by David Nobbs
Timothy finds dinner a grisly affair, all the more so because it’s clear that none of the others do.
The four of them are seated at a table that is too large for four, in a dining room that is too large for the table. Even in July the room is cold. They eat off Minton plates, one of which, the one used by Lavinia, is chipped. The cauliflower soup, grey cottage pie and rhubarb fool are unworthy of the plates. They drink thin Bulgarian claret. Peregrine reminisces about their trips to the Pennines, leaving out only the fact that he always gatecrashed them halfway through. This is so excruciating for Timothy that he is actually relieved when the subject turns to Tommo’s suicide.
And all the while the pressure is building. In twenty-one hours’ time he will know whether Naomi has come.
After dinner, Hamish and Lavinia retire to bed.
‘We usually go early,’ says Lavinia, ‘but tonight we thought we might go even earlier.’
‘You and Peregrine will have so much to talk about,’ says Hamish.
Peregrine finds some port, and the two of them sit at either side of the empty fireplace, dwarfed by the drawing room, like a squire and his visitor after a good day on the river.
‘It’s so good to see you,’ says Peregrine.
Timothy can think of several replies, but not one of them can be made. He wants to apologise for his behaviour over the years, but he feels that this would serve no purpose. Peregrine may well be in denial over the truth of their ‘Pennine Piss-ups’. He may have persuaded himself that he really was invited to them, that he was part of their secret club.
He also wants to ask him what he bought at Janus London, but that line of conversation is closed to him too.
They discuss Tommo yet again, and Peregrine echoes the words they have all used. ‘Poor old Tommo.’
Timothy at last thinks of a subject that it is permissible for him to raise.
‘Do you know, Peregrine, I’ve never actually known what it is you do for a living,’ he says.
‘Oh, not much,’ says Peregrine. ‘I’m not much of a chap, you know. I’m a chemist.’
‘Oh! What sort of a chemist?’
‘A “Can I help you, madam?” sort of a chemist. I work in a chemist’s shop over in Dingelton. I got the job twenty-three years ago, and I’ve stayed there ever since. Pathetic, isn’t it?’
Yes.
‘No!! Of course it isn’t.’
‘I’ve no responsibility and that suits me. It’s a job well within my powers. I do it well and I get on well with the customers and they like me.’
‘Well, that’s great.’
‘Another drop?’
‘Thank you.’
‘I shouldn’t, but I’ll keep you company. Cheers.’
‘Cheers.’
‘Not bad port.’
‘No.’
‘I was thinking, Timothy, the other day…it would probably strike you as sad…it probably is sad…but it doesn’t seem too sad to me so if it isn’t too sad to me I suppose you’d say it isn’t sad…but in my career…I say, listen to me, “career”, hardly a career…but, as I say, in my career, I must have said to…oh, easily a thousand customers, maybe more than a thousand, I mean I’m not talking about a thousand different people, though I suppose over the years it might be, but well over a thousand people counting every time I’ve spoken to them and some of them I’ve said it to quite regularly…I’ve said, “Anything for the weekend, sir?” and in all that time…I mean, I have a little laugh with some of them over it, I think they think I’m a bit bold…in all that time I have had, in my possession, every time I’ve gone out, in my pocket, “something for the weekend”. And I’ve never ever used it, not once, ever. Is that sad or is that sad?’
At first Timothy doesn’t realise that Peregrine has finished.
‘Are you sorry you’ve never used it?’ he asks.
Peregrine reflects.
‘On the whole, no,’ he says. ‘I think I’d be scared stiff. Oh. “Stiff”. How very inappropriate!’
They have a little laugh over that.
This is his last chance to ask Peregrine what he bought at Janus London, but he can’t.
‘Another drop?’
‘Thank you.’
‘I shouldn’t, but I’ll keep you company. Cheers.’
‘Cheers.
‘Nice port.’
‘Yes.’
‘You must be looking forward to seeing Naomi.’
Timothy’s insides seem to rush up right into his throat. He can hardly speak.
‘Is she coming?’
