Fair Do's Page 21

  ‘Yes. Something has happened.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘And something else has happened as well.’

  ‘Oh! Oh dear! I mean … unless they were pleasant.’

  ‘One of them was rather unpleasant.’

  ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘But the other one was much worse.’

  ‘Oh dear.’

  There was another pause.

  ‘It’s none of our business, of course,’ said Betty at last.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘But … as your friends … and your employers … if you ever felt the need to … confide in us, we wouldn’t mind. We’d always be prepared to listen.’

  ‘I’m sure you would. Thank you, Betty. If I ever want to confide in you, I will.’

  ‘Well, thank you.’

  ‘I love you dearly, Betty. I love working at Sillitoe’s. But if I ever wanted anything publicised in this town, what I’d do would be, I’d tell you, and I’d tell you it was a secret.’

  Betty smiled modestly, as if pooh-poohing some undeserved flattery. Then Rita’s meaning sank in, and her smile imploded.

  ‘Rita!’ she said.

  She threaded her way carefully through the dancers towards Elvis and Jenny, in order to pump them. Just as she reached them she heard Elvis say, ‘You do still love me, don’t you?’

  ‘Fool!’ said Jenny affectionately.

  Betty hurried off, before they saw her.

  ‘Good party, isn’t it?’ said Simon, slipping into the seat beside his stepfather.

  Neville Badger still looked immaculate, on an evening in the course of which he had been called a twerp, a fool and a great twassock.

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  ‘I can’t decide whether the Halifax Building Society lot or the Allied Dunbar mob take the palm for inventiveness.’

  ‘No.’

  There was an uncomfortable little silence between the two men.

  ‘Ted certainly seems to be moving in financial circles these days,’ said Simon.

  ‘Yes. Round and round.’

  The little conversational flurry died.

  ‘Is something wrong, Neville?’

  ‘Some men can’t ride horses, Simon. Other men can’t swim. I can’t converse.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Precisely. Conversation. I can’t manage it. I’m considered a pretty good lawyer down at Badger, Badger, Fox and Badger. I’m considered a pretty social sort of fellow on the golf course. At do’s I’m a nightmare, best avoided.’

  ‘Snap.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Coming as Noël Coward’s brought it home to me. No wit.’ Applause greeted the moment when, almost in unison, the Dale Monsal Quartet completed their rendition of ‘Spanish Eyes’. Simon leant forward to speak more intimately. ‘Neville? I … I must have loved my father, in a funny sort of way, because I missed him after he died. I resented your marrying my mother. But I think it’s working out surprisingly well … well, not surprisingly …’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I think it is, Simon.’

  The Dale Monsal Quartet embarked upon ‘Arrivederci, Roma’.

  ‘I wonder if you’d mind,’ continued Simon, ‘or think it absurd, if I … tried calling you “Father”.’

  ‘Good Lord!’ Neville was moved. ‘Good Lord, no. No. Not if I can … try calling you “Son” … Son.’

  ‘Not a bad conversation from two chaps who’re no good at it, Father.’

  ‘Pretty good, Son.’ Neville clapped Simon awkwardly on the shoulder. ‘I’d kiss you if we were French. I might even though we aren’t if you weren’t dressed as Noël Coward.’

  Neville hurried off to speak to Liz. Seeing the unusual urgency in his step, she peeled away from the Allied Dunbar mob, with whom she’d been discussing what life insurance premiums would have needed to be in the first Elizabethan age.

  ‘Darling, I’m very happy,’ he announced.

  ‘Neville!’

  Liz kissed him.

  ‘Simon called me Father.

  ‘For a delicious, absurd moment I thought you meant you were happy with me.’

  ‘I did. I am. That’s the whole point. Simon called me Father because he knows we’re happy.’

  ‘We are? What excellent news.’

  ‘I was dreading tonight. But I needn’t have. I’ve enjoyed it as much as I ever did with Jane.’

  Neville’s cheery beam faded as he saw Liz’s expression.

  ‘I’ve spoilt it, haven’t I?’ he said. ‘I’ve ruined the moment.’

  Liz gave him a brittle, bitter smile. ‘Trampled all over the carpet of life with your great muddy boots,’ she said.

