Fair Do's (15 page)

Neville and Liz gazed at the achingly still tableau with growing horror.

‘Oh Lord!' said Neville.

Liz was speechless.

‘Ted!' said Rita.

Nobody else spoke. Ted went white. He looked round the room and saw, mistily, his future wife, her face a shocked white buoy in an orange sea. He saw the blurred, horrified faces of his former wife, of the mother of his boy, of her second husband, of his ex-mistress Sandra, of his deeply embarrassed son, whose cynicism was proving so shallow, of his unhappy daughter-in-law, of Elvis's neglected fiancée, of his former good friends, the suddenly sober Sillitoes, of Eric Siddall, barman supreme. And beyond them, the shocked faces of people of the kind Ted had so often tried so hard to impress: Neville's partner, Matthew Wadebridge; the bluff, egg-shaped Graham Wintergreen, coarsely relishing the situation; his golfophobe wife Angela, her tight, whippy mouth wide open; Liz's skeletal, ramrod Uncle Hubert looking at Ted as an example of what happens to a nation when you let an empire go. The three ruined abbeys forgotten, the ruined buffet forgotten, the ruined cake forgotten, all of them gazing in horror at the ruined Ted Simcock.

He tried hard to retrieve the situation.

‘Oh heck,' he said. ‘I didn't really … I didn't mean … just a joke. In bad taste, I realise that now. You know what they say. In vino … in vino a load of absolute cobblers.' He tried to walk. ‘Oh … I can't … my legs.' He had rubber legs. It was a nightmare. He wasn't really here. It was only a dream.

But the Sillitoes, grabbing him, lifting him up, they weren't part of a dream.

‘Come on,' said Rodney.

‘Soon have you off the premises,' said Betty.

‘Man of your age, can't hold your drink,' said Rodney.

‘Let go,' demanded Ted. ‘I'm all right.'

They let go. For a few seconds he was all right. Then his legs buckled and he began to crumple backwards. Rodney and Betty grabbed him again.

‘Leave it to us,' said Betty. ‘We're the experts. Upsydaisy.'

Slowly, the Sillitoes lifted Ted into an upright position.

‘Off we go,' said Rodney. ‘Nice and quiet. Easy does it.'

Slowly, Betty and Rodney led him out of the Brontë Suite.

At the door, he turned.

‘Sorry,' he told the stunned gathering. ‘Sorry, everybody.' He tried to smile at Corinna. ‘Sorry I lied, my honey bee.'

‘I forgive you,' said Corinna Price-Rodgerson. ‘Many wouldn't.'

‘What a womanful wonder you are,' said her befuddled fiancé.

Corinna followed Ted out. At the door she turned, smiled graciously, said, ‘Goodbye. Thank you for inviting us. We've had a simply marvellous time,' and made an exit that was, under the circumstances, a masterpiece of dignity.

Conversations began to break out all over the room. Charlotte Ratchett, of the furniture Ratchetts, bemoaned that the nation could no longer hold its drink. Hubert Ellsworth-Smythe spoke of rubber workers rendered mad by strong drink. Morris Wigmore, deputy leader of the Conservatives, felt it safe to smile again.

Could it be that the worst was over?

Not for Jenny. She burst into tears. Rita hurried over to comfort her.

‘It wasn't amicable,' wailed Jenny. ‘We've had a terrible row and split up. Today. Forever. Oh Lord. I shouldn't have told you. Not today.'

‘Yes. You should,' said Rita. ‘Oh, Jenny, how could he?'

‘It's my fault as well. Always two sides.' Jenny flung a tiny glance in the direction of Liz. ‘I expected too much from marriage, despite my mother.'

Rita hugged Jenny.

Elvis, who had been standing close by with Carol, hurried across to them.

‘Paul has no idea how to treat a woman,' he said.

‘Just like his brother,' muttered Carol.

‘OK, Mum. Leave this to me. Please!' said Elvis decisively.

He put an arm round Jenny. Rita found herself obeying her suddenly masterful son.

‘Jenny! Love!' said Elvis. ‘I do care. I wasn't using you. I do. He's hopeless.'

He kissed his younger brother's wife tenderly.

‘Oh, Elvis,' said the watching Rita. ‘Oh, Paul. Oh, Jenny.'

‘Just like his ruddy brother,' sobbed Carol.

