Fair Do's

by David Nobbs

  ‘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.’

  ‘Well, we are married.’

  ‘Yes. I remember the ceremony. I thought the registry office people did their best to make it seem a happy occasion.’

  ‘Geoffrey also tells me you don’t relish the prospect of …’

  ‘Intruding on your marital bliss? Amazingly enough, I don’t.

  ‘Well, perhaps one day you’ll bring your …’

  ‘New man? You seem to assume I want one.’

  Behind them, Hutton and Washbrook were walking out to face the Australians until the world ended, or the photograph faded, whichever was the sooner.

  ‘Well …’ Rita didn’t want to say too much. Not today. ‘Er …’

  ‘Oh come on, Rita. What?’

  ‘Well, all right. I don’t mean it rudely, but … I think you’re the sort of woman who finds it difficult to live without a man.’

  ‘Whereas you don’t?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But you aren’t.’

  ‘Well, as it happens, no. But I’ve married Geoffrey because I want to, not because I needed to.’

  ‘Are you hinting that I needed Neville?’

  ‘I wouldn’t think any the less of you if you did. Look, what I really want to say …’

  ‘You mean all this so far has been small talk?’

  ‘Well – no – but Geoffrey and I are going to pop in soon to wish Ted and Sandra well. And we wondered if … well … you’d find it easier to pop into Ted’s reception if you came with us.’

  ‘Why should I find it difficult?’

  ‘Well, you having … er … with Ted, and its not being … er …’

  ‘My kind of thing? Why are you so frightened of saying it? No, it isn’t. Not my kind of thing. Not my kind of people. However, I suppose I shall “put in an appearance”. But not tagging along with you, either as a sop to your consciences or a pathetic lonely figure to remind you of your good fortune. You’ve taken my brother, Rita. Cease this pathetic charade that you want me too.’

  ‘Rita! You came! Geoffrey! You came! Come on in.’

  The Geoffrey Boycott Room was about half the size of the Sir Leonard Hutton Room. Doug Watkin’s painting of Sir Leonard Hutton looked like a Rembrandt by comparison with his portrait of ‘Our Geoff’. It was a grinning grotesque, with a retouched mouth, who gave his blessing to the boisterous gathering of the Pickersgill clan, in the spick and span, gold and grey function room.

  Ted’s boyish delight at the arrival of Rita and Geoffrey was irresistible. They found themselves smiling broadly.

  ‘Meet everybody,’ said Ted. ‘Everybody!’ he shouted. Gradually, the young men with their pints of beer and the ladies with their asti spumante turned to greet the new arrivals. ‘Everybody, this is … er … my good friend Rita Simc … Ellsworth-Sm …’

  ‘Spragg,’ interrupted Rita. ‘Rita Spragg.’

  ‘Spragg. Spragg? Spragg. And her fian … husband, Geoffrey Ells … er …’

  ‘Spragg. Geoffrey Spragg.’

  ‘Spragg. Er … Sandra’s mum.’ A platinum blonde smiled warmly. ‘Sandra’s dad.’ A tall, greying man smiled with shyer warmth. ‘Sandra’s nan.’ A little old lady in frilly black smiled roguishly. ‘Sandra’s brothers, Darren and Warren and Dean.’ Three very large young men, with ruddy faces and big horny hands, squirmed in suits that were too small.

  Sandra hurried over to hand the new arrivals glasses of asti spumante.

  ‘Sandra!’ said Ted. ‘Somebody should be serving you today.’

  ‘It doesn’t make me inferior, doesn’t serving people,’ said Sandra. ‘And it’s my wedding day, and why shouldn’t I do what makes me happy, ’cos it’s a happy day, i’n’t it, Rita?’

  ‘Oh yes, Sandra,’ said Rita. ‘It certainly is.’

  Eric Siddall, barman supreme, realised that he was walking towards the Sillitoes. He pretended not to see them, made a small but vital adjustment to his course, and walked straight past them.

  Betty Sillitoe sighed.

  ‘I know,’ said Rodney. ‘Give a dog a bad name and the mud sticks.’

  ‘You what, Rodney?’

  ‘You sighed because when Eric saw us he turned away because we have a reputation which is no longer justified but which when once won is not easily unwon.’

  ‘No. I sighed because of the young people. Because I noticed, at the registry office. Tensions.’

  ‘Oh … well … right … well … you couldn’t not notice.’

  ‘And I thought, tensions, sadness, at a wedding – it’s a pity. At a double wedding it’s a double pity. So, let’s go and pour a bit of the calming balm of our experience over the stormy waters of their immature emotions.’

