by David Nobbs
You feel rather a fool when asked to repeat a sparkling gem like ‘hello’.
‘Hello,’ she said again.
‘Ah. Yes. Rather,’ said the immaculate Neville Badger. ‘Hello. Absolutely.’
‘Would it help to talk about her?’
‘What?’
‘Your wife. You were thinking about her, weren’t you?’
‘Yes. Yes, I was. How on earth did you …? I was thinking of this same evening last year. She said, “We’ve been happy, haven’t we?” It’s true. We were. I mean, we wanted children, we couldn’t have any, but … that’s life, you can’t choose. But, we were happy. I was wondering, Rita, remembering her saying that, it suddenly struck me. Last year. Did she know? Did she suspect? I’m sorry. I’m boring you.’
‘No! Please! I don’t mind. I mean, not that you are, but even if you were I wouldn’t mind, because I like listening. It saves me from having to think of anything to say. I mean, not that that’s the only reason why I enjoy hearing about Jane. I’m very interested.’
Part of Rita was outside herself, listening to herself wittering on, thinking, ‘How embarrassing!’ Yet she didn’t feel embarrassed. And it was a lot better than thinking about her suspicions.
The object of those suspicions was standing with Liz and her pregnant daughter. Laurence and Paul were getting the drinks.
‘I’m starving,’ Jenny was saying. ‘I could eat a horse, except I never could.’
‘It’s chicken tonight,’ said Ted.
‘I hope it’s free-range,’ said Jenny. ‘I won’t eat it if it isn’t.’
‘Good for you,’ said her mother.
‘You think you’ll annoy me by not disagreeing with me, don’t you?’ said Jenny.
‘I just have,’ said Liz. Ted wanted to bury his head in those smooth, tanned shoulders. He wished she wasn’t showing so much to all these people. He wanted it for himself. She was speaking to him. He hadn’t been listening.
‘What?’ he said.
‘Rita’s rather trapped with poor Neville. A rescue might be diplomatic.’
‘Every morning I stretch out my hands to caress her … er …’ Delicacy prevented Neville from continuing, but his hands stroked an exquisite pair of invisible buttocks. ‘Every morning it’s a shock to find she isn’t there. The mornings don’t get any better, Rita.’
‘They will.’
‘Yes, but, you see, I don’t think I want them to. That would seem like a betrayal. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to burden you with my grief.’
‘Oh, please do. I don’t mean burden me. It doesn’t. I’m glad. I don’t mean glad about your grief. I mean, I’m glad to listen to the grief I wish you hadn’t got, but since you have got it, I’m happy to listen to it.’
Ted arrived. ‘Rita, love, could I have a word?’ he said, and to Neville he added, ‘Sorry, Neville.’
‘No! Please!’ said Neville.
Ted led Rita away.
‘What is it?’ she asked.
‘Nothing. I was rescuing you.’
‘It’s years since I enjoyed a conversation as much as I was enjoying that one with Neville.’
‘So how are you feeling?’ asked Liz. In the months to come her relationship with her daughter was going to be put under a great strain. She wanted a nice, cosy chat before that happened.
‘Fine. It’s going to be a girl, incidentally.’
‘You’ve had it tested?’
‘I didn’t need to. I know.’
‘Oh. Are you pleased?’
‘I don’t mind. I think it’s selfish of parents to saddle their children with burdens of expectation.’
‘Is that a dig at me or mere disinterested trendy priggishness?’
Oh dear. The nice, cosy chat was going wrong.
‘It’s a dig at you,’ said Jenny. ‘Well, you never left me in any doubt that you preferred Simon.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Yes. I mean, I’m not resentful. Not now. Not really.’
It was no wonder if her parents did prefer Simon, thought Jenny. He’d always been the perfect son. Never a hint of rebellion. It was entirely typical of him that he should walk past at this very moment, right on cue.
‘Oh, hello, Mother,’ he said. ‘Hello, Jenny. You look nice!’
‘There’s no need to sound so surprised.’
‘Well … you’re my sister.’
‘I mean not that I want gracious compliments, anyway. They’re so sexist.’
‘Simon?’ said Liz. ‘Would you say I favoured you as a child, at Jenny’s expense?’
