Fair Do's (37 page)

Alec Skiddaw, the great loomer, loomed.

‘More champagne, madam?' he said.

‘Thanks. Tickety-bloody-boo.'

Alec Skiddaw looked somewhat surprised by this remark, and Liz realised that it was Eric Siddall who said ‘tickety-boo' and that when she'd asked Geoffrey to ask Alec to serve the drinks today, she'd meant Eric. And so she displayed, briefly, a condition rarely seen on the face of the ravishing Liz Badger. She displayed social confusion.

Alec Skiddaw, also socially confused, scampered off.

Geoffrey, single-mindedly bent on offering his support, hadn't listened to this brief exchange. He waited until it was over. Now he resumed his mission.

‘Well …' he said, ‘I've missed you all these years I've been abroad.'

‘Good heavens. Meaning, “I hadn't the faintest idea.”'

‘Nor had I really till now. Silly, isn't it? Look, anything you need, Liz – help, support, a roof, a shoulder to lean on.'

‘You can help me now.'

‘At your service.' Geoffrey, pleased, made a tiny mock bow, and adopted an eager-to-please expression.

‘Here comes Ted. I think I know what he wants to talk about. You can make yourself scarce and leave us alone.'

‘Oh.' Geoffrey tried not to look too disappointed. ‘Well, that was hardly … well, all right.'

He moved off, reluctantly.

Ted hobbled slowly towards Liz, negotiating with slight difficulty the small step which separated the two areas of the room.
The mourners pretended that they hadn't seen him, since they didn't know what to say to him, but it was clear that they had seen him, since they moved away to make room for him. Ted therefore approached Liz through a wide tunnel formed by two rows of backs. Liz stood at the end of the tunnel, waiting, as if she was still dressed as Queen Elizabeth the First.

‘Hello, Ted,' she said, when at last her injured serf had reached her. ‘I'm flattered.'

‘You what?'

‘You, struggling all the way over to speak to me.'

‘Well … since you didn't even move an inch towards me …'

‘Oh Lord. I never thought.'

‘Not your strong point.'

‘Thank you very much.'

‘Oh heck. Not a good start.'

‘On what?'

‘Diplomacy. I'm not very good at it.'

‘Not having had much practice.'

‘Ouch. No, but, Liz, doesn't it? A thing like this. Put everything in proportion.'

‘Yes.'

‘So …'

‘No.'

‘What?'

‘The answer's “no”, Ted.'

‘I haven't asked the question yet.'

‘The question is, will I end my feud with Rita forever? Become friends. You were going to say that I'm going to need friends and shouldn't be petty.'

‘Oh heck.'

‘Nicely put, Ted, but the answer's “no”.'

‘Why, Liz?'

‘I can't do it. I don't know how to.'

‘I'm sorry for you.'

‘Spare me your pity and go.'

‘Right. Right.'

Ted hobbled off, banging his crutch unnecessarily hard in frustration at the total failure of his mission.

•

Simon Rodenhurst decided that it was time to show his mettle. He strode briskly across the spacious main reception room. He had no eyes for the exceptionally attractive arch, for the pleasant views afforded by the double-glazed windows, for the six power points, or for Ted Simcock, struggling in the opposite direction, as if Simon were going with the tide and wind and Ted straight into them. He had eyes only for Elvis.

‘How much do you know?' he demanded.

‘About what?' said Elvis.

There was a pause.

‘Nothing,' said Simon. ‘I've done nothing wrong.'

‘Why did you say, “How much do you know?” then?'

‘Because I'm not very good at this sort of thing.'

‘What sort of thing do you think this sort of thing is?'

There was another pause.

‘Hounding innocent people. Making false allegations. The media. All right, let me put it another way. What exactly do you falsely and ludicrously claim I've done?' said Simon Rodenhurst, of Trellis, Trellis, Openshaw and Finch.

‘I can't talk about it here, Simon. It's not the time or place,' said the cynical, almost smirking Elvis Simcock.

Having replenished his glass – ‘He'd have wanted me to' – Ted struggled towards Rita, who was still sitting on the same chair, trying not to look as though she was enjoying her food.

‘Thank you for not coming to meet me,' said Ted.

‘I know how much you enjoy feeling hard done by,' said Rita.

‘I see,' said Ted, in his feeling-hard-done-by voice. ‘So this is my reward for trying to help.'

‘Trying to help?'

‘I begged Liz to be friends with you.'

‘Ted! Why?'

‘I don't know. Maybe I wanted you to remember me with some affection.'

‘Oh.' Since Ted showed no sign of sitting down, Rita felt it incumbent upon her to stand up, in gratitude for his efforts. ‘Thanks, Ted.'

‘No. I failed. She said, “I can't do it. I don't know how to.”'

‘I'm sorry for her.'

‘That's what I said. She wasn't thrilled.'

‘Oh, Ted. Well, thanks, anyway.'

Rita smiled at her ex-husband. He didn't quite smile back, but nodded, as if acknowledging that Rita's smile had been the correct response. He hobbled off, making a slow bee-line for the Sillitoes, who were remaining close to each other and the champagne.

‘Ted! Love! How are you?' said Betty, her voice over-effusive as usual.

‘Terrific. Limping's my hobby.' Ted paused, to let the full weight of his sarcasm sink in, then changed his tone abruptly. ‘I realise this isn't the time or place, but how's business?'

‘Well,' said Rodney, trying to look lugubrious, ‘if it wasn't that on an occasion like this it would seem rather insensitive to say so, I'd say, “extremely satisfactory”.'

‘Up 7.3% across the whole spectrum,' said Betty.

‘Betty!' said Rodney.

‘Well, if you did say that,' said Ted, ‘I might say, perhaps equally insensitively, “any chance of your reconsidering the possibility of my working for you?”'

