Fair Do's (41 page)

‘Bygones be bygones? Let me save you from your banality.'

‘No, but … I mean … will you? Pop in to our reception.'

‘Hooray! My life's ambition achieved. The pinnacle climbed.'

Ted began to wince, then stopped, as if realising that she had no power to hurt him any more.

‘No, but …' he continued resolutely, ‘… we're moving away for good, and –'

‘Oh, well, that is a cause for celebration. In that case I'll be delighted.'

‘Liz!'

Ted sounded disappointed that Liz should fall below an acceptable standard of social behaviour on this happy day. And Liz felt all the more angry, because she knew that Ted's implied rebuke was justified, that he was behaving with more social grace than she was, and that she was unable to do anything about that intolerable state of affairs.

‘No Lucinda?' said Elvis. He could never resist turning the knife in the wound, when the wound was Simon's.

‘Not yet.'

‘Ah.'

‘Save your “ah”s, Elvis. She hasn't ditched me.'

‘No?'

‘No. She wouldn't.'

‘Ah.'

‘Oh belt up.'

Simon moved off, as if he felt that his devastating wit had rendered further conversation unnecessary.

Jenny approached Elvis anxiously, nervously.

‘Can we try to at least be civil today, if not for me, for your mum and dad?' she said.

‘Oh all right,' said Elvis.

‘I mean, we don't have to talk if we can avoid it, but, if we can't avoid it, and I hope we can, but if we can't, let's be at least coolly polite.'

‘Well, all right.'

‘Thanks.' Jenny didn't leave, and Elvis didn't say any more, and clearly Jenny thought he ought to say something more, for she repeated, ‘Thanks.'

‘All right!' he said.

The moment he'd got rid of Jenny, Elvis found that he had Rita to deal with.

‘You've offended Simon and Jenny already, haven't you?' she said. ‘What have you said?'

‘Let's think. To Simon I said, “No Lucinda?”, then “Ah”, then “No?”, then “Ah” again. To Jenny I said … er … “Oh, all right”, “Well, all right”, and “All right”.'

‘My word. You're surpassing even your normal level of inarticulacy.'

‘Mum!'

‘You should try total silence. Britain's first Trappist philosopher.'

‘Mum!'

The moment Rita had moved off, Ted steamed in.

‘Have you upset your mother?' he said. ‘What have you said?'

‘Oh heck. I said “Mum!” and “Mum!'”

‘You shouldn't speak to your mother like that.'

‘Dad!'

It was becoming a nightmare. The moment Ted had gone, here was Rita again.

‘Have you upset your father now?' she said. She saw that he was reeling, and relented. ‘Sorry. But … I mean … on my
wedding day … not coming to fetch me, as arranged, not telling me why.'

‘I couldn't. Look, Mum, I'm here now, at your service, and I want to make this a happy day for you.' He became confidential, as if announcing momentous news. ‘I've switched me bleeper off.'

‘My God! Greater love hath no man.' Rita saw the hurt on his face. ‘Oh, Elvis.' She kissed him. ‘Thanks, Elvis.' She slapped his face in maternal exasperation. ‘Oh, Elvis.'

At last it was the turn of the somewhat bewildered Elvis to move off. There weren't many people he could approach in safety. He decided to try the Sillitoes. Too late. They were already on their way across the dark foyer to explain themselves to Rita.

‘Rita!' said Betty, who was bedecked in a purple and coral tiered dress, with short black shiny gloves, and a pink hat which looked like the intestines of a small, repellent animal. ‘We had no alternative. He swore us to secrecy.'

‘And for the first time in your life you kept a secret! Congratulations!'

‘Don't be like that, Rita,' said the former big wheel behind Cock-A-Doodle Chickens. ‘It's not every day we're invited to two receptions in the same hotel.'

‘No,' said Rita. ‘How will your system work? Will one of you get drunk at each reception?'

