Fair Do's (19 page)

‘Plans of your own?' Rodney was tactlessly amazed.

‘The concept of the Yorkshire pudding is a closed book on the dark continent.'

‘You what, Ted?' Betty was frankly bemused.

‘Africa. Yorkshire pudding. They don't have it. Same difference with fish and chips. Batter as we understand the term is unknown from Mozambique to Mogadishu.'

‘You what, Ted?' This time, the bemusement was Rodney's.

‘I'm telling you about my business expansion plans, and all you can say is, “You what, Ted?” You've become insular. We're an insular nation. I expect it's with being an island.'

‘You what, Ted?'

‘Corinna was talking about how tourism has increased in East Africa. Her father's a bishop there, I don't know if you know that. And … well, if you have an eye for a business opportunity you never lose it, it's like se …' Ted glanced at Betty and found himself unable to talk about sex, ‘… riding a bicycle. I saw our chance immediately. I've persuaded her to open a chain of English restaurants in East Africa. You're impressed, I can see.'

‘Impressed' was not perhaps the first word that a casual watcher would have applied to the faces of Rodney and Betty Sillitoe.

‘Well …' said Rodney, recovering slowly.

‘Good luck,' said Betty.

‘Thanks. And thank you for your offer. I don't doubt it was kindly meant,' said the embryonic East African entrepreneur patronisingly.

Ted set off towards the restaurant, from which the strains of ‘When I Was Single' were now emerging. But before he could get there he was collared by Neville.

‘I want your advice, Ted. A man's advice.'

‘Neville!' Ted was flattered. ‘Well … absolutely … I'm your man. What's the problem? You can tell me. These things happen to the best of us.'

‘It's nothing like that. It's Liz and me.'

‘Well, yes, I assumed it was.'

‘I irritate her. It gets on her nerves that I'm so nice all the time. I thought of you immediately.'

‘Really?' Ted was pleased.

‘I want to learn how to become nasty.'

‘You what, Neville?' Ted was no longer pleased.

‘Not very nasty. Somewhat nasty. Less nice.'

‘Neville? Why have you come to me?' Ted was becoming indignant. ‘Do you regard me as nasty? Or less nice? Am I the acknowledged local expert on obnoxiousness?'

‘No. Of course not. In no way.'

‘So, I repeat, and I'd like an answer, why the hell come to me?'

‘I'm sorry I did now.'

‘So am I, Neville.' Ted's anger was rising steadily. ‘So am I.'

‘But there you are, you see. You really are rather good at being angry.'

‘Why don't you get stuffed?' Ted was almost shouting now. He stalked off hurriedly towards Corinna.

Betty Sillitoe, the joint big wheel behind Sillitoe's, stood near the end of the food counter with her employee and good friend, Rita Simcock, and surveyed the scene.

At a nearby table, Trevor Coldwell sat gazing at James Whatmore and, beyond James Whatmore, at his own painting, entitled ‘The Prize Marrow'. You could almost taste the juice.

Beyond them, Prunella Ransom was talking earnestly with Ginny Fenwick. As the Green Party candidate she lost no opportunity of publicising her cause. Mock not, gentle reader. If everybody stole every suit of clothes you produced, you'd feel the need to publicise yourself.

‘So far so good,' said Betty.

‘Very much so, Betty.' A sigh took Rita unawares. Betty looked at her questioningly. She found she wanted to explain. ‘Well, it doesn't look as though my man's going to come. I never really thought he would.'

‘There's still time, Rita.'

‘It was just an hour in a pub, I suppose. It was just that we seemed to … click. He said he thought I was …' Rita couldn't say it.

‘Beautiful?'

‘Well, yes. How did you …? And I was thinking, “Is it it this time?” and he was thinking, “This isn't a bad way of filling up an hour. M'm! This ham roll's nice.”'

Simon entered the restaurant with a bespectacled, rather primly dressed young lady. They stopped to talk with Neville and Liz. Betty was riveted.

‘The silly thing is,' continued Rita, ‘it's not as if I feel the need of a man. Will I ever learn, Betty? Or is this sort of thing going to happen all the time?'

‘M'm? Oh. Fourteen minutes to nine,' said Betty, looking at her watch.

