A Bit of a Do (41 page)

‘Right,’ said Monsieur Albert. ‘You open the champagne, Ted. I’ll go and greet the customers.’

But the customers were destined to wait a little longer. The phone rang, and Monsieur Albert almost forgot to use his French accent as he answered it. It was a booking for three, name of Thoroughgood. The gentleman wanted something special. He waffled on about prodigal daughters and fatted calves. ‘You vant veal?’ asked the Gallic Monsieur Albert. ‘No, no,’ said the Reverend J. D. Thoroughgood. ‘We’re against veal on moral grounds. I spoke figuratively.’

Monsieur Albert groaned. A wedding party was being seriously neglected, and he’d got some berk who was against veal on moral grounds, and spoke figuratively.

‘What do you mean, “it slipped your mind”?’ persisted Sandra, as Ted wrestled with the champagne. ‘You must have remembered you were married when we talked about us getting married?’

‘When did we talk about that?’ said Ted, alarmed.

‘When I told you –’ Sandra lowered her voice to a whisper, ‘– that I’d been sacked from the bakery because me pearls all fell into the mix for this wedding cake, you said to me, “you are the only pearl I want around our wedding cake, my luscious Victoria sponge.” I thought that was lovely. I went gooey all over.’

Ted grimaced. It was awful having your love talk quoted back at you in cold blood. He vowed never to use cake imagery again.

Elvis, Carol Fordingbridge, Paul, Andrew Denton, Arthur
Badger, Jenny, Rita and Gerry Lansdown were standing in a purposeless huddle by the bar counter. Behind the bar there was a photograph of a French bar counter, manned by a burly character in striped jersey and beret. Nobody was manning the bar of Chez Albert.

At last, Liz and Neville Badger made their entrance. There was a communal ‘Aaaah’ of welcome.

‘Well, we’ve done it,’ said Liz.

‘Congratulations,’ said Rita.

‘Thank you. I think we ought to congratulate you too,’ said Liz. ‘You seem to have made quite a catch.’

‘I’ll second that,’ said Gerry Lansdown, and there was forced laughter, which didn’t quite drown the loud bang from the kitchen.

‘Either that’s a bottle of champagne being opened, or the chefs shot himself,’ said Paul.

‘Don’t mention suicide,’ whispered Carol Fordingbridge.

Paul went scarlet.

‘Isn’t that the Sillitoes over there?’ said Neville Badger.

‘They’ve seen us,’ hissed Betty Sillitoe.

‘We’ll have to congratulate them,’ mouthed Rodney.

‘It’ll look as if we’re angling to be invited,’ whispered Betty.

‘We can’t not. That’ll look as if we’re upset because we weren’t invited.’

‘Oh Lord.’ Betty waved and called out a cheerful ‘hello’.

‘Hello,’ echoed Rodney, craning his neck.

The wedding party turned en as much
masse
as they could muster.

Betty and Rodney raised their glasses.

‘Congratulations,’ they cried.

‘Thank you,’ said Neville and Liz Badger.

‘They must be having lunch here,’ mouthed Liz.

‘Surely not? Won’t they be waiting for a plane to Istanbul?’ said Andrew Denton.

The almost immaculate Arthur Badger glared at his son-in-law.

‘Joke,’ explained Andrew Denton.

‘Well, we did decide that as we were a small party it might be
more relaxing if there were other customers,’ said Neville.

‘Yes, but I never thought there’d only be two other customers, we’d know them both, and they’d be lifelong specialists at getting drunk in public,’ said Liz.

There was another bang from the kitchen.

‘What’s going on in there?’ said Neville. ‘Where is everybody? I heard this place was very good. Apparently the eponymous
M’sieu Albère
…’ His French accent was immaculate. No uncompromising flat Yorkshire ‘Monsieur Albert’ for him. ‘… was the manager of Maxim’s in Paris, and his chef, Alphonse, is said to be the illegitimate son of General de Gaulle.’

‘Don’t mention illegitimate children,’ whispered Liz, just loud enough for Rita to hear.

‘Did you arrange for two vegetarian meals, Uncle Neville?’ said Jenny.

‘Oh Lord!’ said Neville Badger. ‘I forgot.’

‘Uncle Neville isn’t Uncle Neville any more, Jenny,’ said Liz. ‘He’s your father now.’

‘Yes … well …’ said Jenny, and she wandered off to examine the cobbled arcaded square of an idyllic stone town high above the valley of the Dordogne.

