Fair Do's (14 page)

‘Please forget what?'

Neville hesitated only fractionally. ‘The outer inner relief ring road.'

‘Ah.'

‘I wouldn't dream of asking you to … try to get us any special dispensation … to attempt to change the route in any way … I know that you wouldn't … you couldn't … we …I understand that.'

‘So what are you asking?'

‘Ah.' In the absence of any alternative inspiration, Neville smiled. ‘Well, I'm glad we've had this little chat.'

‘Are you?' Rita was astounded. ‘Good Lord.'

Neville walked off, quite swiftly at first, to get away from Rita, then much more slowly as he came closer to his wife.

He made a little detour, which took him, as it happened, past the table with the champagne, where the dapper, ageless Eric Siddall had been serving his former boss with an icy professional dignity which, he had hoped, would make Graham Wintergreen feel ashamed about sacking him, but which had made Graham wonder why he had put up with him for so long.

‘There you go, sir. Tickety-boo,' said Eric to Neville. ‘It's a pleasure to serve some people.'

Neville also paused briefly, to compliment Charlotte Ratchett on her appearance. She received his compliment, which consisted of the sentence, ‘Charlotte, you're a model to us all on how to age gracefully,' with less delight than he had expected.

Now at last there was no escape from Liz.

‘Well?' she said.

‘I put our points. Very forcibly.'

‘Good. Well done.'

‘If obliquely.'

‘What?'

‘Sometimes, in politics, one needs to be oblique. I … left her in no doubt of what we were asking, though.'

‘And?'

‘She made no definite promises. She's too much of an old hand for that.'

‘Old hand? She's only been elected two days. You should have twisted her round your little finger.'

‘Yes, well, as Bing Crosby once said, I did it my way. And although she didn't say anything, I have no doubt what Rita will do.'

Liz looked as though she had no doubt either.

‘You've given me back something I thought I'd lost forever.'

Corinna Price-Rodgerson looked pleased.

‘Status.'

Corinna Price-Rodgerson looked less pleased.

‘I thought you meant love,' she said coolly.

‘Oh well. That too. That especially, of course, my petal. But also status. Reputation.' Ted leant forward to whisper, and
almost lost his balance. ‘Because there are people in this town who thought me a berk.'

‘I find that hard to believe.'

‘I know. It's barely credible, but it's true.' He swayed slightly. ‘Anyroad, the last laugh's on me. Restaurateur. Marrying a bishop's daughter.'

Sandra approached them as before, smiling as before, with two widely-spaced glasses as before.

‘More champagne?' she asked.

‘Lovely.' Corinna gave her a flashing smile.

This time Ted remembered his manners and let Corinna take her glass first.

‘Thank you very much indeed, Sandra,' he said, as he emptied his glass and replaced it with the one glass remaining on the tray.

Sandra moved off, still smiling.

‘Where was I?' Ted asked Corinna.

‘Having the last laugh. Is that why you're marrying me?'

‘No! Love! ‘Course not. But it's an enjoyable by-product.' Ted frowned. He could hardly get the words out. There was something wrong with his speech. And his head was swimming. He was ill.

‘Are you drunk?'

‘What?' He was indignant. ‘On champagne? On French gnat's piss?' Several people turned their heads to seek out the source of this mild vulgarity. He suddenly remembered what he had thought it would be impossible for him to forget – that Corinna was a bishop's daughter. What was wrong with his brain? ‘I feel odd, Corinna. Why should I feel odd? It's odd that I should feel odd. I never feel odd normally. Normally I feel absolutely normal.'
Was
he drunk? He couldn't be. And not so quickly. Not hard-headed, tough as old boots Ted Simcock. ‘I can't be drunk. I haven't had much. Not much much, anyroad. Hardly at all much. If that.' His command of language was disintegrating. He was swaying. He
was
drunk. ‘I'm drunk, Corinna. I mean, I am. How? Oh heck.'