‘My love life is incredibly boring, I agree,' said Rita.

‘No. That was fascinating,' said Betty. ‘Utterly fascinating, Rita. I expect. But I just wasn't listening. I was watching. Simon's friend has arrived.'

Simon brought his friend over to them. She wore glasses. She looked demure in a pale grey Prince of Wales check suit with a blue silk blouse, but she might, Betty felt, have hidden depths.

‘Hello, Betty,' said Simon. ‘This is Lucinda Snellmarsh. Betty Sillitoe, our hostess.'

They shook hands and Lucinda said ‘Hello.' There followed a lacuna, as Lucinda waited to be introduced to Rita.

‘It's rather awkward,' said Simon to Lucinda. His voice, though lowered, was loud enough for Rita to hear. ‘I can't introduce you to the other person. We're having a feud.'

‘Goodness,' said Lucinda. ‘What fun!' She turned to Betty. ‘Sorry I'm so late. I had to show a client round a house.' She looked in the direction of the food. ‘Is that the food?' She went to peer closely at the remains of the hot dishes. Simon followed her. ‘Mm! It looks super.'

‘She
is
a short-sighted estate agent,' said Betty to Rita.

‘What?'

‘We wondered what sort of girl-friend Simon would have. said, a short-sighted estate agent.'

‘I think that's very cruel and rather unfair,' said Rita.

‘But it's true.'

‘That makes it all the more cruel and unfair.'

Rodney joined them, clutching his carrot juice.

‘Ah! There you are,' said Betty.

‘Here I am,' said Rodney cheerfully. ‘I'm going to go and beard Eric in his den.'

‘I've just got to check something in the store room,' said Betty.

Rodney and Betty went off in opposite directions, clutching their carrot juices. Simon and Lucinda were also moving off, Lucinda peering anxiously, protecting her tray of food from dimly-seen terrors. Rita felt that she had been abandoned. She felt suddenly tired. Tired of this feud. Tired of trouble. Tired of challenges. She closed her eyes. This wouldn't do. She opened them and saw Simon and Lucinda talking with Carol
Fordingbridge. She stood and watched and tried to regain her strength.

‘Yours turned up?' Simon asked.

‘Has he heck?' said Carol wryly.

Simon shook his head in mystification. ‘I don't understand it,' he said. ‘I simply don't understand it, Carol.'

‘You what?'

‘A beautiful girl like you. She is beautiful, isn't she, Lucinda?'

The short-sighted Lucinda Snellmarsh peered closely at the long-haired Carol Fordingbridge.

‘Yes,' she said.

Simon smiled. He had introduced two attractive young women to each other. He was handling their meeting well. He was sophisticated. Life was good.

‘Highly desirable?' he said.

‘I'd have thought so,' said Lucinda, somewhat drily, though Simon didn't notice.

‘I'm a woman, Simon, not a house,' protested Carol.

Simon did notice
her
dryness. He strove to deal with it. ‘A very attractive woman. A beautiful woman. A gorgeous woman. Wouldn't you say so, Lucinda?'

‘Well … attractive.'

Simon did realise now that Lucinda was getting somewhat miffed at his praise of Carol. But she could handle it, unlike Carol, who, though lovely, wasn't out of the top drawer. So it was Carol he strove to placate.

‘Absolutely,' he said. ‘So where are the men with taste?'

‘Thank you, Simon,' said Carol bitterly, and she stomped off.

Simon was hurt. ‘I thought I was being extremely complimentary,' he said. His lips curled scornfully. ‘Women!' He noticed Lucinda's expression. ‘Apart from you, of course.'

‘Eric. A word.'

‘Certainly, sir,' said Eric Siddall without enthusiasm. ‘Can do. Tickety-boo. We have a lull.'

‘Erm …' began Rodney. ‘A little bird has told me that you earlier uttered the words “it just isn't me, isn't carrot juice”.'

‘I know what you're going to say, and you're right.'

‘You what?'

‘You were going to say, “Eric,” you were going to say, “I have not employed you on this important night to be lukewarm over your beverages,” you were going to say.'

‘Well, yes.'

