by David Nobbs
Rodney Sillitoe collapsed into one of several Restoration chairs dotted around the walls, but singly, as if to discourage social sitting. There was also the occasional occasional table.
The cynical Elvis Simcock made a bee-line for Rodney, leaving his fiancée in the social lurch. He fetched a second chair and sat beside Rodney.
‘Auntie Betty’s been away quite a lot lately, hasn’t she?’ he asked.
‘Yes. She’s having to look after an elderly aunt. She’s at Tadcaster more often than she’s at home these days.’ Rodney gasped and grimaced.
‘Are you all right?’ asked Elvis.
‘No. Last night I succumbed to temptation. I’m reaping the whirlwind.’
‘Would you be prepared to tell me what temptation exactly you succumbed to?’ persisted Elvis.
‘Meat.’
‘You what?’
‘Rump steak. Rare. Bloody. Marvellous. Bloody marvellous. Now I’ve got the gripes.’
‘Oh, I see.’ Elvis sounded disappointed.
‘Disappointed? Thought I was talking about “another woman”?’
‘No! ’Course not. Has it ever crossed your mind that when she’s at Tadcaster Auntie Betty might be seeing “another man”?’
‘It has crossed my mind, yes.’ Rodney raised Elvis’s hopes only to dash them. ‘Once. Just then, when you asked it. Of course it hasn’t, Elvis. We have the perfect marriage.’
‘Of course you do.’ Elvis sounded disbelieving, as befitted one so cynical.
Rita approached her new hosts. She sported a knitted navy suit with three-quarter-length coat and cream knitted top. Her hat, shoes and bag were white. Liz had plumped for a purple, pink and yellow silk jacket and skirt, with a lilac silk top and large lilac bows in her hair. Neville wore a dark suit.
‘Rita!’ he said. ‘There’s tea or champagne, except there isn’t any tea yet.’
‘Champagne then?’ said Liz. ‘Or does that clash with your image as a Labour councillor?’
‘I don’t deal in images, Liz,’ said Rita. ‘I deal in truth and justice. Oh Lord, that sounds pompous. I hope in time I’ll learn to be serious without being pompous. Champagne, please.’
Eric Siddall, barman supreme, sidled up as if on castors. ‘There you go, madam,’ he said, handing Rita a glass. ‘Just the job. Tickety-boo.’
‘Thank you, Eric,’ said Rita. ‘Eric! Are you working here now?’
‘As of last Monday fortnight, madam,’ said Eric. ‘There was … let’s say there was a clash of personalities at the golf club.’ He flung a hostile glance towards the bluff, egg-shaped Graham Wintergreen.
‘I’m sorry to hear that, Eric,’ said Neville. ‘I noticed you’d gone of course.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
Eric excused himself, leaving them regretting that they hadn’t asked him to elaborate.
‘So …’ said Neville, ‘… how are you faring, Rita?’
‘In what way?’
‘Well … in life. At home. The evenings. The nights. Without …’
‘Neville!’ said Liz.
‘Without what?’ asked Rita. ‘Gerry? Any man? Sex?’
‘No! Well, yes.’
‘Neville!’
‘I’m faring well. I’m not the sort of woman who feels incomplete without a man.’
‘Is that a dig at me?’ said Liz.
‘No,’ said Rita. ‘Good heavens, no, Liz. We’re friends now.’
‘Ah.’
‘Subject closed. Feminist speeches over.’ Rita did try to leave it at that. ‘I just hate the idea that without marriage men are fine but women aren’t. Men seem to have managed to project the idea that bachelors are admirable and spinsters are pathetic. As if marriage was an institution for the benefit of women, when it’s clearly almost entirely for the benefit of men.’
‘I see corduroy’s staging a revival,’ said Neville.
‘What?’ Rita and Liz were as united in their bemusement as they had ever been in their lives.
‘I read somewhere that corduroy is making a comeback. I was steering us towards safer waters,’ explained Neville. ‘Sorry.’
‘No. You’re absolutely right,’ said Rita. ‘Let’s try and avoid ructions of any kind, just this once.’
Sandra entered hurriedly and inelegantly with a large pot of tea and a large jug of hot water.
‘Sorry about that,’ she said to the Badgers, ‘but he’s a right dozy ha’p’orth, him.’
‘Sandra!’ Rita sounded appalled.