‘Oh, Carol,' said Rita. She hurried over to hug her. ‘Oh Lord. Where did we go wrong with them? Was it my fault? And there's me, going into politics, thinking I can change the world.'

‘Oh no,' wept Carol. ‘You mustn't give up. You must change the world. Somebody must.'

White-faced, Neville and Liz Badger surveyed the wreckage of their elegant shindig. Their eyes went to Jenny and Elvis, crying in each other's .arms, to Rita and Carol, holding each other tenderly and sobbing, to Andrew and Judy, weeping gently together.

‘Oh Lord!' said Neville. ‘I must go to … somebody.'

‘Oh, Neville,' said Liz. ‘How about me?'

‘Are you upset?'

‘Of course not! I'm having a simply wonderful afternoon.' Liz's body went taut. ‘Sssh,' she said. ‘Ssssh!' she repeated louder. ‘I think I can hear the babies. Sssh everybody.'

‘Sssh!' called out Neville urgently.

Conversations were swiftly dropped. Sobs were slowly stopped. Once again, complete silence fell upon the Brontë Suite.

Into that silence, over the baby link, there came the noise of two babies, crying.

‘They learn so quickly, don't they?' said Rita.

‘Nobody's going to come, are they?' asked Rodney Sillitoe, the joint big wheel behind Sillitoe's. He was standing in the middle of the bar area of what he hoped would become the most celebrated health food complex with wholefood vegetarian restaurant in Yorkshire. He was wearing green trousers, a green and yellow check shirt, a white apron emblazoned with the legend ‘Sillitoe's' and a straw hat with a wide green sash.

Beside him stood Rita Simcock and her daughter-in-law Jenny. They were wearing green dresses, green and yellow check blouses and white aprons emblazoned with the legend ‘Sillitoe's'.

Jenny had a glass of orange juice, Rita blackberry and apple, and Rodney carrot juice.

‘Perhaps it was a mistake to advertise “mystery celebrity”,' suggested Jenny.

‘Jenny could be right,' said Rita. ‘If it's somebody really impressive, perhaps you should have said who it is, Rodney.'

Rita invested the word ‘Rodney' with a faintly questioning air. He didn't bite.

‘Oh Lord,' he said. ‘It's going to be a flop. Poor Betty! I can take it, but she gets so worked up, bless her.'

He looked round anxiously, as if hoping that Betty would materialise through the walls of exposed brick, which gave the room the air of a converted factory, which wasn't surprising, since it was a converted factory – it had made flanges – or that she would suddenly appear from under one of the stripped pine tables, which, with the stripped pine chairs and bare walls, gave the bar a rather antiseptic aura. This was not a bar where serious drinking was expected. It served only non-alcoholic drinks, as befitted an establishment owned by those reformed characters, the Sillitoes.

Behind Rodney a green tape hung across a large arch which separated the bar from the restaurant area, which was still in darkness. ‘Where is she?' he repeated, moving off towards the restaurant, dipping under the tape.

‘Men!' said Rita, as soon as he had disappeared into the darkness. “‘She gets so worked up, bless her”! Who's getting worked up? He is. I expect she's as cool as a cucumber.'

Rita and Jenny shared a little laugh about the foolish ways of men.

Behind the bar, in front of his rows of non-alcoholic drinks, Eric Siddall sighed deeply. He was wearing green trousers, a green and yellow check shirt, a white apron emblazoned with the legend ‘Sillitoe's' and a straw hat with a wide green sash. He did not look ecstatic.

In the centre of the bar area there was a large sculpture, a cross between a twisted pillar and a dead tree. It was the creation of a local sculptperson, Melissa Holdsworthy. Around its trunk there was a gnarled shelf on which drinks could be put.

Betty Sillitoe, the joint big wheel behind Sillitoe's, emerged out of the darkened restaurant, dipped under the tape, looked round the bar, and sighed.

‘Oh Lord!' she said. ‘Nobody here yet! Nobody's going to come, are they? It's going to be a fiasco.' She was wearing a green dress, a green and yellow check blouse, and a white apron emblazoned with the legend ‘Sillitoe's'. She carried a glass of carrot juice.

‘It said “from 7.30”. It's only 7.36,' Rita pointed out.

‘I don't mind so much for myself, but it's Rodney,' said Betty. ‘He gets so het up, bless him. Oh! The apostrophe's wrong.'