  ‘Well, if you put it like that!’

  They looked round for a young person onto whom they could begin to pour their calming balm, and saw Elvis wandering purposelessly across the room, a lover without his woman, a reporter without his bleeper.

  ‘Elvis!’ said Betty, intercepting him. ‘Rodney and I couldn’t help noticing, well, you couldn’t …’

  ‘Not that we were poking our noses in,’ said Rodney. ‘Well, we wouldn’t.’

  ‘But you couldn’t.’

  ‘And we did.’

  ‘Notice that you and Jenny …’

  Rodney saw a possibility of detaching Jenny from a group of Rita’s relatives, and went off to do so.

  ‘That I’m barely speaking to the little cow,’ said Elvis to Betty.

  ‘Yes. Well, not the little cow, no, but … yes.’

  Rodney returned with his prize.

  ‘Children!’ said Betty. ‘Make your peace, for your mothers.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Rodney. ‘Specially for Rita. On her wedding day.’

  ‘And for your father, Elvis.’

  ‘On his wedding day.’

  ‘Quite unusual; really, both your parents marrying on the same day. When they’re not marrying each other, I mean.’

  ‘Betty! So, how about it?’

  For a moment, neither Jenny nor Elvis spoke. Then Elvis leapt in.

  ‘Why not? Maybe Jenny meant it when she said she loved me. Maybe our love could have survived anything except martyrdom.’

  ‘Martyrdom?’ Jenny was puzzled.

  As the argument between the former lovers developed, the Sillitoes found themselves turning their anxious gazes back and forth, like spectators watching Britain’s last representative in the second round of the Wimbledon championships.

  ‘You can’t resist feeling sorry for people, and with Paul in prison you were bound to feel sorrier for him than for me.’

  ‘That’s totally untrue, Elvis.’

  ‘Elvis didn’t mean your love for him wasn’t genuine,’ said Rodney.

  His intervention wasn’t a great success.

  ‘Yes, he did,’ said Jenny.

  ‘Yes, I did,’ said Elvis.

  ‘I’m only glad I went back to Paul before you exposed Simon and lost him his job, and it seems his fiancée, because if I’d gone afterwards, everyone would have said I’d gone because you’d exposed him and I went because I love Paul more than ever now after prison, which has matured him.’

  ‘Oh, it’s the “suffering matures people” syndrome, is it? Well, I’ve suffered too, being dragged through the emotional mangle by you, so I’m just a
s mature as him, so there, fishface. And you needn’t think I’m sorry, I’m glad, ’cos it’s Carol I love.’

  Betty swooped on Carol like a heron and brought her into the group triumphantly. Indeed, Carol looked barely more comfortable than a goldfish that is being swallowed whole.

  ‘Carol!’ said Betty. ‘Come and get these young people to look on the bright side.’

  ‘I am trying to look on the bright side,’ retorted Elvis. ‘I’m trying to forget Jenny.’

  ‘I wish you would,’ said Jenny.

  ‘Elvis?’ said Rodney. ‘You and Carol were friendly once. Why don’t you ask her out?’

  ‘No chance!’ said Carol.

  ‘He’s just told us,’ said Betty, ‘… I hope you don’t mind, Elvis … that he loves you.’

  Clearly Elvis minded very much.

  ‘Obviously linguistic analysis wasn’t your strong point in philosophy,’ Carol told him.

  ‘You what?’ said the philosopher.

  The Sillitoes were centre court spectators again.

  ‘Words have meanings. Love has a meaning. It means …’ the former beauty queen searched for a definition, ‘… “love”. It doesn’t mean, “Knock about with till somebody cleverer comes along.’

  ‘Nobody cleverer came along.’

  ‘Are you saying she’s cleverer than me?’ demanded Jenny.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you saying I’m stupider than her?’ asserted Carol.

  ‘No. You’re of identical intellectual ability.’

  ‘What a cop-out,’ said Jenny scornfully.

  ‘Right,’ said Carol.

  The flickering candle of female solidarity was quickly snuffed out.

  ‘I don’t think it was very clever what you did with my husband, Carol,’ said Jenny, with unaccustomed aggression.

  ‘Hell’s bells, Jenny, nor do I, but that was yonks ago. I was an immature kid, then.’

  The removal of youngsters from this social pond continued as Rodney netted Simon, detaching him expertly from Madge Longbottom, who’d just discovered that he’d never heard of Emmylou.