‘Oh Lord,’ said Liz.

Monsieur Albert bustled in, Gallic to his fingertips once more.

‘Sir!
Madame!
Greetings and congratulations,’ he said. ‘I am devastated that you wait. I am desolated lest you feel neglected.
Edouard,
‘e will be ‘ere any moment with your
champagne.’

‘Nice-looking town,’ said Paul.

‘Oh, please don’t leave Carol,’ said Jenny. ‘I’m sure she was whispering lovely things in your ear.’

‘Carol is engaged to Elvis.’

‘Do you expect me to be sorry for you?’

‘Jenny! I’m lost without you. Some days I haven’t even got the heart to read the
Guardian’s
foreign news. I’m turning back into the slob I was before I met you.’

‘I repeat … do you expect me to be sorry for you?’ said Jenny.

The Gallic Monsieur Albert made a tactful exit as Ted entered with a tray of eleven glasses, filled with champagne.

‘Ah!’ said Neville. He saw that it was Ted. ‘Oh!’ he added.

‘Good Lord!’ said Liz.

‘Ted!’ said Rita.

‘Dad!’ said Paul.

Ted smiled bravely, and held the tray out towards Neville.

‘Would you like to taste the wine?’ he said. He had to force himself not to say ‘sir’. He was damned if he’d say ‘sir’ to anybody, in front of Rita and that freckled ape she had in tow.

‘Well, I … I’m sure it’s …’ The immaculate Neville Badger frowned, not because Ted hadn’t said ‘sir’, which he too would have found embarrassing, but because he regarded it as a grave social solecism to ask the host to taste the wine at a wedding breakfast. But he couldn’t humiliate Ted by refusing. ‘Yes … right,’ he said. He took a glass of champagne and tasted it. ‘Very good!’

‘Madam?’ said Ted to Liz.

‘Thank you, Ted,’ said Liz, taking a glass and meeting the eyes of her former lover.

‘May I take this opportunity of wishing
Madame
the lasting happiness that has so far eluded her?’ said Ted.

‘Thank you, Ted,’ said Liz coldly.

Ted turned to Rita.

‘Well … this is a surprise,’ she said.

‘It certainly is, madam,’ said Ted, glancing at Gerry.

‘This is Gerry Lansdown. Gerry, this is my husband,’ said Rita.

‘Ah!’ said Gerry Lansdown.

Ted looked suspiciously at Gerry Lansdown as he offered him the champagne. He hadn’t liked the sound of that ‘ah’. It had sounded like an unexploded social bomb, as if Gerry had meant, ‘Ah! No wonder you weren’t prepared to have him back. I see in him all the character defects you’ve been telling me about with such relish these last weeks.’

He moved on to Jenny.

‘Thanks, Ted,’ said Jenny in a low voice. ‘Though I don’t feel much like it.’

‘Still worried because half the world is starving?’

‘No. I mean, I am, obviously, but no, I was just thinking how sad I am about the way everything’s turned out.’

She touched Ted’s arm, sympathetically, and he moved on
hastily with his tray.

‘Is this a permanent post, Dad?’ said Elvis.

‘Elvis! Of course it isn’t! I mean … really! No! It’s just a fill-in while I develop my portfolio.’

‘Your portfolio?’ said Paul.

‘My designs. My toasting forks et cetera. Personalized coal scuttles and what-have-you. My portfolio.’ There was one glass left over. ‘Oh, are we only ten?’ he said. ‘I thought there were eleven.’

‘Simon hasn’t come,’ said Liz.

‘Ah!’ said Ted. Oh, versatile monosyllable! Ted’s ‘ah!’ was faintly insulting, as if he’d meant, ‘Ah! Well, I’m not surprised, under the callous and entirely distasteful circumstances of your characteristically self-centred decision to remarry so soon after driving your husband to his tragic end,’ but he hadn’t made it sound insulting enough for Liz to be able to accuse him of being insulting, so she had to content herself with giving him a cool look, which would serve as a response to his ‘ah!’ if he had meant what he hoped she realized he had meant, but which if he hadn’t meant anything specifically insulting could well have been just one more of the cool looks which she’d been giving him ever since he’d appeared.

‘Would you like a glass?’ said Neville.

‘Oh! Thank you very much, sir,’ said Ted. He was concentrating so hard on sounding sufficiently surprised at the offer of the drink which he had been expecting for so long that he let a ‘sir’ slip out. He closed his eyes momentarily in disgust at his carelessness. ‘Well, here’s to your happiness,’ he said.

