Fair Do's Page 23

  ‘Betty means it’s good to see you,’ said Rodney.

  ‘Absolutely. How’s things, Ted?’

  ‘Very good. Fine. On me own, me own master again. Eat what I want when I want, pop down the pub, no rush home. I’m loving it.’

  ‘Good,’ said Rodney. ‘Any … er … plans?’

  ‘Plans?’

  ‘Occupational prospects,’ said Betty.

  ‘Ah. Jobs. Well, there are irons in fires. Feelers in the right places.’

  ‘What sort of irons and feelers, Ted?’ asked Betty.

  ‘Ah well. Discretion, eh?’ Ted tapped his nose. ‘Folk are sounding me out. I have to weigh up the pros and cons. Early days. No rush.’

  ‘So, there wouldn’t be any point in my … ‘ Rodney caught Betty’s look, ‘… in our sounding you out, then?’

  ‘What for?’

  Betty grew rather coy. ‘A certain something that might have cropped up that we might think you might feel might suit you.’

  ‘Well … one more iron, one more feeler.… You have somebody in mind, some business contact who’s told you he’s looking for a man of my calibre?’

  ‘No!’ said Betty. ‘It’s us, Ted.’

  ‘You! Me, work for you?’

  ‘I know I’ve … we’ve asked you before, but circumstances have changed. Why not, Ted?’

  ‘Why not? Because you’ve become crackpot lunatic fringe animal rights trendy health food freaky nut nuts, and even if I did swallow me pride and me nut cutlets and work for you there’d be no point, you’ll be bankrupt by Christmas. This is Yorkshire, not Shangri sodding La. That’s why not.’

  Ted moved off, leaving Rodney and Betty staring in stunned disbelief that anyone, let alone an old friend, could describe their business in those terms. They were still staring in stunned disbelief when he sidled awkwardly back to them.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

  ‘You what, Ted?’ said Betty faintly.

  ‘I think I may have been slightly rude.’

  ‘Slightly!’ exploded Rodney.

  ‘Slightly ungracious. It’s kind of you. It’s much appreciated … but … I’m a man.’ Betty raised her eyebrows. ‘A macho man.’ Betty lowered her eyes. ‘A Yorkshire man. A man’s man. Well, and a ladies’ man too. A hairs-on-the-chest man. A red meat man. A black pudding man. Me, a vegetarian man? I’d be a laughing stock.’

  Ted moved off again, leaving Rodney and Betty staring in stunned disbelief, so that, if his purpose in returning had been to clear the stunned disbelief from their faces, it was difficult not to conclude that his return had been a mistake.

  ‘Well, stuff him then,’ said Betty.

  ‘Absolutely. Drink?’

  ‘Definitely.’

  Rodney set off for the table where Eric was dispensing his cheap wines, his beers and ciders, his array of low alcohol drinks with the placard announcing ‘For the motorist!’ But before he could recharge their glasses, he was waylaid by Liz.

  ‘Trouble with Ted?’ she said quietly.

  ‘We offered him a job. He was horrified. He’s a macho man.’

  ‘And you aren’t?’

  ‘You what, Liz?’

  Liz stood very close to him, and spoke softly. ‘I think you’re a very attractive man, improving, like a good wine, with age.’

  ‘You what, Liz?’

  ‘Oh, come on, Rodney. It must have been said before.’

  ‘Well … yes.’ Rodney couldn’t help looking flattered. ‘Well … yes … of course.’

  ‘And now it’s been said again,’ said Liz very softly.

  ‘Oh Lord,’ said Rodney.

  The rain ceased to patter against the high sash windows of the Gadd Room. Perversely, as night drew near, the sky lightened.

  The beer and the cheap wine flowed. The sausage rolls were supplemented by pieces of cheese and tinned pineapple on cocktail sticks.

  The guests felt obliged to spend a few minutes examining the models and graphs, the maps and photographs. Mrs Bellamy, wife of old Gordon Bellamy the town clerk, examined a photograph of a picturesque corner that would be destroyed by the inner inner relief ring road and said, ‘Look at those straggly roses. A bit of hard pruning wouldn’t have come amiss.’