‘Well, I hope so. That’s the whole point of it.’
‘What on earth can you mean?’
‘I can see how right you two are for each other. I always have. You should have married each other. I wondered how I could help you, and I thought, if we laid on a big reunion, you’d meet.’
‘All this was your idea?’
‘I told you it was.’
‘I know, but…’
‘You didn’t believe me.’
‘No. Sorry. Well…my God…thank you. And it was all for…us?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you say, she’s coming?’
‘Well, she’s accepted. We weren’t sure of her address, so we sent it to the address we had, and we sent another one care of the BBC, we put “Naomi Walls, star, Get Stuffed” and apparently that went to someone who used to be her agent, and they sent it on to her, and she wrote and said, yes, she was coming.’
Timothy lets out a huge sigh.
‘But why…why should you do all that?’
‘You’ve always been so kind to me.’
Does he really believe that? Perhaps he does.
‘But…I mean…since you’ve never ever…you know…done it, I’m amazed that you’re so…you know…generous about us.’
‘I like to see people happy. It’s probably the greatest pleasure I get in life.’
Timothy shakes his head very slowly several times, then smiles.
‘Thank you, Peregrine,’ he says.
‘No probs. So, tomorrow, the big day.’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Best get to bed.’
‘Be stupid not to.’
‘Drop more port?’
‘Thanks.’
‘I shouldn’t, but I’ll keep you company. Cheers.’
‘Cheers.’
‘Wonderful port.’
‘Wonderful.’
A hundred and thirty-one old Coningsfieldians stand in a room not quite big enough, in a hotel not quite good enough, drinking sparkling white wine not quite cold enough, under a huge chandelier not quite clean enough.
Timothy surveys the room, and the sight of this tightly packed throng, every one of whom is aged forty-three or forty-four, strikes him as bizarre.
The organisers had decided that there should be no dress code, formality wasn’t the Coningsfieldian way. So a hundred and thirty people have thought hard about what image they wish to convey. Only Peregrine, so recently deSniffified, hasn’t. He has no sense of what he should look like, or indeed of what he does look like, which is lucky, because, if he did, he wouldn’t go anywhere. He is wearing a striped shirt with a white collar, a brown cardigan with buttons, a tweed jacket with leather patches on the elbows, and grey flannel trousers not quite immaculate enough around the crotch.
There are men in dark suits, men in light suits, men in jacket and tie, men in jacket and open-neck shirt, men in jeans and open-neck shirt, and one man, determined not to look forty-three, in jeans and T-shirt. He does succeed, though, in not looking forty-three. He looks fifty-two.
There are sensible women with good legs in short dresses, sensible women with bad legs in long dresses, modest women with good legs in long dresses, and deluded women with bad legs in short dresses. There are also many women in trousers.
The buzz of conversation is deafening. Men are talking to women whose names they can’t remember. Others are talking to women whom they suddenly wish they�
�d married. Some people are trying to sound modest as they relate how well they’ve done. Others are trying to keep the conversation more general to avoid revealing how badly they’ve done. One man is deeply aware that he has lost more hair than anyone else in the room. Some women are saying how well their children are doing. Others are trying not to speak of their offspring. Several women are convinced that Sally Lever has had a facelift.
Timothy isn’t interested in any of this. He is only interested in one thing.
And then he catches sight of her. She’s here. She’s come. His knees almost buckle, his heart hammers, his throat goes dry, he feels sick, he can barely breathe, this is almost as terrible as it’s wonderful. She’s here. She’s come. In a few moments…in a few moments, what? In a few moments his life will change for the better, to an unimaginable degree, for ever. Or it will change for the worse, to an unimaginable degree, for ever. He wants to rush over to her, part the crowds like the Red Sea. He also wants to delay the moment, to still have hope.
He has to delay. He can’t approach her while she’s talking to that cow who once nipped his prick so viciously in geography.
They all have name tags. If he wasn’t in love with Naomi he could pretend to be short-sighted and use looking at their names as an excuse for getting quite close to several breasts.