Rodney emerged from the darkened restaurant, carrot juice in hand. He stepped under the tape, and sighed.

‘Still nobody?'

‘It's only 7.37,' said Jenny.

‘Rodney,' said Betty urgently. ‘The apostrophe's wrong. In ‘Sillitoe's'. There are two of us. Two Sillitoes. So it should be s apostrophe. Not apostrophe s. Shouldn't it?'

‘Oh Lord. I don't know,' said Rodney. He'd given the best part of his life to chickens. He didn't know about apostrophes.

‘I don't want to be unpatriotic,' said Rita, ‘but I'm not sure the nation understands the apostrophe any more. Oh, incidentally,
I should have told you, and perhaps I shouldn't have done it, but … I've invited a friend. Tonight.'

‘Good!' said Betty. ‘That'll make six of us.'

‘Who is this friend?' asked Jenny.

‘Oh, nobody special,' said Rita. ‘Just a man I met in a pub. I don't expect he'll come, it was all very casual.' But how she hoped he would, and how they knew it.

The front door opened.

‘Somebody!' said Rodney.

Liz and Neville Badger entered.

‘Oh Lord!' said Rita.

A blast of cold air followed the Badgers into the warm bar. Liz was shivering. It was exceptionally cold for late April. A few unenthusiastic flakes of snow were drifting in the chill breeze that swept down Arbitration Road. Later, the Meteorological Office would announce that this was the coldest April day since 1907. That day, in fact, Dewsbury was colder than Rekjavik.

Liz had dipped her toes cautiously into the waters of ethnicity, and was wearing a black, tiered, strapless dress with white spots, and a black shawl top with large white spots and green ribbon edging. Neville's green tie bore no ecological clout. It was his rugby club tie.

‘Betty! Hello! It all looks lovely,' enthused Liz, giving Betty an unprecedentedly warm kiss. There was a good old smacker for Rodney too. ‘Rodney! A proud day!' For Jenny there was a flashing smile and another great kiss. ‘Jenny! Darling!'

For Rita there was nothing. Liz walked straight past her.

‘Oh Lord,' sighed Rita.

Neville stopped to speak to her briefly.

‘I'm sorry,' he said, ‘but she was very attached to that magnolia. Sorry.'

‘Neville,' commanded Liz, as if she were Queen of England and he a naughty corgi.

With one last ‘sorry', Neville was off to join his wife at the bar.

‘Sir? Madam? What is your pleasure?' said Eric dispiritedly.

‘Alcohol, but you haven't got any,' said Liz.

‘What do you recommend, Eric?' asked Neville.

‘Well, I don't know,' came the unenthusiastic reply. ‘There's
fruit squash, or bilberry-cocktail or home-made kiwi fruit, raspberry and cinnamon punch, but I can't speak for it personally. The Sillitoes enthuse over their carrot juice. It seems last year was a good year for carrots.'

‘It all sounds most intriguing and inventive and original,' said Liz. ‘Orange juice, please.'

‘I'll have a go at that punch,' said Neville.

‘Juice of the orange and one special punch, can do, no problem, tickety-boo,' said Eric, but his tone suggested that it was far from tickety-boo.

Jenny joined them. She looked like a young lady with a mission. She was.

‘Mum? Can I have a word?' she said.

‘Of course,' said Liz pleasantly.

The moment they were out of Neville's earshot, Jenny revealed her purpose.

‘Mum. Don't you think you're being childish?'

‘No. How are the children?'

‘Fine.' Thomas and his six-week-old sister Steffie were sleeping, in the crèche area thoughtfully provided by these newly-enlightened Sillitoes. ‘It isn't Rita's fault, Mum.'

‘No? Little Steffie's cold better, is it?'

‘Much better, they're both fine, can we stick to the point?'

‘The point.' Liz spoke with low, controlled fury. ‘Rita gets elected to the council, the council plump for the outer inner relief ring road, and, lo and behold, what a surprise, the route lops a great lump off our garden, destroying eighteen roses and a magnolia. That's the point, Jenny.'

‘All over the world people are losing everything they possess in earthquakes, floods, hurricanes and avalanches. Billions never even possess anything to lose in the first place.'