  ‘It’s conversation. I’m such a mug at it,’ said Neville.

  He turned away and found himself walking towards Carol Fordingbridge. She, finding herself walking towards him, turned away and found herself walking towards Jenny.

  ‘Carol?’ said Jenny uncertainly.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I hope you don’t resent me for taking Elvis. Well, not taking him. Because it was over between you and him before he and I …’

  ‘Yes, well, if I was going to resent you I should never have started, should I?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Having my one night stand with Paul.’

  ‘I’m not going with Elvis to get back at you for going with Paul, Carol. I love him.’

  ‘If you spent less time worrying about sex and fellers, Jenny, you might have more time for the important things in life, like animal rights and the Third World and the ozone layer and feminism, ’cos they’re a dead loss, Jenny, sex and fellers.’

  Jenny was stunned, stunned to have this said to her of all people. And by Carol of all people. And by Carol dressed as Marie Lloyd of all people.

  She realised that Ted was speaking to her.

  ‘Jenny!’ he was saying. ‘The very person. You’ve always believed in telling the truth, haven’t you?’

  ‘Well … yes, Ted.’

  ‘If you don’t, it’ll follow you, chase you relentlessly?’

  ‘Well … yes, Ted.’

  ‘If it’s going to come out, best to let it out yourself.’

  ‘Well … yes, Ted.’

  Ted kissed her.

  ‘Wise words, Jenny. Thanks. I’m going to take your advice.’

  Ted pushed through his guests, towards the Dale Monsal Quartet, just as they finished their interpretation of ‘Arrividerci, Roma’.

  Dale Monsal leant forward to caress the microphone with his flat tones. He didn’t see Ted signalling.

  ‘Whose soul is so dull that he is not excited by Italy?’ he said dully. ‘However, it’s time to leave the sunshine and spaghetti and whisk ourselves over the great Alpine ranges to the thunder and dumplings of Germany. Yes, it’s arrividerci, Roma, and guten Tag, Schwarzwald.’

  He began to turn, to address his musicians, demure in their barber’s shop outfits. But before he could say, ‘Eins, zwei, drei,’ he noticed Ted’s increasingly furious hand signals.

  ‘But wait,’ said Dale Monsal. ‘Our host wishes to have a word. Our walk in the Black Forest must be briefly postponed.’

  Napoleon mounted the platform and faced not an army in uniform, but a ragbag of revellers in multiform.

  ‘Thank you, Dale,’ he said. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, this evening has been held as a farewell for myself and Corinna. But there is … er … there is to be no farewell, because … there is no Corinna. Ladies and gentlemen, I … er … I have been conned. I have. Me, conned. Corinna was a conwoman, or a conperson as the feminists among you would say.’

  He laughed. Nobody else did, not squaw nor monk nor Dracula nor Noël Coward nor Sherlock Holmes nor witch. Not a titter among the whole bang shoot.

  ‘You see, I can still laugh, even if none of you can. I, a Yorkshireman, one time premier maker of door knockers in the County of the White Rose, have been conned. But.’ He paused. ‘I felt sad. I felt wretched. I no longer do. I
feel happy. I do.’ His lower lip quivered. ‘No. I mean it. I do. Because.’ He paused again. ‘Because why? Because, ladies and gentlemen, I will be staying here, among my friends, because tonight …’ He scanned their faces. What did he see? Friends? Where were his colleagues from the Crown and Walnut Angling Club? His former associates at the Jupiter Foundry? His school chums? Where were all those with whom he’d discussed girls, caught roach, bemoaned the demise of the toasting fork, chewed the nostalgic fat? ‘No, I mean it, I really have … I have realised that you, my friends …’ What friends? The Sillitoes, whose omnipresence rivalled that of their Maker. But who else? Relatives. Acquaintances. Rentachum. Financial contacts. People from the flats and the Stag and Garter, barely known. ‘You, my friends, are the people who matter to me, and I’m staying with you, and I’m glad. No, I am. I’m glad. Thank you. You may now walk in the Black Forest.’