‘Oh Lord.’ So did Neville.
‘What’s wrong?’ Sandra plonked the tea and water down and picked up the milk jug.
‘You’ll see,’ said Liz.
Ted entered with Corinna.
Sandra dropped the milk jug onto the cups.
‘She’s seen,’ said Liz.
Ted also looked thunderstruck. ‘Oh heck. That’s torn it,’ he said. ‘Come on, Corinna. Let’s leave. It’s best. I mean, it is. Isn’t it?’
But his vision in orange was made of sterner stuff. ‘I don’t want to leave, Ted,’ she said. ‘I enjoy champagne. And I’m not frightened of a waitress. My father’s a bishop.’
Corinna Price-Rodgerson marched forward resolutely. Ted had no option but to follow.
‘Ted! Corinna!’ Neville’s enthusiasm for welcoming new arrivals was a bottomless well. ‘Tea or champagne?’
‘Champagne for me, please,’ said Corinna.
‘There you go, madam,’ said Eric Siddall, barman supreme. ‘No problem. Just the job. They can’t touch you for it.’
‘I think I’ll start with tea,’ said Ted. ‘I’ve got a mouth like an elephant’s …’ he glanced at Corinna, ‘… mouth.’
Ted’s choice of tea involved an encounter with Sandra, lover of cake and, until recently, lover of Ted. Well, so be it. It was unavoidable.
Sandra, who had made a creditable job of clearing up the worst of the mess that she had made, gave Ted a cup of tea and enquired, with suspect solicitude, ‘Do you take sugar, sir?’
Ted was uneasily aware that people were listening.
‘You know I … yes. Two, please,’ he said.
‘Nice to see you again, sir. We haven’t seen you around lately,’ said Sandra.
‘No, I … er … I … er … I’ve been … er …’
‘Tied up? I know how these things happen, sir.’
Jenny came in, carrying an electronic baby link.
‘They’ve put the babies in room 108,’ she announced.
‘They’ve what?’ said Ted.
‘That’s hardly appropriate,’ said Liz. ‘That’s the room he was … put in last time.’
‘Well they say they use that room as a kind of spare because it’s next to the boiler so it’s noisy at ni … What last time?’ said Jenny.
‘I didn’t realise it had ever really gone away,’ said Rita.
They all gave her blank looks.
‘Corduroy,’ she explained.
‘You’re religious,’ Ted told Corinna. ‘Come and have a look at our great Yorkshire abbeys.’
He led Corinna off to admire the paintings.
Rita slipped off without explanation.
‘What last time?’ insisted Jenny.
Neville excused himself without explanation.
‘Mum,’ said Jenny, suddenly alone with Liz. ‘He’s never been to the hotel before. Were you going to say “That’s the room he was conceived in”? Was he conceived during my wedding reception?’
‘I’m afraid so,’ admitted her mother. ‘I was so overjoyed at your marrying your road sweeper that I got carried away.’
‘Oh my God,’ wailed Jenny. ‘No wonder our marriage is going wrong. Oh Lord. I shouldn’t have said that. Not today.’
She plugged in the baby-listening device.
Ted and his fiancée stood beneath Fountains Abbey. The artist had imposed his romanticism on the natural romance of the ruins. He had imposed his concept of beauty on their natural beauty. The result was uniquely, ins
piredly ugly.
‘Your waitress showed a bit of style there,’ said Corinna.
‘Surprised?’ said her fiancé. ‘That’s stereotyped thinking, Corinna. That’s a very glib social judgement, is that.’
‘I do not make glib social judgements, Ted.’ Corinna’s rebuke was cool but affectionate. ‘I was brought up not to. Don’t forget, my father’s a bishop.’
‘Some chance,’ muttered Ted.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Nothing. Well, you do rather drag it in. “Nice cup of tea, this. Incidentally, my father’s a bishop.”’ He lowered his voice, in order to talk about sex. ‘“That was magnificent. You’re the best lover I’ve ever had, Ted. Not that I’ve had that many. My father’s a bishop.”’
‘I’ve never said you’re the best lover I’ve ever had.’
‘No. You haven’t. Why not?’
‘Maybe you’re the only lover I’ve ever had.’
‘What?’ Ted’s astonishment slipped out. He worked hard to alleviate his tactlessness. He wasn’t entirely successful. ‘I mean, not that I’m surprised. No, it’s just that … statistically speaking, it’s very unusual for women to reach your … oh heck …I mean … well … great!’