‘I know, and I'm sorry for them, and appalled, but I can only live my life, not the rest of the world's, and heaven forbid that I should ever be accused of being parochial but that is a magnificent magnolia.' Liz had been staring at the wall, whose exposed brickwork was broken only by a painting of a bowl of prunes. The artist had captured every wrinkle. But Liz, whose wrinkles were still mostly in the future, saw only her magnolia. Her anger grew colder still, as if ice could boil. ‘Rita's done it deliberately, Jenny, and I will not speak to
any member of the Simcock family, and I would urge you not to either.'

With her mission in tatters, Jenny lashed out bitterly. ‘You must be thrilled I've split up with Paul then.'

‘No!' Liz seemed immediately contrite. ‘Of course not, Jenny. Children need their father. I'm sad. However, yes, it is true that out of all that sorry mess the one consolation I can find is that you are no longer in intimate association with a Simcock. Oh, Jenny, I hope you find somebody else soon. Somebody nice. Somebody of your own … class. Oh yes, because I'm not ashamed of being a snob.'

Another blast of cold air entered, along with a few flakes of unseasonal snow, and Ted Simcock.

‘Oh Lord,' said Rodney. He was standing beside Betty and Rita. The three of them looked like a welcoming committee for refugees.

Ted surveyed the scene grandly, and came forward to shake Rodney's hand with dignity.

‘Hello, Rodney. No hard feelings,' he said.

He kissed Betty affectionately.

‘None of your doing, Betty, I realise that,' he said.

He looked straight through Rita, and moved off towards the bar.

‘Oh Lord!' said Rita, hurrying after him.

The Mayor, Alderman Spigot, entered with his sister, Netta Ponsonby, the Mayoress. The Mayor was small and corpulent. The Mayoress was large and corpulent. They were extremely conscientious, very kind, and hardly pompous at all, and almost everybody made fun of them.

But not Betty Sillitoe. Over-deferential, as usual, she scurried across, made a small instinctive curtsey, and said, ‘Hello, your worshipfulnesses.'

Rita caught up with Ted just before he reached the bar, which he was approaching quite slowly, as befitted one so unenthusiastic about its wares.

‘Ted!' she said.

‘I've no wish to speak. to you, Rita.'

‘Oh, Ted. I hate to see you letting yourself down by being small-minded in public.'

‘Why should you care?'

‘I know. Silly, isn't it, but I do. Maybe I still have some shred of affection for you. Some memories of happier times. Corinna all right?'

‘Yes, just late as usual. She was twelve days late coming into the world, and she's never quite caught up.' Ted's face softened as he thought about Corinna. Then his expression changed abruptly. ‘But, Rita … I mean … what do you expect? I mean … you get elected to the council and push through a route for the outer inner relief ring road which means demolition of your ex-husband's restaurant but leaves intact the nextdoor property, which just happens to be a vegetarian crank centre owned by his one-time best friend, where you are employed. In my book, that's tantamount to municipal corruption.'

‘When I took the job I didn't know the exact route. I have no power to influence the exact route. I've done nothing wrong.' Rita was filled with the indignant frustration of one who is telling the truth but doesn't expect to be believed. ‘I'm truly sorry about Chez Edouard, but you'll get compensation.'

‘Oh, I know. Well, Corinna will, it's in her name, but it amounts to the same difference.' Ted's face softened again. He couldn't mention the woman without looking like a lovesick adolescent. He'd never looked like that with her. ‘But it's nothing like what we'd get on the open market. It's daylight robbery.'

‘It's democracy. We can't throw taxpayers' money around willy-nilly.'

‘Politicians! When you're refusing to spend, you're saving taxpayers' money. When you're spending, you call it your money and pretend you're giving it away. You're hypocrites. I mean … you are.'

‘It's the will of the people, Ted. Well, the will of the four people who gave me a majority in a 19.2 per cent turn out. Look, don't you think I'm embarrassed that my first influence on world politics loses you your restaurant and Liz and Neville eighteen rose bushes and a magnolia?'

‘You what, Rita?'

‘The route lops the end of their garden off.'

Ted gave a delighted laugh.

‘Liz isn't speaking to me,' said Rita.

‘What? How petty can you get? How small-minded these snobbish types can be.'

‘Who's being hypocritical now?'

‘What?'

‘You weren't going to speak to me.'

‘That's different.' Ted saw that Rita didn't believe him. ‘It is! I mean … eighteen rose bushes and a magnolia, that's hardly concomitant with a temple of gastronomy as recommended by Egon Ronay, is it?'

‘“As recommended by Egon Ronay”! You never even opened.'