerry …’ Neville became portentous, ‘I’ve been there.’

  Gerry was puzzled. ‘Been there? Been where? Guildford?’

  ‘Guildford?’ It was Neville’s turn to be puzzled.

  ‘We were just talking about Guildford,’ said Gerry.

  ‘Oh! Oh, no. No, no, no, no.’ Neville felt that these repeated negatives might be construed as an unworthy slur on a fine town. ‘I mean, I have been to Guildford, but no, I … nice town, specially the old part. No, I meant, I too have … Jane and I went to the theatre, with friends … no, I … er … and a little Chinese restaurant, nice crunchy duck, funny how these things stick in the … no, I meant, I too have been through great sorrow. I too have visited the pit of despair. I know how you’re feeling.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Dreadful.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’re feeling dreadful.’

  Gerry’s lips twitched. ‘Fancy you sensing that,’ he said. ‘How shrewd.’

  Neville was oblivious of Gerry’s anger. ‘I want to promise you,’ he persisted, earnest concern etched on his rather tired face, ‘not as a cliché, because it can be a cliché. You’ll get over this, Gerry. Time is a great healer.’