‘Good Lord, no! You were absolutely fair.’
‘You see!’ said Jenny triumphantly, when Simon had moved on.
‘What?’
‘If Simon thinks you were fair, you must have been favouring him outrageously. Which isn’t surprising, really.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Well … you’ve always been a man’s woman, haven’t you?’
Jenny had never seen the blood rush to her mother’s cheeks before.
‘You bitch!’ said Liz.
‘Mum!’ said Jenny, as Liz stormed off. ‘I didn’t mean … I only … Oh!’
Paul and Laurence returned with Ted’s scotch, Rita’s gin and tonic, dry white wine for Liz and Jenny, and a pint of bitter for Paul – a pint of bitter as an apéritif at a dinner dance! Were these Simcocks deliberately uncouth or merely ignorant?
‘Where’s your mother?’ said Laurence, and Jenny burst into tears and ran from the room.
‘She does that a lot,’ said Paul proudly, and he set off to follow her.
‘Paul!’ said Laurence. ‘Sometimes, a woman needs to be alone.’
‘Not Jenny,’ said Paul. ‘Our marriage is a totality of shared experience.’
‘Berk,’ said Laurence softly to Paul’s back, and then Rodney and Betty Sillitoe were bearing down on him. Rodney looked as if he’d slept in his suit for a week. Betty was wearing a mauve dress and a string of real pearls.
‘Rodney and Betty Sillitoe,’. said Rodney. ‘Ted and Rita’s friends. We met at the wedding.’
‘I do remember,’ said Laurence drily. ‘What a pleasant surprise! What brings you to these festivities?’
‘Timothy Fincham invited us,’ said Rodney Sillitoe, and felt obliged to add, ‘He isn’t our dentist.’
‘Rodney’s provided the chickens,’ said Betty Sillitoe, who was over-powdered as usual.
‘Funnily enough,’ said Laurence, ‘I was listening to Radio Gadd this morning … for the news, I can’t stand their … well, you can’t call it music … and I heard an advert for your Cock-A-Doodle Chickens.’
‘“Which chickens give the best value? Cock-A-Doodle Do.”’
‘That was it. I suppose it must be a bit of a problem finding decent copy writers for local radio.’
‘I wrote that myself,’ said Rodney Sillitoe.
‘I must go and check the seating arrangements,’ said Laurence Rodenhurst.
‘Where’s my pint?’ said Paul, when they returned after Jenny had washed the tears away, and they had kissed passionately in the corridor.
‘You’re not going to forget to check that the chickens are free-range, are you?’ said Jenny.
‘Bloody hell!’ said Paul. ‘Do you want me to die of thirst?’
He went off, with slightly bad grace.
‘I didn’t mean straightaway,’ Jenny called out, but it was too late.
As Paul reached the door, he met Percy Spragg hobbling painfully in.
‘Hello, Grandad,’ said Paul, surprised. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Mr Mercer invited me. He’s not my dentist, but he’s a friend.’
‘How’s Grandma? I’m coming to see her tomorrow.’
‘The doctors say she’s satisfactory. It seems a strange description to me.’
The bow-legged Percy Spragg moved on, seemingly unabashed by the great crush of dentists and their guests. You might have thought he went to di
nner dances every night.
He came face to face with Rita.
‘Dad!’ said Rita. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’
‘I’m glad you’re so pleased to see me,’ said Percy. ‘Mr Mercer invited me. He drinks at my pub. He drives me to the football.’
‘He invited you here? Why?’
‘Incredible though this may seem, Rita, he likes me. He thought I might be lonely, with our Clarrie in the General. Unlike some people, he seems to think I know how to behave in public. Des O’Connor! What’s he got to look so pleased about?’
‘What do you mean – “unlike some people”?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Well, don’t let him down. Don’t drink too much.’
‘I’ll try not to fart too often an’ all.’
‘It’s all right,’ said Paul. ‘They’re free-range.’
