by David Nobbs
‘I know, but …’
‘… I ought to worry about what I’ve done to him. Although it was at least as much what he’s done to me. All right, if my scorn for the social niceties appalls you … how does he seem?’
‘He seems to be bearing up reasonably well.’
‘Oh good,’ said Liz in a flippant tone. And she mocked the stuffiness in Neville’s voice. ‘He’s “bearing up reasonably well”, is he?’ And then she was contrite, less about Laurence than about the pain she was inflicting on this decent, honourable man, whose personal life had been so sheltered that after thirty years he still shook his head in dismay at the dark side of life which his work so often revealed. ‘No, I am glad,’ she said. ‘Of course I am.’
When Ted carne back from his phone call, Paul buttonholed him before he could return to Liz.
‘Dad?’
‘Bloody Crutchley. What does he expect me to do? Drive to Hemel Hempstead at this time of night? I mean … does he?’
‘I saw Mum on Tuesday.’
‘Oh good. A lorry’s shed its load near Hemel Hempstead. Fire dogs and toasting forks all over the MI. Punctures ad infinitum. “I thought you ought to be informed, Mr Simcock.” Delighted to have the chance to ruin my evening. Bloody southern runt! What?’
‘I saw Mum on Tuesday.’
‘How is she?’
‘I think the new pills are doing her some good.’
‘Oh good. Good. I’m glad. You’re a good lad. I mean that. Look after her.’
‘Dad!’
‘It’s over, Paul. I mean … I’m sorry … but … it is.’ Oh God! Elvis was talking to Kevin Loudwater. Oh God! What had he done to his sons? ‘It’s over, Paul. You don’t think I’d have hurt her like this if it wasn’t, do you?’
‘No, but …’
‘You’re a good lad. I’m sorry if I’ve ever given you the impression I thought anything else. A very good lad.’
He was, too. In some ways. Ted decided that, in view of Paul’s feelings for Rita, he would forbear to make any sarcastic remarks about the Greenpeace tee shirt.
‘I’m not thinking of me, Dad. It’s her.’
‘I know. I know. You’re a good lad. But … you see … it’s over. Where the hell is the entertainment? I’m going to phone Dave Willcocks and blast him from Christmas to next Thursday. I mean – he bloody well booked them.’
‘Dad!’
‘I know! I know! But I’m still chairman, Paul. One’s personal feelings clash with the burdens of office. That’s what it’s like, public life. Oh heck!’
Laurence had come! He was standing in the doorway, wearing an impeccable lounge suit and assuring Pete Ferris, with a faint air of astonishment, that he wasn’t the entertainment.
‘Laurence!’ said Ted.
‘Don’t sound so surprised,’ said Laurence. ‘You were good enough to invite me at the Dentists’ Dinner Dance. Don’t you remember? “Only a little back street boozer, but they’re a friendly crowd,” was your description. How accurate it was!’
Ted flashed Liz a dismayed look, and she glared at Laurence.
Laurence smiled, well pleased with the effect of his unexpected arrival.
Say what you liked about Mavis Griddle, and people often did, but nobody ever said she couldn’t make batter. The fish and chips were good, though they would have tasted better washed down by several cups of tea. It was an informal supper, and people formed their own groups at the beaten copper tables. Ted sat with Liz and Laurence and Henry the Eighth, but had little appetite. He found it hard to laugh when Arnold Haygarth, his predecessor as chairman, called out, ‘That fish on your plate’s bigger than any you ever caught, Ted.’ Neville Badger and Liz gave each other shocked glances as they received their first taste of the white wine. Liz and Laurence gave each other no glances. Laurence wore a fixed smile. He looked as stuffed as the salmon in the glass case above his head. Ted had chosen his seat before he realized that he was condemning himself to stare at a photograph of a smiling Kevin Loudwater, standing beside the record shark he had caught at Aberystwyth on the Welsh trip.
The dessert took the form of Mavis’ trifle, for which she was famed, unjustly in Liz’s opinion.
After the meal, it was time for the prize-giving. Ted stood in the raised area by the bay window. On the table in front of him there were two small silver cups, one large silver cup and a silver shield.
Most of the guests were seated at the tables and on bar stools, but four of the men lolled against the bar.