‘Rita!' Bottomless was Betty's hurt, immense her disappointment at the attitude of her friend and employee.

And Rita felt suitably contrite. ‘Oh Lord!' she said. ‘I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. Not today. I'm just … after my previous … and seeing Ted and everything … I'm …'

‘We understand,' said Rodney. ‘But we believe, don't we, Betty …?'

‘Oh, we do. We do. Utterly.'

‘That Ted's done it for the very best of motives – a day of reconciliation all round.'

‘We wouldn't have accepted if we hadn't believed that, Rita. We are your friends.'

‘We want to drink to Ted's health and to Sandra's health.'

‘As well as your health and Geoffrey's health.'

‘We want to drink to everybody's health.'

Rita looked into the bloodshot eyes of her two old friends, and suddenly felt that she couldn't bear to disappoint them.

‘I think I believe you,' she said. ‘I really do. Thank you. You're both very dear friends.'

Could she – after all he'd done to her – believe Ted's assurances?

She had to. Otherwise it would be another blighted day. And, if she was just to go from one blighted day to another, why had she fought so hard to change herself and her life? She had once thought that it was a fight that would lead to victory. She knew now that there could be no victory. There could only be the continual avoidance of defeat.

She was ready for it. Ready for the continuation of the endless fight.

Ready for the fray.

She rejoined Geoffrey.

‘I'd like to accept Ted's offer,' she said.

‘Tremendous. So would I.'

He led Rita straight up to Ted, as if fearing that she might change her mind.

‘I'd like to accept your offer and hope you'll come to our reception as well,' she said.

‘Thank you, Rita,' said Ted.

‘Let's make this a day of reconciliation all round,' said Rita. ‘Come on, Geoffrey.'

Rita and Geoffrey walked towards the register office as if proceeding down the aisle of Westminster Abbey.

Their small party of guests followed them in.

Ted took the good news to Sandra.

‘Great news,' he said. ‘A day of reconciliation all round.'

Simon hurried in from the street, where he had been making a desperate effort to will Lucinda to appear on the horizon.

‘Hello, Simon,' said Ted. ‘No Lucinda? Ditched you, has she?'

He cackled. Simon entered the register office without deigning to reply. Ted grinned at Sandra, inviting her to bask in his malicious wit. She gave him a look of grave rebuke that made her seem mature beyond her years.

The Angel Hotel had undergone major surgery. The peeling
Georgian façade had been repainted in dark blue and cream. This colour scheme didn't suit its elegant proportions, and its elegant proportions no longer suited the rest of Westgate. On either side of the hotel there were building societies and shoe shops. Opposite it, where there had once been Georgian town houses, was the bleak concrete façade of the Whincliff Centre, known to the locals as Alcatraz, and publicly condemned by Prince Charles.

Inside, the Angel had become a theme hotel. The theme was Yorkshire cricket. The ballroom had become the Sir Leonard Hutton Room. The Ridings Suite had become the Geoffrey Boycott Room. The restaurant was called the Headingley Grill, and served three courses – openers, middle order and tail-enders. The Gaiety Bar had become the Pavilion Bar. The signed photograph of Ian Botham was still there, but those of Terry Wogan, General Dayan and Dame Peggy Ashcroft had moved on for the second time, to lend their handsome tributes to another hotel that they had never visited, in Bowness-on-Windermere.

A not entirely successful picture of Sir Leonard Hutton, painted by Doug Watkin, who was to cricketers what Sir Alfred Munnings was to horses, gazed down upon a cheery, happy scene, in the refurbished green and cream function room. Rita's uncles and aunts and cousins and nephews and nieces hadn't entirely accepted her explanation that there wouldn't have been room for them all at the register office. But she had turned up this time; they could enjoy themselves without feeling guilty, and enjoy themselves they would. Her new councillor friends were more restrained, being conscious that they were public figures, always on display, it was the price they had to pay. There were friends from the almost forgotten past: her old schoolfriend Denise Bowyer, who had once had a crush on her and now had four sons, and Madge Longbottom, from the next desk at the insurance company, whose daughter Glenda had become a Country and Western singer and changed her name to Emmylou Longbottom.