They toasted Neville and Liz Badger. Then there was a moment’s embarrassed silence, during which Ted didn’t know whether to stay on as a guest or leave as a head waiter.

‘We can’t not offer them a glass of champagne,’ whispered Neville to Liz. He turned to Ted. ‘Waiter? Er … Ted?’ he said. ‘Could you get two more glasses?’

‘Certainly, s …’ Ted bit back the ‘sir’ almost in time. He felt slightly insulted but also rather relieved at becoming a head waiter again. But he was less than halfway to the kitchen when Neville commanded ‘Wait!’ He returned. Neville was saying, in a low voice, ‘If we ask them to have a drink we’ll have to ask them to eat
with us. I mean, we can’t just send them off back to their table.’

‘Oh Lord,’ said Liz wearily.

‘I think they’re discussing whether to ask us to join them,’ said Betty Sillitoe in a low voice. ‘Don’t look round,’ she hissed, as Rodney began to crane his neck.

‘Well, don’t you stare at them,’ he said.

‘I can’t never look in their direction,’ she said. ‘That’d look totally unnatural.’

‘Oh Lord!’ said Rodney Sillitoe, the big wheel behind Cock-A-Doodle Chickens, none of which were French or maize-fed.

‘Ted? Could you ask
M’sieu Albère
if I could have a word?’ said Neville Badger.

When Monsieur Albert came to have a word, Neville took him to one side and asked if he had any other bookings for lunch.

‘No, sir,’ said Monsieur Albert. ‘Usually we are vairy busy, but today …’ He gave a very French shrug. ‘… people make ze most of ze last sunshinings and Thursday, he is, ‘ow you say? … a leetle bit quiet, and …’

‘There’s no need to justify yourself,’ said Neville. ‘I’m not suggesting your restaurant’s a flop.’

Monsieur Albert gave Neville a sharp look.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Neville. ‘I’m on edge. It’s my wedding. What … what would you charge me to close the restaurant this lunchtime? Bearing in mind that you have no bookings.’

‘Well, sir … people might arrive … and I lose custom. It must cost you … a hundred pounds.’

‘You French drive a hard bargain. I’ll give you fifty.’

Monsieur Albert knew that he must accept. It would be pure profit and, in truth, there was little likelihood of any more custom. But for decency’s sake he pretended to reflect deeply on the matter before saying, ‘All right. Eet ees … ‘ow you say? … done!’

‘And Mr and Mrs Sillitoe will join us as our guests.’

‘Vairy good, sir.’

Neville approached Rodney and Betty, while Monsieur Albert turned the ‘Open’ sign to ‘Closed’.

‘Liz and I would be absolutely delighted if you’d join us for lunch,’ said Neville.

‘Oh!’ said Rodney.

‘What a surprise!’ said Betty.

‘Well … yes … thank you,’ said Rodney.

Ted entered with a tray on which there were two glasses of champagne and an opened bottle.

‘Sir? Madam?’ he said to the Sillitoes, just as they joined the other guests in the bar. ‘As it’s such a special occasion, will you break the habits of a lifetime and indulge yourselves in a drink?’

‘Thank you,
Edouard,’
said Betty icily.

‘Er … while I remember, wai … Edou … Ted,’ said Neville. ‘I’m afraid I forgot to ask, but could we have two vegetarian meals?’

‘Three,’ said Rita.

‘Ah!’ said Ted. (Another gem, meaning, ‘So the man’s a vegetarian. He’s probably also a hypochondriac and a suppressed homosexual and is almost certainly seeking a mother substitute in attaching himself to Rita.’) He turned to Gerry Lansdown, finding it hard to conceal his satisfaction. ‘You’re a vegetarian.’ It was a statement, not a question, and a statement expressed in the tone in which other men might have said, ‘I see! You interfere with small boys in public lavatories.’ Judge then of Ted’s amazement and dismay when Gerry said, ‘No. Morally, I feel I should be, but I’m afraid I’m too weak. I’m a founder member of the real men don’t eat quiche brigade.’

‘I’m the vegetarian,’ said Rita.

‘Good God! Rita! I mean …’ Ted realized that neither as estranged husband nor as head waiter did he have the right to criticize Rita’s eating habits. ‘Er … three vegetarian meals,’ he said. ‘Right. It is rather short notice, and … let’s be honest … Frenchmen and vegetarians are virtually contradictions in terms, but I’ll see what Alphonse can rustle up.’