  ‘A brave speech,’ cried out Neville. ‘Come on. All together.’ He began to sing, ‘For he’s a jolly good …’

  ‘Oh, not again, you steaming great pillock,’ screamed Ted.

  Ted hurried off, going he knew not where. The ravishing Liz Badger blocked his path.

  ‘That was a brave speech, Ted,’ she said. ‘I almost understood again what it was I once saw in you.’

  ‘When you say things like that, I totally fail to see what I once saw in you,’ said Ted.

  He stumbled on and found himself confronted by the immaculate Neville Badger.

  ‘Don’t say anything,’ he warned.

  ‘Oh no. Don’t worry,’ said Neville. ‘I won’t. My lips are sealed. My conversational days are over. I shall embarrass you no more. From now on I’m going to make Trappist monks sound like compulsive gossips.’

  ‘Do shut up, Neville,’ said Ted.

  And Neville did. The man who’d been called a twerp, a fool, a great twassock and a steaming great pillock had finally had enough.

  And Ted moved blindly on. And there was Rita.

  ‘Well spoken, Ted,’ she said. ‘Very well done indeed.’

  ‘Thank you, Rita. Well … I’ll never trust a woman again.’

  From behind them there came the familiar strains of ‘A Walk in the Black Forest’. The party was swinging on. ‘No, Ted,’ said Rita. ‘Don’t be stupid. Don’t judge all women by her. There are women you can trust and women you can’t trust. Just as there are men you can trust and men you can’t trust, except there aren’t as many men you can trust.’

  ‘Trust you to fling that in.’

  ‘I’m one you could have trusted, Ted. I’m happy now and I’d like you to be happy too. Find a woman you can trust, Ted. And trust her.’

  Rita patted his arm and moved off to rescue Geoffrey, who was finding very little in common with the penguin.

  Ted looked at Rita, looked at the door, and thought. He thought hard. He hurried from the room, suddenly full of purpose.

  ‘Where’s he going now?’ asked Rodney.

  Betty shook her peppered head, as if to say, ‘It isn’t stylish, isn’t curiosity.’

  Ted stood by the reception desk in the great tinkling foyer, drumming his fingers nervously on the counter.

  At last Sandra arrived. How fetching she looked in her black and white outfit.

  ‘You wanted me,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, I … er …’ Ted gulped. ‘I wanted you, Sandra. I … er …

  ‘You … er … what?’

  The receptionist made great play with not listening to them, so they knew that she was hanging on their words. It didn’t matter.

  ‘I … er … Sandra, I was wondering … erm…’

  ‘Yes, Ted. What were you wondering … erm …?’

  ‘I was wondering … erm … Sandra? What say we go out one evening?’

  ‘Get knotted.’

  Ted set off towards the lifts, then turned and walked slowly away, away from the lifts, away from the Halifax Building Society lot and the Allied Dunbar mob, away from the champagne and caviare, away from his ex-wife and his ex-lover, away from his glittering party. He walked slowly out into the stormy detritus of an unsummery evening. He was an emperor without an army. He was a man without a friend.

  Fifth Do

  August:

  The Inauguration of the Outer

  Inner Relief Ring Road

  ‘So, what chance there being a Yorkshireman in the touring team this winter?’ enquired Councillor Mirfield.

  ‘I’m afraid I know very little about cricket,’ said Geoffrey Ellsworth-Smythe, seeming not one whit afraid.

  ‘Having spent his adult life abroad, in non-English speaking countries,’ explained Councillor Rita Simcock.

  ‘Ah,’ said Councillor Mirfield.

  They were standing just below the platform, at one end of the Gadd Room, on the first floor of the grandiose Town Hall. The two men were wearing sober suits. Rita was wearing a pale pink long jacket and skirt, with pink camisole top, and pink and gold earrings.

  ‘I’m an anthropologist,’ explained Geoffrey at last.

  ‘Ah,’ said Councillor Mirfield.

  ‘Oh Lord,’ said Rita. ‘Here comes sympathy. Excuse me.’

  The Sillitoes sailed up to Rita, oozing sympathy. Rodney wore a crumpled suit, which bore traces of an errant bean goulash. Betty looked over-dressed as usual in a turquoise knitted bodice, with turquoise, pink and blue silk sleeves, a matching skirt and a large bow on her left hip.