Eric Siddall, barman supreme, replenished the glass of the cynical Elvis Simcock with a smile, and the words, ‘There you go, sir. Just the job. Tickety-boo.'

Elvis didn't return the smile.

‘Oh dear. We do look glum,' said Eric. ‘Cheer up, sir. It may never happen.'

‘It has happened, Eric,' said Elvis gloomily.

Eric moved on, to serve Simon Rodenhurst, no longer of Trellis, Trellis, Openshaw and Finch. Simon had a plate piled with food, as was his wont, his years at boarding school having taught him to go for every half chance, whether at rugger or eating. But today he felt sick with anxiety and couldn't eat.

‘A touch more of the '82, sir?' said the dapper, ageless Eric Siddall. ‘A fine vintage, as you will know, being, I'm sure, something of a connoisseur.'

‘Well, yes.' Simon basked briefly in Eric's praise. ‘I think I can say I know my way around a wine list.' He watched Eric pouring the golden liquid. ‘Thank you, Eric. You're a treasure. But I thought you were working at the Clissold Lodge nowadays.'

‘There were problems, sir. Of a personal nature.' Eric changed the subject. ‘Is your lovely lady not here? Not indisposed, I trust?'

Eric's change of subject was not an enormous success.

‘Why don't you cut the tittle-tattle and concentrate on the job you're paid to do?' said Simon contemptuously, and he stomped off.

Eric raised an ironically self-pitying eyebrow, fought his anger, controlled his breathing, and moved on warily. The wariness fell from his face like fat from a slimmer's cheeks when he saw that he was approaching those two lovely young ladies, Jenny Simcock and Carol Fordingbridge.

‘A drop more of the sparkling grape, ladies?' he enquired.

They accepted with thanks.

‘There you go,' said Eric as he poured. ‘Very special champagne for very special young ladies, who are, if you'll excuse the play on words, as bubbly as the bubbly.'

‘Oh Lord,' said Jenny. ‘Excuse me.'

Eric looked stunned as Jenny ran off.

‘It's just … she's all churned up about Elvis,' explained Carol. ‘And Paul. And Simon. And her mother and Rita. It was just you being so cheerful upset her, I think.'

For a moment Eric felt sorry for himself. But he soon snapped out of' it. He was a fighter. He was a barman supreme. He was even able to acknowledge that he might
have been a little at fault. It was possible for a barman to be too cheerful.

‘Good afternoon, madam,' he said to Liz with a suitable air of gravity. ‘May I replenish your glass at all?'

‘It's not a funeral, Eric,' said Liz. ‘For goodness sake cheer up or I'll cry.'

Rita circulated busily, smiling at Morris Wigmore, the eversmiling deputy leader of the Conservatives, whom she had invited because she believed that social life should be nonpartisan, smiling at Councillor Mirfield, who smiled at her, lest his resentment of her became public knowledge, smiling at Councillor Wendy Bullock because she liked her, smiling at all her relatives, who were feeling neglected and would feel even more neglected when she went off to Ted and Sandra's reception. Oh why did she still care so much what people thought?

Eventually, inevitably, Rita's smiling tour brought her face to face with an unsmiling Liz.

‘Ah!' she said.

‘“Ah!”?'

‘Yes. Geoffrey tells me you had a chat with him.'

‘Ah.'

‘Yes. He tells me you regret suggestions at the … er …'

‘Funeral, Rita. My husband's funeral. It's not something I can't face mentioning, although of course I don't want to harp on it and cast a cloud of depression over your joyful day.'

‘That you regret saying that we should end our feud.'

‘I'll have to be careful what I say to Geoffrey. It'll all come back to you.'