  Councillor Desmond Filbert, overhearing this, tut-tutted at the magpie minds of women. Yet later, when he and Councillor Laurie Penfold were examining the model of the outer inner relief ring road, and Councillor Penfold said, ‘There’s where the old Rose and Crown used to be,’ Councillor Filbert didn’t tut-tut at the magpie minds of men, he said, ‘Now that was a pub, when Archie Huggett had it.’

  Elvis was examining a graph with every appearance of deep wisdom. Jenny, although she appeared to be looking at its green, yellow and red lines, was miles away.

  ‘I see,’ said Elvis. ‘Those green lines are the estimated traffic flow in certain streets if they adopt, which of course they will – democracy? Excuse me if I puke – the outer inner relief …’ He became aware that Jenny wasn’t listening. ‘You aren’t listening,’ he said. ‘You’re thinking.’

  ‘Sorry? What?’ said Jenny. ‘I wasn’t listening. I was thinking.’

  ‘I said you weren’t listening. You were thinking. What were you thinking?’

  ‘I was wondering what he had for tea.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Who? Who do you think? The assistant keeper at the Eddystone Lighthouse? Paul. Your brother.’

  ‘Ah. Yes, of course.’

  ‘Aren’t you sorry for him, locked in a damp, dripping cell? Aren’t you thinking of him at all?

  ‘ ’Course I am. All the time. Practically. But I don’t want you to.’

  ‘Well, I have to. I mean … he’s still …’ It was as if Jenny didn’t like to finish her sentence, for fear of hurting Elvis.

  ‘The father of your children.’

  ‘Yes. Well, he is. Don’t you see how much it proves love you?’

  ‘Sorry. That’s too clever for me. I’m only a philosophy graduate.’

  ‘Well, if I wasn’t certain of my love for you, I wouldn’t dare to even begin to think of Paul.’

  She smiled at Elvis and kissed him.

  ‘I wonder what time they have lights out,’ she said.

  Rodney sensed Liz’s arrival at his side. His heart, that imperfect old friend, began to beat irregularly and alarmingly. He stared at the exhibit with desperate concentration.

  ‘It’s a breakdown of the socio-economic groups who’d be rendered homeless by the inner inner relief ring road,’ he said.

  ‘Come outside in a few minutes,’ said Liz softly.

  ‘In socio-economic groups D, CD, C and … you what? You what, Liz?’

  ‘Come outside in a few minutes.’

  Rodney gulped.

  ‘It’s stopped raining,’ said Liz.

  ‘Liz!’ he said. ‘I’m a happily married man.’

  ‘That’s one of the reasons I’ve chosen you.’

  There was silence between them. Liz let it hang there, in a threatening void. Rodney felt obliged to speak.

  ‘In socio-economic groups A, AB and …’

  ‘Don’t change the subject.’

  ‘I’m not. That is the subject. It’s you what’s changing the subject.’

  ‘I don’t want to break up your marriage,’ explained Liz intently. ‘I want to cement mine. All I want is a little harmless flirtatious chat. To make Neville fume with jealousy. To make him realise how much I mean to him. To make him commit himself. That’s all.’

  ‘I see,’ said Rodney. ‘Well, what a … well, not a relief exactly. I mean, you’re still a …’ He took a swig of his wine, closing his eyes as the taste hit him. ‘It’s just that … Betty. I love her. I know that sounds ridiculous these days after all these years, but, no, I do. You see.’

  The object of Rodney’s love was watching him in the company of the long-haired Carol Fordingbridge, who was wearing a navy skirt, and a blue, grey, green and cream chiffon top, with a navy suede belt. How
the women shone, in the great gloomy room, on that dark August evening, amid all the sober suits.

  ‘Carol?’ said Betty. ‘Do you feel anything? Jealousy, anger … anything, looking at Elvis now? I mean, if it’s not a painful subject.’

  ‘No. I don’t care about Elvis any more,’ said his ex-fiancée.

  ‘Something funny’s going on between Rodney and Liz. I’m used to his chatting women up. He doesn’t mean anything by it. Young women. He just … likes them. I wouldn’t be surprised if he chatted you up.’

  ‘Betty!’

  ‘No. I wouldn’t. And I wouldn’t mind, because …’

  ‘I’m a fluffy, empty-headed young thing.’

  ‘No. You aren’t, Carol.’

  ‘Elvis thinks I am.’

  ‘I thought you didn’t care any more.’

  ‘Well!’