Ted felt nervous. He wished he hadn’t brought Liz. He found that he was seeing the evening through her eyes. He was ashamed of these people, his friends and colleagues. He was ashamed of feeling ashamed. If only they were having a nice quiet evening, just the two of them, making amorous plans in a secluded corner of the Gaiety Bar of the Angel Hotel, out of sight of Michael Heseltine.
He wished his two sons, the fruits of his loins, the pride of his life, both unemployed, weren’t sitting there with Jenny. He wished Kevin Loudwater, the complacent pork butcher, wasn’t there, his smug backside perched on a bar stool.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said. ‘I now have great pleasure in climaxing my year as chairman …’ There were suggestive cries. Ted glared. Laurence smiled thinly. ‘… by giving away the trophies for what has been another excellent year … apart from the … er …’ He found his eyes being drawn to Kevin Loudwater. ‘… the fracas at Wisbech. The sea fishing shield goes to Bert Kitchen.’
There was generous applause. Bert was popular.
‘Unfortunately, Bert can’t be here tonight, as he’s in Tenerife.’
‘Lucky Bert,’ said Arnold Haygarth, and even this innocent comment, coming from his predecessor, struck Ted as an implied criticism of his handling of the event. He took the shield and put it at the other end of the table. If only Bert hadn’t sent his postcard. If only he didn’t know how upset Bert would be if his carefully written festive card wasn’t read out in full at the party. If only he hadn’t had the absurd idea that Liz could share the whole of his life.
‘But he has sent a postcard. “Dear all. Weather fair to good, local talent fair to brunette, just my luck, I’m with the wife and there’s a knocking shop right opposite the hotel.”’ Ted looked uneasily at his lover, seated between her husband and Henry the Eighth. “‘I’ll be thinking of you all on the big night. Sup some Fothergills’ Best for me.” Good old Bert! Next …’ He picked up one of the smaller cups. ‘… we come to the prize for the biggest trout, which this year goes to Derek Wiggins.’
There was generous applause. Derek Wiggins, who drove a lorry for Jewson’s, was well liked.
‘Unfortunately Derek can’t be here tonight, as he’s in bed with his leg.’
‘Not to mention a certain redheaded waitress,’ called out Elvis.
‘Thank you!’ said Ted. ‘That will do! I mean! … really!’ He couldn’t believe it. His own son, a philosophy graduate! And it didn’t really seem in character. Cynical, yes, but not usually crude. And in front of Liz, too.
Well of course! The boys were taking it hard. You couldn’t really blame them. Oh God. Ted became aware that it was too long since he had spoken. People were looking at him strangely. He was drenched in sweat. He put the cup down beside the shield. He caught sight of Liz, looking as if there were nowhere she’d like to be less, and of Laurence, faintly supercilious, and Neville Badger, distant and sad behind his costume. ‘Next, the spring competition, held this year at the Newark gravel pits. This was won by Trevor Barnwell.’
Ted applauded. Nobody else did.
‘Come on! It’s petty, is this. It’s a sign of small minds, pettiness. Now come on! Let bygones be bygones, you miserable lot.’
Ted applauded. There was some response from his audience.
‘That’s better. Not much, but better. Unfortunately, Trevor can’t be here tonight, as he has parted company with us following the … er … the fracas at Wisbech. However, your committee felt …’
‘Not unanimously,’ said Pete Ferris, the self-appointed doorman.
‘True, Pete, but by a majority verdict, on my casting vote.’
‘Since when could you cast?’ said Elvis, just loud enough to be heard by the whole bar, just soft enough for it to be possible that he hadn’t intended it to be heard.
‘Look, will you belt up?’ snapped Ted.
‘Just a little joke, Dad.’
Ted glared at Elvis, then slowly regained control of himself. ‘Right. Good,’ he said. He adopted the bland, grammatically tortured tones in which men reveal the sentiments of committees. ‘Your committee felt that the award to Trevor should stand, as awarded, in the hope that, in the fullness of time, good sense may prevail.’
Ted put the second small cup with the other trophies. There now only remained the large cup to be awarded. He braced himself.
‘Finally, I come to the Arthur Tong Cup,’ he said. ‘This cup was kindly donated by the late Arthur Tong … before he was late, of course … for the winner of the autumn competition, which was held this year … at Wisbech.’