‘Don’t forget, my …’ began Corinna. Ted joined in. ‘… father’s a bishop.’
They laughed.
Sandra watched. Her face was a rigid mask.
‘Sorry if I was a bit edgy, love,’ said Ted. ‘But, I mean … I am. It’s with seeing her. Being reminded what a … well, not a bastard exactly. I mean, I didn’t intend when I … I had no idea I’d be passionately loved by a beautiful, glamorous, sophisticated virginal goddess. I forget sometimes how attractive I am.’
Liz’s skeletal, ramrod uncle, Hubert Ellsworth-Smythe, who had never refused liquid refreshment in his life, stood with a cup of tea in one hand and a glass of champagne in the other, regaling Angela Wintergreen with anecdotes about faux-pas at tiffin, and Angela Wintergreen was enchanted, because he hadn’t mentioned golf once. Matthew Wadebridge, Neville’s colleague, whose wife did charity work six evenings a week and snored in her chair on the seventh, looked out over the grounds, watched a heron flapping indolently through the murk in search of more promising waters, shivered, thought how long the night must be for herons and what jolly times he had in the Bacchus Wine Bar in Newbaldgate each weekday lunchtime, decided that perhaps being human wasn’t too dreadful after all, and turned back to the jollifications with renewed enthusiasm. Jenny Rodenhurst, charming despite her advanced pregnancy in a red and cream chiffon tent-style dress, with a natural straw hat and a shoulder bag hand-woven by the wives of Bolivian tin miners, approached her mother diffidently, wondering how to present Paul’s absence in a not wholly unfavourable light.
‘Mum?’ she began.
‘Paul’s absence from social functions is becoming habitual, Jenny,’ said Liz, driving a coach and pair through her daughter’s diffidence.
‘He hates do’s. Any excuse. Look, Mum, we’ve had difficulties arising from lack of mutual faith arising from Paul’s lapse with Carol, but our troubles pale into insignificance compared to floods in Cambodia and earthquakes in Armenia and poverty in the shanty towns of El Salvador. So, let’s not talk about it.’ She wanted to get away from the mother she had longed to talk to two minutes ago. She saw Eric at his drinks table. ‘Champagne!’ she said, and set off without further excuse. ‘Better not,’ she said, looking down at her swollen body. ‘Have you any orange juice, Eric?’
‘Certainly, madam,’ said the dapper, ageless Eric Siddall. ‘No problem. Here we go. Tickety-boo. And how’s that husband of yours?’
‘Fine,’ lied Jenny. ‘Great.’
‘Sometimes, I – not having ever myself – sometimes I look at married couples and I … but with you two, I see you, so devoted, such loving parents, and I … I do, I come over all unnecessary …’
‘Oh, belt up, Eric. You know nothing about it,’ said Jenny.
Eric Siddall, barman supreme, stared at Jenny aghast.
‘Oh Lord,’ she said. ‘Oh, Eric. Oh, I’m sorry, Eric.’
Eric bore his hurt with dignity.
‘No problem, madam,’ he said.
Betty Sillitoe had intended to make something of an entrance. Entering a room without Rodney at her side was, after all, something of a rarity. She had planned to stand in the doorway, smiling, looking really rather fetching, she felt, in her coral crêpe dress edged with apricot ribbon, and throwing her arms out in a gesture of affection; embracing them all in the warmth of her personality, as if she were the Pope and the Brontë Suite St Peter’s Square.
This touching tableau was ruined before it started, by Jenny hurtling tearfully towards her, trembling with self-disgust, wailing, ‘I shouldn’t have. Not today,’ and hurrying out into the lobby. Betty turned towards her in amazement, then turned back towards the room, and was embraced by Rodney before she had regained her composure.
‘Betty! You came!’ His delight removed all traces of regret for her lost entrance.
‘I’m sorry I missed the service,’ she said, ‘but I couldn’t leave her while she was hallucinating.’
‘Hallucinating?’
‘She thought she was Joan of Arc. She might have burnt herself.’
‘Oh, Betty.’
Rodney embraced Betty again, even more warmly.
‘Rodney!’ she protested. ‘A bit of decorum in public, if you please. As befits joint managing directors of a major new business. I’d have been earlier but I popped home to change because this dress creases if you travel. Rodney, there’s a dreadful, soggy, wobbly, smelly mess on the kitchen table. What is it?’