  ‘I know. No, I just meant, because you’re so much younger, and he’d never be a dirty old man, wouldn’t Rodney. He’s got too much pride. Just an innocent flirt. But Liz! He wouldn’t flirt with her. I don’t like it.’

  ‘Maybe this talk’ll be enough,’ Liz was saying. ‘Maybe he’s fuming with jealousy now. If not, I’ll go outside in about ten minutes. If I do, will you follow?’

  ‘Oh Liz!’ said Rodney, who was only too aware that Betty was watching him.

  ‘I know what Laurence would have done. Ignored it. I just have to know that history isn’t repeating itself. I can’t let my life go down the lines it did with Laurence. Will you, Rodney?’

  Rodney knew that he must look her full in the face and say, ‘Sorry, Liz. No.’ Half the plan worked well. He did look her full in the face. Then things went wrong. He heard the words, ‘Well, yes, all right,’ emerge from his throat.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Liz. ‘Thank you very much. If I was looking for …’ Rodney gave a tiny yelp, as if a beagle pup was being strangled somewhere near his uvula. ‘Don’t be so alarmed. I’m not. But if I was, I wouldn’t need to look any further than …’ Rodney was turned to stone. ‘Don’t look so frightened. I’m not.’

  The joint big wheel behind Sillitoe’s managed to wrench his face out of Liz’s magnetic field.

  ‘Whereas the outer inner relief ring road only displaces thirty-six people in groups D, CD and C, you see.’

  The heavy clouds were clearing from the west, allowing the setting sun to hint at what might have been. The clouds above the town were briefly bruised with purple.

  Ginny Fenwick sipped her wine, grimaced, and told Elvis how she’d describe it in the column that she wrote under the soubriquet of ‘The Imbiber’. Elvis saw Janet Turnbull from BBC Radio leaving the room with Councillor Mirfield. She was going to interview him! He should be interviewing people! Ginny Fenwick sighed and remembered the days when men had listened to her.

  Ted Simcock, unerr ployed caterer, was struggling to find something in common with the new man in his ex-wife’s life.

  ‘I was in Middlesbrough the other day,’ he said. ‘It’s very sad that the whole of the North East … if you include Middlesbrough in the North East, which I do … hasn’t got a single first division team next season.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Geoffrey Ellsworth-Smythe.

  There was a pause. It could not be described as comfortable.

  ‘Not interested in football?’ said Ted.

  ‘No,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Sorry.’

  There was a pause. It could not be described as companionable.

  ‘Cricket?’ said Ted at last.

  ‘Sorry. I never was interested in organised sport. Loner, you see. My trouble is, I have no small talk. That’s probably why I’ve spent so much of my life so happily among people who don’t speak a word of English.’

  ‘You and Rita must have a lively time.’

  ‘You don’t need small talk when you’re in love. Sorry.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I seem to keep telling you how much I love your ex-wife.’

  ‘Geoffrey! Do you think I’m small-minded or summat? Rita and I were married. Now we aren’t. She’s happy. Terrific! Great!’

  Suddenly Geoffrey revealed real animation. He smiled. ‘Oh, I’m so glad, Ted,’ he said. ‘Because we are happy. Sometimes we just sit by the fire, or in the garden on warm nights, listening to the sounds, not saying a word.’

  ‘It sounds riveting,’ said Ted. ‘All that sitting. Terrific.’

  ‘And yet, at other times …’ Geoffrey failed to notice Ted’s dry tone, ‘… well I don’t need to tell you … you know what a passionate woman she is.’

  ‘What? Oh. Yes. Yes! Well, terrific, Geoffrey. Thank you.’

  This time Geoffrey did notice Ted’s dry tone. It puzzled him. ‘What?’ he said.

  ‘I’m so thrilled for you. Tell me more about your idyll. Then I’ll have the complete picture of your domestic bliss as I sit in my dingy furnished room opening tins of corned beef and baked beans for my solitary tea before I pop down to the pub for me ritual three pints and pretend I’m living.’

  ‘This is another thing I find difficult about English life after being away for so long,’ said Geoffrey Ellsworth-Smythe. ‘I keep thinking people mean what they say.’