His perverse noddle was at its tricks again, swinging his eyes round, against his will, to meet the eyes of the person he least wanted to see.
Kevin Loudwater, the permed pork butcher, returned his gaze blandly.
‘I’m glad to say,’ said Ted, not looking in the least glad, ‘that at last we do have a winner present tonight, and it’s … er … it’s me, Ted Simcock.’
He applauded, realized that he shouldn’t be, and stopped. There was modest applause, more than for Trevor Barnwell, less than for Bert Kitchen and Derek Wiggins. Kevin Loudwater applauded enthusiastically. So did Elvis. Liz looked uneasily at Laurence as she clapped gently. Laurence gave two soft, perfunctory claps.
‘Your new man cuts quite a dash in public,’ he said, and Liz looked as if she would like to throttle him. ‘Door knocker tycoon, prize-winning angler, accomplished public speaker. A man of many parts. You must be very proud of him.’
Paul and Jenny approached the table where Liz was sitting with Laurence and Neville Badger. They looked determined and united. Clearly they had a purpose that was more than social.
‘Hello!’ said Jenny. ‘That’s a very good Henry the Eighth, Uncle Neville.’
‘Thank you, Jenny,’ said Neville. ‘You see! Everyone knows who I am this time.’
‘We … er … we wondered if we could have a word,’ said Jenny.
‘Of course,’ said Laurence.
‘I went as Sir Francis Drake. Boadicea. I even went as the Eddystone lighthouse,’ said Neville. ‘Nobody ever knew who I was.’
‘Er … we wanted a word with … er … my … er … about something personal,’ said Jenny.
‘Ah!’ said Neville Badger. ‘Sorry. I was a bit slow there. It’s the syphilis, I expect. It rots the brain.’
They stared at him in horror.
‘I was being Henry the Eighth,’ he explained. ‘Sorry.’ And he made his regal way towards the gents.
‘Poor Neville,’ said Liz. ‘He’s trying to be jolly.’
‘Look, as we’ve got you two together,’ said Jenny. ‘Paul and I felt … I mean … we made our marital vows much more recently than you, obviously … so we feel that … er …’
‘Yes,’ said Paul. ‘We do. We feel that in this cynical, materialistic age people give up far too quickly. I mean, if a marriage has really broken down, fair enough, but we also feel … er …’
‘… that people oughtn’t to give up before they’ve … er …’ said Jenny.
‘… explored every avenue,’ said Paul.
‘Believe me,’ said Liz, ‘we’ve explored both sides of every avenue in both directions several times.’
‘Could we please change the subject?’ said Laurence.
There was a lengthy silence, while they hunted around for subjects to which they could safely change.
‘The fish and chips looked nice,’ said Jenny.
‘Do you know I think it’s the first time I’ve ever actually had fish and chips,’ said Laurence.
‘Your snobbery is so boring, Laurence,’ said Liz.
‘My snobbery! Who was it who when I offered the Simcocks Bucks Fizz said you weren’t certain if we had any orange juice?’
‘The point being that it was assumed that we had champagne,’ explained Jenny to Paul.
The lights flickered again.
‘I understood it, Jenny,’ said Paul. ‘I may be as common as muck, but I happen to know what Bucks Fizz is.’
‘Paul!’ said Jenny. ‘I wasn’t … I wouldn’t … I hate snobbery as much as you do. It’s of no importance to me that you’re from a lower class than I am.’
‘Oh Christ! Thank you!’ said Paul, and he stormed off, past the crowd at the bar, past the abstemious George Pilbeam surreptitiously looking at his watch, out towards the car park.
‘Well, you are,’ Jenny shouted, as she followed him more slowly, in view of her condition. ‘That’s a fact. That’s not snobbery. Not being snobbish means not caring about class differences, not pretending they don’t exist.’
As Jenny pursued Paul they passed Betty Sillitoe, who was taking a drink to Rodney. She was trying to buy all their drinks that night, so that she could control his consumption. She gazed at Paul and Jenny without surprise, and continued on her way. As she passed Laurence and Liz, she looked away.
‘Betty!’ said Laurence.
Betty, who was over-rouged as usual, cut him dead, and he reproached himself for having given her the opportunity.