‘Timothy Pickering! I thought so. I’m Sally Lever. Well, Sally Mackintosh now. You were in our confirmation class.’
‘That’s right.’
‘You look great.’
‘Thank you. It’s the outdoor life.’ Then, ever so slightly late, ‘And so do you.’
‘It must be all my indoor exercise.’
Her eyes meet his as she says this. Her face, whether lifted or not, is smooth, lovely, warm. Her teeth are extremely white. She’s making advances. Now, today, of all times, I could pull. Whoever Mackintosh is, he’s not made her happy. Whoever Mackintosh is, he’s not giving her what she wants.
The irony of it. To be propositioned by a mature and lovely woman at this of all moments. For Sally Lever is lovely. With the help, perhaps, of a little of Mackintosh’s money, she has grown into her body and her features. She is barely recognisable as the gawky girl of the confirmation classes.
Naomi is no longer with Bitch-Woman. He’s waited for this moment for so many years. He must go to her. He must find out.
He finds it difficult to snub Sally’s heart-warming, unwelcome advances.
‘It’s great to see you, Sally,’ he says. ‘Really great. I do hope we’ll be at the same table. But I have someone I just must see.’
She looks disappointed. Women don’t often look disappointed when he walks away from them. She is trying not to look dumbfounded. Rejection is a rare visitor to her life.
Timothy thinks that, in his turmoil of ecstasy and fear over Naomi, he must be giving out something sexual, some male scent. He must be Timothy of the Testosterones, on this amazing day.
And indeed he is finding it difficult not to get an erection as he struggles through the throng. He sees Steven Venables over to his right and waves. Steven, one of the richest failures in the history of economics, raises his hand in a gesture both cool and arrogant.
He is almost halfway to Naomi when he is buttonholed by a man whose name begins with R who played the priest in Romeo and Juliet and already looks old enough to play it without make-up. He can’t squeeze by without a few words. Perhaps if he uses very short replies he can get away quickly. He wishes he could remember the man’s name, though. Why is he alone not wearing his name tag? Roger? Robert? Ronald? Reggie?
‘Hello, Timothy.’
‘Hello.’
‘How are you?’
‘Fine. You?’
‘Fine.’
‘Great.’
‘Married?’
‘Divorced. You?’
‘Yep. Me too. That’s life, eh?’
‘Seems like it.’
This could go on for ever. He touches Rory/Robin/Roy lightly, affectionately, sympathetically on the shoulder, as one divorced man to another, and moves on. The moment he’s gone he remembers the man’s name. It’s Andy.
‘Oh, thanks!’ He has coincided with a waiter bearing more lukewarm fizz. The waiters are having a real struggle to get through the throng.
Not far to go now. Oh, the excitement, the fear, the hope.
But why isn’t she struggling across the room towards him? The thought punches him in the solar plexus.
Next there’s Amanda Carmichael’s fearsome bosom to negotiate. Just as he’s squeezing past she turns, and he feels the whole formidable structure as it slides squelchily across his chest. All traces of his erection subside.
Almost there. My goodness, she looks lovely. She’s kept her figure and her face has matured into a sensitive, elegant warmth. It’s a face that could keep the cold winds at bay for forty years at least. He’s overwhelmed by love. He’s really worried that he will pass out from the emotion, and, on a more mundane level, that he will begin to sweat and smell in this crowded, overheated room.
He hesitates. He is a man on the edge of a cliff, who can’t decide whether it’s safe to jump. There’s a pain in his chest. His breath hurts. His tongue is stuck to the roof of his mouth. He won’t be able to speak.
She isn’t looking towards him. Why doesn’t she turn to look at him? Why isn’t she hunting him out, her eyes hungry for him? He is conscious that, at this moment he has longed for, at this moment of all moments, his prick is a tiny shrivelled thing. Hope is draining from him.
She’s talking to a man he doesn’t recognise. Supposing she doesn’t feel for him any of what he feels for her. Supposing she’s still with Colin. Well, he could get her off Colin. But supposing she’s married for a third time, to someone really nice. Supposing she got engaged yesterday. It would be just his luck. No. That’s defeatist. He’s not particularly unlucky. He knows people much less lucky than himself. Peregrine, for instance. (He will never think of him as Sniffy again, that much at least he can do by way of recompense.)