‘If you did say that,' said Rodney, ‘I might well reply, not only insensitively but extremely bluntly, that you described us as “crackpot lunatic fringe animal rights trendy health food freaky nut nuts”.'

‘Well, folk exaggerate, don't they?' said Ted. ‘No, I've had time to think, and reappraise my ideas
vis-à-vis
other offers I've been considering, and … well … frankly, I was … well … wrong. That's all there is to it.'

He gave an apologetic little smile. He looked, at that moment, as dignified as it is possible for a man to look when he has one foot in plaster, an arm in a sling, a neck brace, and a large bandage on his bruised forehead.

‘Well, under the circumstances, I feel …' Betty smiled warmly at Ted. ‘Don't we, Rodney?'

‘Yes, Betty, we do.' The former big wheel behind Cock-A-Doodle Chickens also smiled warmly at Ted. ‘We have a vacancy for an experienced person to supervise our rapidly expanding fruit and vegetable buying operation.'

‘Incorporating nuts, grains and spices,' put in the joint big wheel behind Sillitoe's.

‘Well, thanks. Thanks. I … er … I like the sound of it.' Ted tried to look deeply excited. He must have known that he'd failed, since he felt it necessary to emphasise the point. ‘No. I mean it. I really do. But.'

‘But?'

‘I foresee one possible snag. Rita works for you.'

‘So?'

‘Well, Rita and I have reached a … a plateau of peace. I'd hate to embarrass her by having her working under me.'

‘Oh no,' said Rodney. ‘There'd be nothing like that.'

‘Oh good.'

‘You'd be working under Rita, Ted,' said Betty.

‘You can stuff your organic fruit and vegetables,' said Ted.

Simon tried to make his approach to Arthur Badger, Neville's slightly less charming and immaculate elder brother, appear totally casual. They discussed the loss to the community, and the impossibility of putting into words adequately what they were failing to put into words adequately.

‘Incidentally,' said Simon, as if he'd just thought of it, ‘Why are Andrew and Judy not here?'

‘We couldn't contact them. They're touring in France. They're determined not to let the little one hamstring their life-style.'

‘Ah. How are they?'

‘Blooming.'

‘And … the little one?'

‘Excellent. She's a real little flirt already.'

‘Terrific. Terrific.' Simon searched for something else to say, but couldn't find anything. ‘Terrific.'

‘You should see her,' said Arthur Badger. ‘I guarantee it'll make you start to want to have babies of your own.'

‘Yes. I must. Terrific.'

Did Arthur Badger know?

‘What's happening this weekend, about visiting Paul?' asked Jenny.

They were sitting on the oatmeal settee. Elvis put his arm round her as he said, ‘Oh, love, it isn't the time or place.'

‘It never is with you, is it?'

‘Yes, it is, but this isn't.'

‘Well, I'd like to see him.'

‘We'll go together. And tell him … about us.'

‘We can't tell him while he's in prison. He's got enough to contend with.'

‘It's all very well for you, Jenny. You were his wife, now you aren't. I was his brother and still am.'

‘He's still the father of my children.'

‘He's the father of my children too.' Elvis was a little upset that his remark seemed to surprise Jenny. ‘Well, that's what I think of them as, now. I think we should go on Sunday, together, and I should say, “Hello, Paul. I know you're very worried about Jenny since your marriage broke up because of what you did, but you needn't worry, she's found another feller and a good home for your children and you'll be given full access because you know the feller. In fact, you're related to him. In fact, it's me.”'

Even as he spoke, Elvis realised the impracticability of the suggested scenario, so he wasn't surprised, and in fact was rather relieved, though he would never have admitted it, to hear Jenny say, ‘This isn't the time or place.' He patted her left thigh with his right arm, stood up abruptly, and sighed. Then he forced himself to tackle her mother.

‘I'm sorry about my bleeper,' he said.

‘No. Please.' Liz smiled at him. ‘Neville wanted everything to be normal.'

‘Yes, but … a funeral isn't normal.'

‘You must understand. My husband was a certain type of Englishman who believed that you don't show emotion. All the misery he revealed after his first wife died was a source of great shame to him. To see us overcome with grief today would horrify him. We must respect his wishes. And you did that. Thank you.' Liz moved off towards the hall. Elvis stared after her, somewhat dumbfounded. He tried not to look quite so dumbfounded. She came back. ‘We all must die. You know that. You're the philosopher.' Elvis was failing in his effort not to look quite so dumbfounded. ‘If death is unpleasant, then life becomes a journey towards something unpleasant, so death cannot be unpleasant. Neville was happy for much of his life. And he went quickly. So, please, none of you grieve
for him. And as for me, I don't have any feelings, do I? I'm inhuman.'

She strode out into the hall, leaving Elvis even more dumbfounded than before.

Liz had no idea where she was going. Her sole aim had been to leave. Since she was facing the door of the dining room, she walked towards it, less because she wanted food than because she had no other need which might have caused her to change course.

As she passed the foot of the stairs, she felt a tingle all down her spine. She felt as if her hair was standing on end, and hundreds of tiny insects were scampering across her scalp. She stopped dead in her tracks. She knew that she wasn't alone in that brown hall.

She turned her head very slowly, half knowing what she would see; half frightened of seeing it, half frightened of not seeing it.

She saw her dead husband, Neville Badger, of Badger, Badger, Fox and Badger. She saw him sitting at the top of the stairs, with his feet on the second stair down, and his face silhouetted against the inappropriately dim light from the landing window. She saw that he was wearing a light, immaculate, grey suit, with grey shoes, grey socks, a grey shirt and a grey tie. She saw that he had a small harp across his knee. She saw that his face was not happy, not sad, but serene. She heard him say, firmly, clearly, one word. It was, ‘Sorry.'