‘Carrot and cashew nut roulade. A treat for tonight, for your homecoming.’
‘Oh, Rodney. I’m sorry.’
‘No. I knew it had gone wrong. I meant to throw it out.’
Neville, Rita and Liz came forward to greet Betty.
‘Hello, Neville,’ she said. ‘Hello … Councillor! Congratulations.’ Now at last she embraced the whole room in her gaze. ‘Ted! Corinna! Sandra!.’
Sandra approached, smiling serenely, ignoring Betty’s surprise. ‘Tea, madam, or champagne?’
‘Oh tea first, I think, please.’ Betty called out to Eric. ‘Eric? Later I’d like a drink. Do you have any fruit juices?’
‘What?’
‘I do not touch alcohol. It is a poison. Do you have any fruit juices?’
Even Eric Siddall, barman supreme, found it impossible to hide his astonishment entirely.
‘Yes, madam,’ he said, recovering. ‘Can do. No problem.’
Betty turned back to Neville, Liz and Rita. ‘Well, she said, ‘I suppose my absence has set you all wondering if Rodney and I’ll be splitting up next.’
‘No, Betty. Good Lord, no,’ said Rita.
‘You splitting up? That’s a good one,’ said Neville.
‘That’s the best laugh I’ve had in weeks,’ said Liz.
‘Absolutely,’ said Rita.
They laughed. It would be hard to decide which of the three laughs was the least unconvincing.
Underneath the hideously romanticised painting of Bolton Abbey, Elvis Simcock, elder son of Ted and Rita Simcock, was questioning Simon Rodenhurst, only son of Liz and the late Laurence Rodenhurst.
‘So, Simon, are you still planning to give up what it would anyway be an exaggeration to call your sex life?’
‘Too right. Today has confirmed that.’
‘What’s so special about today?’
‘The other godfather’s wife was the woman in question.’
‘The pregnant one?’
‘Precisely.’
‘Oh my God.’
‘Exactly.’
Elvis tried to hide his excitement at this revelation. He assumed a dignified, caring expression as he sought the words that he needed.
‘What exactly went through your mind,’ he enquired carefully, ‘when you realised that the woman you’d mad
e pregnant on your one and only foray into the world-renowned delights of sexual intercourse was the wife of your fellow godfather?’
‘What do you think went through it, you steaming berk?’ countered Simon angrily. ‘I thought, “I am unfit to undertake the moral welfare of a mature garden slug with psychopathic tendencies, let alone an innocent infant boy. I must tell them I can’t do it.”’
‘But you didn’t tell them you couldn’t do it, did you?’
‘Because what could I say? “I can’t go through with this. I’m the twit who got Andrew’s wife preggers”?’ He changed the subject. ‘How’s things with Carol?’
‘Terrific. Great. Couldn’t be better.’
‘Hello,’ said Carol, as if she’d been waiting for her cue. ‘You’re Elvis Simcock, aren’t you?’ She held out her hand politely. ‘I’m Carol Fordingbridge, your fiancée. Remember me?’
‘Carol!’
Elvis was all the more furious because he knew that he had no right to be.
‘I’ve got to sit down,’ said Rodney Sillitoe, and, as though to prove that he hadn’t been lying, he sat down.
Betty looked round for another chair. Morris Wigmore leapt to his feet and handed her his chair, smiling. When Betty said that he shouldn’t have, he pooh-poohed the idea that he had made any sort of sacrifice. He smiled confidently, frankly at Betty, little knowing that she was thinking, ‘Why don’t I trust this man? Why does he send goose-pimples up my spine? If only his son hadn’t come to a sticky end in Brisbane, so that I could loathe him without feeing a heel.’
‘Last night I strayed,’ confessed Rodney in a near-whisper, when Betty had settled herself in her Restoration chair.
‘Strayed? How do you mean, “strayed”?’
‘What do you think I mean?’
‘Well, not a woman. You wouldn’t.’
‘Aaaah!’
‘So it must have been either alcohol or meat. The way you look, I’d say …’ Betty examined his rough, red, battered face lovingly, ‘… meat.’
‘Steak. Rump. Rare.’
‘Oh, Rodney, you’re hopeless on your own.’
‘Because I love you.’
‘I know.’