Corinna took his drink, sniffed it, and sipped it.

‘There's vodka in this,' she said.

‘That's Sandra! Sandra!'

His legs were giving way. His head was swirling. Corinna had
hold of him. He felt awful. She was guiding him into a chair. She was so strong. He felt wonderful.

Andrew Denton, husband of the pregnant Judy, approached the pregnant Jenny.

‘Do you know what I said to the side of the church as I left?' he asked.

‘No.'

‘Aisle, be seeing you.'

‘What?'

‘Joke. The aisle is the side of the church, so I said, “aisle, be seeing you.”'

‘Ah.'

‘Bit of a nave, aren't I?'

‘Oh.'

‘Aren't you font of my jokes? Are they an apse of taste?'

‘What?'

‘You looked sad. I'm cheering you up.'

‘Ah. Thank you, Andrew.' Jenny tried to look cheered up. It was impossible. ‘Terrific.'

Elvis approached them purposefully.

‘Not interrupting, am I?' he asked.

‘Yes. Terrific,' said Jenny, showing a flash of enthusiasm at last. ‘Bye, Andrew.'

Elvis had placed two chairs facing each other across an occasional table. She allowed herself to be seated on one of them. Elvis sat opposite her. Between them was a rather cowed cactus. Elvis clasped his hands together as he searched for a telling and authoritative yet sensitive and sympathetic opening question. All around them people were chatting. Elvis Simcock, chat show host, was oblivious to all talk except his own and that of his interviewee.

‘How are things really between you and Paul, Jenny?' he asked.

‘Not very good. We're having terrible rows.'

‘Would you mind telling me what your row this morning was about?'

‘On the surface it was about boiled eggs.'

‘M-hm.' Elvis shifted gear from chat show host to media psychiatrist. ‘And what was it about under the surface?'

‘Trust.'

Elvis's showbiz sheen fell away, revealing a rather gawky young Yorkshireman. ‘You what?' said the rather gawky young Yorkshireman.

The words began to pour out. ‘I'm finding it hard to trust him, after what he did with … and he says I'm not trying to trust him, and today, when all that's going on under the surface, we're arguing about boiled eggs and I'm crying and Thomas is upset because he's
very
sensitive and … oh, Elvis!'

Jenny's appeal wrung Elvis's heart-strings. He didn't see Rodney and Betty until they were almost on top of him.

‘How's the interviewing technique coming on, Elvis?' asked Rodney, still smarting after discovering that he had been used.

‘Rodney! Please!' pleaded Elvis frantically.

‘Have I said something wrong?' said Rodney.

Elvis began to edge away from the scene of the crime.

Jenny pursued him.

‘What does he mean, “interviewing techniques”?' she asked.

‘I've said something wrong.' Rodney realised that the revelation was going to hurt Jenny, his most recent recruit. He back-pedalled. ‘Nothing, Jenny. Absolutely nothing.'

Elvis turned and faced Rodney.

‘Tell her,' he said. ‘I've nothing to be ashamed of.'

Rodney was doubtful about telling now, but Betty leapt in.

‘He wasn't well,' she explained. ‘I took him upstairs, laid him on the bed.'

‘Yes, we heard,' said Jenny.

‘Did you? Oh Lord.' Rodney tried not to think of all these people listening to their cuddling. ‘We heard voices from the 100. Elvis was playing back conversations he'd secretly recorded with me and Simon. Hello, Simon.'

Nobody could have counted the number of times that Simon Rodenhurst had steamed merrily in on a group of people, molars flashing, and been sandbagged. Yet still he came back for more. Now he looked well and truly sandbagged. His smile died swiftly.

‘With me?' he said to Rodney. To Elvis he said, ‘You swine!' To the Sillitoes he said, ‘And you listened?'

‘We couldn't help it,' protested Betty. ‘We tried not to.' It sounded unconvincing even to her.

‘You swine, Elvis,' repeated Simon.