‘The rebuke is merited,' said Eric Siddall, barman supreme. ‘I have served, during what I like to think of as a modestly distinguished career behind the pumps, four years on the Cunarders, head barman in the cocktail bar of the Savoy Hotel … Hunstanton, eighteen years stewardship of the golf club, until … well, we won't go into that. I've smiled through streaming colds, gout and a trapped disc. I've endured, with stoic fortitude, heavy seas, leaking roofs, golfers' anecdotes, and the lager playing me up. I have to say that your drinks have depressed me, and I've shown it. I've let you down. I've let meself down. All I can say is, I'm very, very disappointed in meself.'

‘Yes, well,' said Rodney,' I just wanted to say, “Never mind, Eric. Keep at it.” Jolly good.'

It would have been difficult to say which man was closer to tears.

‘Hello, Mum,' said Jenny, smiling bravely. ‘Hello … Neville.'

‘Hello,' said Liz warily.

‘I've something to … er …' began Jenny. She was determined to tell them before they found out. ‘Earlier, Mum, you said you hoped I'd find somebody soon.'

‘Yes,' said her mother even more warily.

‘Well, I have.'

‘That
was
soon,' said Neville.

‘Yes. You said you hoped he'd be nice. He is nice.'

‘That's nice,' said Liz and Neville.

‘Yes. You said you hoped he'd be of my – I can hardly use the word, I find the concept so distasteful – class.'

‘Well, I did, yes,' said Liz.

‘Yes, well, I suppose he, although I don't think in those terms any more, but if I did think in those terms any more I'd have to say, isn't.'

Neville smiled with vague alarm, and left the conversation entirely to the women.

‘Yes, well, I suppose I might have guessed he wouldn't be,' said Liz. ‘Especially as I was so foolish as to suggest he should be. Will parents never learn?'

‘He … er … I'm afraid he may disappoint your hopes pretty considerably in one particular respect.'

‘What?'

‘I'm afraid he fails, utterly and totally fails, the criterion of … er … oh Lord … of … er … not being a Simcock.'

Neville looked puzzled, as if mentally checking through a long list of possible Simcocks.

Liz was quicker.

‘
Elvis
?'

The Hebden Bridge Griddlers were cheerfully instructing the guests to ‘Look at the Coffin'. Lucinda was on to her dessert. The decaffeinated coffee was flowing. Rita and Jenny were busily selling raffle tickets.

Gordon Trollope, the bewildered butcher, told them that last Sunday, over at Thirsk, when asked to recite a nursery rhyme, his vegetarian two-year-old grand-daughter had said, ‘This little piggy went to market, this little piggy stayed at home, this little piggy had lentils, this little piggy had none.' They laughed. Jenny said, ‘Terrific,' and Rita said, ‘Oh, that's beautiful.' It was the wrong response. Gordon Trollope only bought one ticket.

While Jenny sold raffle tickets, Elvis chatted to Ginny Fenwick about media matters. He told her that he planned to become a TV personality. She didn't tell him that, more than thirty years ago, she'd dreamt of becoming a famous war correspondent. He told her that he was in love and it was the real thing. She didn't tell him that she had twice believed it to be the real thing, and it hadn't been either time. When he wandered off, she began to think of those old times, on that other
Argus.
Where were they now, those two men, Ted Plunkett and Gordon Carstairs, neither of whom had been the real thing? Where were kind, effete Denzil Ackerman and podgy Henry Pratt?

It was no use looking back.

Rita hovered beside Trevor Coldwell and James Whatmore. They were in high good humour. No matter tonight that Trevor's exquisite paintings were barely known outside his home town.
No matter tonight that all James Whatmore's good ideas had come just too late and been just wrong – his BBC puppet idea,
The Magic Ferris Wheel,
his book for older children,
The Tiger, the Witch and the Cupboard,
his great character for younger children, Milkman Mike. Tonight, they were kings, as they laughed at success and scorned Metropolitan society, and all the temporary gods who were made and destroyed by fashion. They rejoiced that, in a world full of false values, they had not achieved the success that proves one's worthlessness. They were happy because, in a warm, genuine corner of their untalented and self-deceptive souls, they really did put a low value on worldly riches. When at last Rita managed to attract their attention they bought ten strips of tickets each, and their old bloodshot eyes grew moist for the Third World, and they counted themselves lucky.