The moment has come. He can hesitate no longer. He squeezes between two men who have never heard of the Atkins Diet, and, just as he gets to her, she turns, she has been aware of his movements all along. She turns, and in her face there is – he cannot believe it – not even politeness, just coolness, wariness, even anger. His smile dies, and for a moment he thinks that his heart has died too.
‘Hello, Timothy,’ she says.
He senses that she is having to try hard to be even this polite.
‘Hello, Naomi. It’s wonderful to see you,’ he says, his voice faltering.
‘Is it?’ She says this almost icily, her words are almost as cold as the blood that’s congealing into ice in his veins.
‘Of course it is.’ He hasn’t intended to come out with it, but something is wrong, and he can’t afford to tiptoe round it. ‘I’ve longed for this moment for years. Oh, Naomi, I love you so much.’
He can’t believe that he has been so direct. Nor can he believe her reply, and the savagery with which it’s delivered.
‘Pity about yesterday, then, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Yesterday?’
‘Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.’
‘I don’t. I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.’
‘You’ll have to do better than that.’
This is a nightmare. Only one thing of real significance happened yesterday.
‘I had nothing to do with Tommo’s death,’ he says.
‘Tommo’s death?’
She hardly knew Tommo, but she is shocked.
‘Oh, my God. Oh, I’m so sorry, Timothy.’
Her hand reaches out as if to touch him, it’s a gesture he remembers, it’s a touch of the old Naomi, but then she pulls the hand away.
‘No, I really am sorry,’ she says again.
‘Thank you. Thank you, Naomi,’ he says, ‘but why are you so angry with me?’
‘I’m
not angry really,’ she says. ‘I’m just…’ She looks him full in the face for the first time, and he can see the pain in her eyes. ‘I’m just…really disappointed. Really sad.’
She turns away, plunges into the crowd, is lost to him.
How does he survive the next half-hour, as his life disintegrates around him, as his perplexity grabs him by the throat and shakes him till he can hardly breathe? Well, he didn’t think he could live on after Sam’s death, but he did. We make noises, we make social noises, we continue to put one leg in front of the other, we do go on, we survive, most of us, it’s called life. Except in Tommo’s case. Tommo!
This reunion is turning out to be a nightmare.
He manages to swallow some more sparkling wine, even though it’s making him acid. He’s even able to eat, and indeed appears to enjoy, a miniature Yorkshire pudding. The minutes pass. He contrives to avoid Sally Lever, because he knows that, if he were to speak to her, he would make dangerous suggestions, in his misery. They could take a bedroom, just for an hour, and he could pour his anger and his…don’t go there, Timothy.
A gavel is banged, silence falls in part of the room, there are cries of ‘ssh’, and the silence passes across the room like a ripple of wind over the water. Sentences that might have been important are cut off throughout the gathering. ‘I’m living in the south of.’ ‘I really like your.’ ‘Isn’t your brother a?’ ‘Let’s meet in.’
John Parkin, swelling with pride like a turkey about to make love, addresses the assembly.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, old Coningsfieldians all, dinner is served.’
Timothy, shattered, bewildered, destroyed, finds that he is moving, moving out of the Sandringham Room of the Balmoral Hotel, down the wide, carpeted stairs of the Balmoral Hotel, across the busy foyer of the Balmoral Hotel, where five backpackers are arguing furiously with a snooty receptionist, and into the Windsor Room of the Balmoral Hotel. How can it be that he is managing to move all this way, when he is no better than a living corpse? It appears that his legs still work and are moving quite independently of his thought processes. Or is he just being pushed along, a piece of flotsam on a human tide?
Anyway, he’s there, at his table, and…oh, my God, Peregrine has put him next to Naomi. And there Peregrine is, at the far side of their round table, smiling his benediction upon them, his face flushed and sweaty from all his excessive layers of clothes.