‘I've done nothing I'm ashamed of,' said Elvis.

Simon erupted. ‘Broadcasting to the Sillitoes that I got my fellow godfather's wife pregnant, and you're not ashamed!'

It was sheer bad luck that Andrew was leading his pregnant wife to the sandwiches for a little nibble at exactly that moment. The Dentons heard every word of Simon's eruption.

‘What?'
said Andrew, appalled.

‘Simon!' reproached Judy desperately.

‘Judy!' said Andrew accusingly.

‘Oh, Andrew,' said Judy. ‘I love you, Andrew. I do.'

She staggered towards a chair. It was occupied by Liz's skeletal, ramrod Uncle Hubert. He leapt up with an alacrity that belied his years. He was a man made by temperament and breeding for giving up his seat to women. In the long years out East he'd had few opportunities to exercise this talent, for he was also a man made by temperament and breeding for not giving up anything to the natives.

‘Oh my God,' said Simon, watching them.

‘I didn't know anyone was listening,' said Elvis.

‘Nor did I!' said Simon.

Jenny found Elvis's tape recorder under the cactus. She hurled it furiously at him. He ducked. It sailed on towards Neville, and Liz. Neville, a keen cricketer in his day, caught it adeptly, and stared at it in bewilderment.

‘So,' said Jenny angrily, while Rodney and Betty fluttered anxiously, and several people, alerted by the flying tape recorder, watched. ‘Your questioning of me, Elvis, all that concern …'

‘… was genuine. It has to be when interviewing people. You don't use people.'

‘I didn't know it was an interview,' screamed Jenny. She tried to control her anger. People were listening. ‘You used me,' she said more calmly, as Rita hurried over to see if she could be of help. ‘Used the collapse of my marriage.'

‘Collapse?' Rita was appalled.

‘We're splitting up. Oh Lord. I didn't mean to tell you. Not today.' Jenny smiled. ‘It's amicable.' She meant her smile to be encouraging and cheery. ‘Quite happy really.' It only succeeded in looking bravely forlorn. ‘Not at all sad. Sorry.'

‘Oh, Jenny,' said Rita sadly. She turned on Elvis. ‘Oh, Elvis!' She hugged Jenny.

Sandra swirled into the Brontë Suite, still vibrant with indignation and pride.

Ted tried to leap to his feet. It wasn't a success. He hadn't felt as drunk as this since he'd sampled every bottle on the top shelf of the Überwasser Bierhalle in Osnabruck when he was nineteen. Corinna tried to restrain him. He shook himself free and lurched towards Sandra.

‘Sandra!' he said. ‘You've been spiking my drinks.'

‘Yeah,' said Sandra. ‘ 'Cos I hate you. I wanted her to see you drunk and pathetic. She has. I'm glad.'

Eric Siddall, barman supreme, scurried up to rescue Ted from his unprofessional colleague. ‘Leave this to me, sir,' he said. ‘No problem. All in hand. Can do.'

‘Belt up, Eric,' said Sandra.

She gave Eric a fierce shove, fuelled by fury. He staggered backwards and fell to the floor. Morris Wigmore, deputy leader of the Conservatives, rushed to his rescue, tripped, and fell into the arms of Charlotte Ratchett. She smiled a champagne smile, kissed the top of his head, and said ‘Morris. I never knew you cared.'

Neville and Liz watched the disintegration of the Christening Party with growing horror.

‘Oh Lord!' said Liz.

Neville was speechless.

Sandra turned back to Ted, wiping her hands after disposing of Eric.

‘Why did you have to come here, anyroad?' she yelled. ‘Following me. Haunting me. Taunting me.'

‘Sandra!' Ted raised his voice, to compete with hers. ‘I wasn't.'

‘ 'Course you were,' yelled Sandra. ‘Why else would you come?'

‘Because they're Christening my baby,' shrieked Ted.

The room fell completely silent.