  Councillor Mirfield, who had never admitted to himself that he disliked women, gave her a sour look and found himself thinking, ‘Put a matching cap on her and she’ll find herself riding at Wetherby.’

  ‘Rita!’ said Betty sympathetically. ‘We’ve just heard! Oh Rita!’

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Rodney. His right shoulder was damp where rain had got in under their shared golfing umbrella.

  ‘I said, “We must come and …” but Rodney said, “No, best not, she’ll be …” but I said, “Rodney! We’re her employers, and, above all, her friends.” I mean, what are friends for?’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Rita, ‘but I’d rather not talk about it.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Betty. ‘Of course. We understand. We wouldn’t dream. Would we, Rodney?’

  ‘Absolutely not.’

  Rita led them to a long table on which two exhibits stood side by side. There were many exhibits dotted around the room, which regularly hosted exhibitions. When Labour was in control these tended towards art produced by the handicapped. Under the Conservatives they tended towards opportunities offered to the powerful.

  ‘Well, this is it,’ said Rita. ‘The outer inner relief ring road. And there’s the inner inner relief ring road, so you can compare them and see why we’re plumping for the outer inner relief ring road … rather than the inner inner relief ring road.’

  Rodney and Betty looked at the models of the proposed routes for both roads. Then they looked at each other. It was clear from their looks that they had failed to see why the council were plumping for the outer inner relief ring road … rather than the inner inner relief ring road.

  ‘Very unsettled for the time of year,’ said Councillor Mirfield.

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Geoffrey. ‘I hardly remember what the climate’s supposed to be like.’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  Councillor Mirfield gazed round the room, searching for inspiration. He prided himself on being good with people. He had an uneasy feeling that everyone was looking at him, witnessing his discomfiture. Why did he still get these uneasy feelings, when he was so clearly a success?

  ‘It must be a very interesting life, being an anthropologist,’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ said Geoffrey.

  Councillor Mirfield was beginning to think that chat show hosts earned their corn.

  ‘Have you converted to unleaded petrol yet?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Me too. Well, where would we be if we didn’t have the environment?’

  Perhaps not surprisingly, Geoffrey didn’t an
swer. Councillor Mirfield decided to take the bull by the horns.

  ‘You and Councillor Simcock are pretty close friends, aren’t you?’ he asked.

  This at least provoked a reply. ‘I rather think that’s our business, Councillor Mirfield.’

  Councillor Mirfield glanced round the room again.

  ‘Really exceptionally unsettled,’ he said. ‘It’s playing havoc with me runner beans.’

  Rodney and Betty Sillitoe were still trying to come to terms with the two models.

  ‘Doesn’t it look small, Rodney?’ said Betty.

  ‘Well of course it does,’ said Rodney. ‘It’s to scale.’

  I meant our premises. Sillitoe’s.’

  ‘Well, looked at one road it is small, Betty. Looked at another road it’s the widest selection of vegetarian produce in Yorkshire. Looked at one road, you’re a minute earwig crawling across a vast parched continent for one brief blip in eternity. Looked at another road, you’re my whole life. It’s the paradox of existence, is that.’

  Betty gave Rodney an astounded look, then turned abruptly to Rita.

  ‘Well anyway, Rita, it’s very interesting,’ she said, ‘but what a shame. Little you … I mean, little you as we’d once have thought of you, but big you now – your election virtually changing the face of the town single-handed, your great night, and then this has to happen.’

  ‘Betty!’ said Rodney. ‘I thought we weren’t mentioning it.’

  ‘Oh, I won’t,’ said Betty, over-emphatic as usual. ‘I wouldn’t dream. But I mean … what are friends for?’

  ‘Excuse me,’ said Rita, rather more abruptly than was strictly necessary.

  Rodney and Betty, abandoned in mid-sympathy, made their way to the drinks table, took glasses of wine which the dapper, ageless Eric Siddall found impossible to refuse them, and sallied forth to be bemused by further exhibits.

  •

  Rita’s greeting to Elvis and Jenny was not perhaps quite as warm as they would have liked.

  ‘Who invited you?’ she said.