‘She says she’s going to sue,’ said Liz.
‘That’ll be fun for you,’ said Laurence.
Ted reached them at last. On his long voyage across the room, clutching his trophy, he’d been forced to discuss the fracas at Wisbech, his long-overdue triumph, how big a refund would be given in view of the absence of the entertainment, and Trevor Barnwell’s treachery – nobody had ever really liked him. He had just heard for the fifth time that night about the Irishman who was buried at sea and the eighteen men who tried to dig the grave. He had laughed each time. All jokes made by members were fresh and funny when you were club chairman.
He flopped into a seat.
‘Well done, Ted,’ said Laurence. ‘You must feel very …’
‘Yes, I do,’ said Ted.
‘Seeing you there, smiling shyly, acknowledging the storms of applause, it suddenly occurred to me … you still haven’t come for your final scaling and cleaning.’
‘I won’t be coming any more, Laurence.’
‘That’s rather an extreme course, isn’t it? Surely we’re sophisticated enough to separate our professional from our private lives?’
‘Maybe your reputation is crumbling, Laurence,’ said Liz. ‘Maybe the saga of Betty’s bridge will destroy you. Maybe they’ll film it. “The Dentist’s Downfall” or “A Bridge Too Far”.’
‘Liz!’ said Ted.
‘Or maybe Ted doesn’t trust you not to go berserk when you’ve got him there helpless with his mouth open. He knows what a passionate nature you have.’
Liz swept across the bar to rescue Neville Badger, who was being told by the abstemious Pilbeams and Hortons that angling was the only true antidote to the agonies of widowerhood.
‘Ouch!’ said Laurence.
‘Absolutely,’ said Ted. ‘I don’t want to hurt you any more than I …’
He couldn’t finish the sentence. Laurence did it for him.
‘… have already?’
‘Exactly. Sorry.’
Ted carne face to face with Elvis in the passage outside the bars. It was a bleak, draughty comer, unfurnished except for a fire extinguisher, with six doors, one to each bar, one to each toilet, one marked ‘Private’, and one leading to the arctic car park. Ted was on his way out to put his undeserved prize in the boot of the car, far from the ironic eyes of Kevin Loudwater, and Elvis was on his way back from performing one of those natural functions which are necessary even for philosophe
rs. They looked at each other uneasily, father and son.
‘Elvis!’ said Ted. ‘Look … I mean … I know you don’t like … you know … what’s happened … Liz and me. I understand. I mean … I do … really … I do. I wouldn’t if I was in your shoes. But.’
‘But what?’
‘It’s happened. It’s a fact. Try and accept it.’
‘Dad!’
‘Oh, incidentally. You’re going to have a little brother. That’ll be fun, won’t it?’
Elvis stared at Ted in horror. ‘Oh my God … you mean …? oh my God.’
‘Elvis? Everything that’s happened. I … I mean …’
Elvis held out his hand. ‘Congratulations, Dad,’ he said.
‘Thanks,’ said Ted, trying not to sound too surprised. ‘Of course, it could be a sister.’
‘Not that! On winning the Arthur Tong Cup. You beat me fair and square.’
Elvis went into the lounge bar.
Did he know?
Ted hurried out to his car, and put his trophy in the boot.
He heard crying, over by the rustic tables. It was Paul and Jenny. He went over to them. They were shivering and shuddering in each other’s arms.
‘We’re all right now,’ said Paul. ‘We’ve just had our first real row. It’s done us good. We’ve got things into perspective.’
Suddenly, Rodney Sillitoe made up his mind. He approached Elvis Simcock.
‘What a fiasco,’ said Elvis. ‘I told them Barbra Streisand wouldn’t turn up.’
‘How would you like to work in the frozen chicken industry, Elvis?’ said Rodney.
‘What? Well … I mean … it’s never exactly been my burning ambition.’
‘I’ve been thinking. You’re right. If we can’t employ fellows like you, the blokes with the brains … we’re expanding next year, I hope. Think about it.’
‘Well. I mean … what as?’
‘On the management side. I wouldn’t expect a philosophy graduate to be knee-deep in chicken shit. Think about it. No hurry. If you … er … you know … give my Miss Wainscot a tinkle.’