‘Amazing,’ said Jenny. ‘I mean, I could just have had the veg, but …’
Rodney and Betty Sillitoe bore down on them. The big wheel behind Cock-A-Doodle Chickens gazed with frank admiration at Jenny’s legs. He kissed her enthusiastically and said, ‘Mmm! Pregnancy suits you!’ Jenny recognized the disinterested quality of his admiration and kissed him back, warmly. Betty Sillitoe beamed. Paul spotted his pint. Everybody was happy. Rodney Sillitoe said, ‘Well, the moment of truth approaches.’ Betty said, ‘It’s the first time he’s been to a do where they’re using his chickens. He’s like a cat in a hot tinned soup.’ Jenny said, ‘I didn’t realize you did free-range chickens.’ Rodney said, ‘I don’t.’ Paul, about to take his first sip, froze.
‘Paul!’ said Jenny. ‘You lied to me.’ And she rushed off again.
‘Jenny!’ said Paul. ‘Oh heck!’ He put his pint down sadly. ‘I haven’t even had a drink yet.’
Jenny, halfway to the door, swung round. ‘I’m really learning about your priorities tonight,’ she said. ‘First, drink. Second, me,’ and she picked up Paul’s pint and poured it over his head.
There was a momentary faltering in the buzz of conversation, and then it burst forth with renewed, excited vigour.
Paul rushed out in pursuit of his weeping wife.
Ted, who was trapped with Larry Benson, of fitted kitchen fame, and his lady wife, who was actually no lady, had watched this scene with some alarm. But at least it gave him an excuse to escape from the Bensons. He stepped forward to intercept the youngsters, but they were gone before he could reach them.
Now he found Liz at his side. ‘Don’t worry about them,’ she said. ‘A good row will do them good. We can have that talk on the dance floor later.’
‘Are you mad?’ said Ted. ‘We can’t be seen dancing together.’
‘We’re related by marriage. It’ll look very suspicious if we don’t dance together.’
They were facing a smiling photo of Frank Carson and a pile of prawns. His message read, ‘It’s the way I shell ’em’.
‘You were quite impressed with my boot scrapers, weren’t you?’ said Ted.
‘Don’t get excited if I tell you what I have to say,’ said Liz.
‘I thought you were impressed.’
‘I’m pregnant. You’re the father.’
‘You didn’t think I had it in me, did you? You’re what??? I’m what???’
‘S’ssh! Be calm. Be casual. Rather awful, isn’t it? The baby was actually conceived during our children’s wedding reception.’
The double doors to the ballroom opened, and there appeared a man who looked almost as much like a head waiter as Ted.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, dinner is served,’ he announced.
‘Oh my God,’ said Ted, half to himself, still digesting Liz’s news. Rodney Sillitoe, arriving at his elbow as the hungry throng surged forward, said, ‘You see! Even my best friend’s dreading my chickens.’
The ballroom of the Angel Hotel was just too small to be impressive. It was also slightly too long for its width. The walls were the colour of smokers’ fingers. The outside wall, opposite the double doors to the Gaiety Bar, was curtained for most of its length. The curtains had also seen better days. In those better days they had been dark red. Now they were just dark. Ted noticed none of this.
At one end of the room, on a raised platform, the Dale Monsal Quartet had already set up their instruments. On the big drum, in large letters, were the words, ‘Dale Monsal Quartet’. Ted noticed none of this.
At the other end of the room, separated from the platform by the dance floor, there were eighteen round tables, where nineteen dentists and their hundred and twenty-three guests were tucking into prawn cocktails. There were only two empty places. Laurence endeavoured to compensate for the absence of Jenny and Paul by being unwontedly free with his claret.
The prawn cocktails were at least reasonably generous. The diners had been consuming rubbery frozen prawns for quite a while before they found that all they had left in their cut-glass bowls was a pile of soggy lettuce in Marie Rose sauce. As far as Ted was concerned, he might have been eating braised toenail clippings in porcupine blood. How like Liz to give him this earth-shattering news seconds before they were to sit at the same table, for a three-course meal, in company with her husband and his wife.
Rita was too preoccupied to notice how preoccupied Ted was. What had happened to Paul and Jenny? And then suddenly she was too preoccupied even to worry about Paul and Jenny. Elvis had entered, also in evening dress, carrying a pile of plates. She almost stopped breathing. The humiliation of it! Her own son, Elvis Simcock, philosophy graduate, the first graduate in the family, working here, tonight, in front of all the Rodenhursts, as a waiter!