  After his conversation with Liz, Rodney had replenished his glass – each glass of wine seemed fractionally less odious than its predecessor – and had made a bee-line for his old sparring partner, Councillor Alf Noddington. Alf Noddington wore his Socialism on his sleeve, which had a leather patch and was attached to a very old sports jacket. To have worn a suit would have been to kowtow to capitalism. Alf Noddington had once told the Tory leader of the council to ‘bugger off’. He was an embarrassment to some of the new, smooth Socialists. Rodney liked him. They discussed pipes, pigeons and snooker, and Rodney waves his arms about a lot.

  When Rodney reached Betty, he hoped she would ask him what all the excitement had been about, vis à vis Alf Noddington.

  ‘Nice conversation with Liz?’ said Betty.

  Rodney looked at her in astonishment. ‘Are you jealous?’ he said.

  ‘Well … no … but …’

  ‘You’re never jealous. Neither of us is. We don’t need to be.’

  ‘I know,’ said Betty. ‘But before we’ve just been dealing with the rest of the human race. Now it’s …’

  ‘Liz.’

  ‘Yes.

  ‘She wants me to pretend to be … planning a – I can’t even say it, it sounds so ridiculous – to make Neville jealous.’

  Betty stared at her glass as if amazed to find that there was still wine in it. She said nothing.

  ‘Don’t you believe me?’ said Rodney. ‘Hell’s bells, Betty. She’s trying to make Neville jealous and she makes you jealous.’

  ‘Let’s hope she’s equally successful with Neville,’ said Betty.

  Liz had also taken her time before rejoining Neville, not in the hope that he would have forgotten her meeting with Rodney, but in the belief that he might become more suspicious if she appeared to be trying to hide its significance from him.

  ‘There you are,’ he said, when she finally returned.

  ‘Yes. Here I am. Have you missed me?’

  ‘Well you haven’t exactly been crossing the Sahara. I assumed you’d come back when you’d finished your little chat with Rodney.’

  ‘Ah. You saw.’

  ‘Well, yes. You were looking at the graphs and things. You seemed … rather intense. As if … which rather surprised me, frankly, because …’

  ‘As if what, which rather surprised you frankly, because …?’

  ‘As if you found them interesting, which rather surprised me, frankly, because I don’t.’

  ‘We weren’t talking about the graphs and things.’ Liz tried to invest her words with a significance beyond their meaning. ‘We were talking about life and things.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Rodney’s a very interesting man. I like him.’

  Liz gave a little private smile at the memory of her conversation with Rodney. It was intended
to infuriate Neville without making him suspect that it had been intended to infuriate him. It was a subtle smile, exquisitely judged. It was a total failure.

  ‘Well, so do I,’ said Neville.

  ‘Oh Neville!’

  The senior partner in Badger, Badger, Fox and Badger was puzzled.

  ‘What did I say?’ he said to Liz’s departing back. ‘I didn’t say anything!’

  The light was fading again as Elvis hurried back to Jenny. His interview with Councillor Wendy Bullock had been disappointing. Common sense didn’t make for controversy.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ he said. ‘Have you missed me?’

  ‘I wonder what sort of person he’s sharing a cell with,’ said Jenny.

  ‘Jenny!’

  ‘Well, I can’t believe he’s got one to himself. Not with all the overcrowding there is. Probably there’s three of them.’

  ‘Jenny!’

  ‘Three might be better than two, in case the other one was a real psychopathic brute. Unless they were both psychopathic brutes. I mean, I’m not one of those people who think all prisoners are psychopathic brutes, heavens no! Lots of them are just mixed up and misunderstood victims of a cruel society. But I’m not naïve. Some are psychopathic brutes. And with Paul’s luck …’

  ‘You seem to be thinking of him almost all the time,’ said Elvis.

  ‘I suppose I am rather, tonight.’

  ‘I didn’t realise you loved me that much!’

  ‘But I do!’

  Jenny kissed him warmly.

  The first either of them knew of the approach of Simon and Lucinda was when they heard Simon say, ‘How distasteful!’ They sprang apart with a haste that they regretted instantly.

  ‘What?’ said Jenny.

  ‘Kissing,’ said Simon.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Elvis. ‘Filthy habit. Glad to hear Simon doesn’t do filthy things like that to you, Lucinda.’ He wrinkled his face into a parody of puritan disgust. ‘Kiss kiss. Ugh! Horrid! Wet! Messy!’

  ‘Elvis? Do me a favour. Shut up,’ said Lucinda.

  ‘Well said, darling,’ said her fiancé admiringly.