Timothy and Helen Fincham’s table got their main course first. The Mercers’ table had to wait longer, and Percy Spragg entertained them with reminiscences about the golden age of dung. By the time the Rodenhursts got theirs, the chicken was already congealing. And Simon Rodenhurst, of Trellis, Trellis, Openshaw and Finch, had called out excitedly, ‘Good Lord! There’s Elvis! He’s one of the waiters!’ and Rita had closed her eyes and felt herself sinking.
Some said the chicken was tasteless. Others were not so complimentary. Fish meal was the main flavour detected. The chicken was burnt on the outside, but almost raw along the bones. No playwright on the first and only night of a West End flop suffered more than Rodney Sillitoe during that meal. Only Timothy Fincham’s Bulgarian burgundy kept him going.
With each portion of chicken there was a rock-hard rasher of bacon. The stuffing was from a packet. The service was strained. The frozen beans weren’t. The pale green water in which they had been cooked mingled with the anaemic gravy. Thin green streams trickled round the natural dams provided by tinned carrots and greasy roast potatoes. It reminded Simon Rodenhurst of seaside holidays, of building dams to trap the streams emerging from tidal pools, of untroubled youth, before he had realized what a very ordinary, plodding brain he had.
Between the main course and the ersatz meringue, the Dale Monsal Quartet began to play. It comprised piano, drums, saxophone and clarinet. Dale Monsal himself was on sax, a dry, rather sad, withdrawn man, with receding hair. The pianist was black, wiry, all smiles and ivory teeth. The drummer was white, huge and fierce. The clarinetist was middle-aged, with her greying hair done in a severe bun, which contrasted dramatically with the very low cut of her long evening gown. She simpered, smiled and ogled, constantly attempting to impose her personality on the gathering.
After the first, somewhat uninspiring number, Dale Monsal spoke through a microphone held too close to his mouth. ‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen and dentists,’ he said in a slow Yorkshire voice, as flat as a fen. ‘My name is Dale Monsal and this is my quartet. Our aim tonight is enjoyment. Your enjoyment. We aim to provide music loud enough to make you want to get up and dance, but not so loud that you can’t talk if you want to. Thank you. And now, without further ado, take it away, maestros.’
Dale Monsal and his three maestros took it away. Muddy coffee was served. Rita gave Ted an urgent look and,
when he ignored it, she kicked him and he said, ‘Ow! You kicked me, Rita!’ and she glared at him, and performed a brief and surprisingly competent mime, suggesting that she could have had quite a career in street theatre, if fate had willed her life otherwise; and at last the penny dropped, and Ted bought a round of drinks.
At first nobody danced, and it looked as if the event would be a monumental flop. People began to stretch their legs and wander about. Simon Rodenhurst moved off to join some of the younger people, and the immaculate Neville Badger went on a slow though restless wander.
The conversation turned inexorably to Peru.
‘It’s a fascinating country,’ said Laurence, after giving a not notably brief resumé of their holiday, ‘but it is very poor. It makes one ashamed of one’s greed and over-consumption.’
‘Absolutely,’ said Ted.
‘Same again?’ said Laurence.
‘Why not?’ said Ted.
Laurence moved off, and Ted got a look from Rita.
‘Well, if I don’t have another whisky, it’ll not get transported to the shanty towns of Lima,’ he said. ‘I mean … it won’t. It’ll just help put some poor sod in Western Scotland out of work.’
Rita sighed. ‘I do hope they’re all right,’ she said fervently.
‘Well, a lot of distilleries have closed,’ said Ted, ‘but …’
‘I think Rita meant Paul and Jenny,’ said Liz.
‘Oh, don’t worry about them,’ said Ted. ‘It’s just a tiff.’
‘They have such high expectations from marriage,’ said Liz.
‘They’ll learn,’ said Rita.
There was a pregnant pause.
‘Do you think that was what novelists mean by a pregnant pause?’ said Liz.
‘Liz!!’ said Ted, and immediately realized that he’d sounded much too horrified, since nobody else knew that Liz was pregnant. ‘I mean it’s not exactly tactful, is it?’ he went on, struggling to justify his interjection. ‘I mean … mentioning pregnancy in public. When our son got your daughter pregnant before they were married. I mean … is it?’
