A Bit of a Do

by David Nobbs

  ‘Well, thank you, Rodney. I … er … I will think about it. And if I … er … you know … I will give your Miss Wainscot a tinkle.’

  ‘Good. Good. Now I must make sure the old girl doesn’t drink too much, bless her.’

  ‘I’m finding it difficult to make myself understood,’ mumbled Betty Sillitoe through lips that barely moved.

  ‘Sorry?’ said the immaculate Neville Badger.

  ‘I said, I’m finding it difficult to make myself understood.’

  ‘Nonsense. You’re as plain as a pikestaff. Your speech, I mean, of course, not your …’

  ‘It’s undermining my self-confidence and ruining my social life,’ said Betty. ‘What do you think our chances are?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I said, It’s undermining my …’

  ‘No, no, no. I heard. I didn’t understand. Chances?’

  ‘Sorry. I find it difficult discussing business when I have to mumble and you’re Henry the Eighth.’

  ‘Business? I didn’t know we were discussing business.’

  ‘Well, of course! I’m suing Laurence for defamation of appearance and character change. I want you to represent me.’

  ‘Ah! I don’t know, Betty. Laurence is an old friend.’

  ‘I see. Old pals stick together. Friendship is more important than justice. Fine. Just as long as we know where we stand.’ Betty was finding it difficult to get up a real head of anger while mumbling. Her indignation subsided. ‘Excuse me,’ she said. ‘I must go and make sure the old fool doesn’t drink too much, bless him.’

  ‘Tell Liz about the time you went to Paris to see the rugby, and ended up inside,’ said Ted.

  They were parked on bar stools, talking to their lugubrious host, Lester Griddle. Ted had promised her that Lester was a barrel of laughs when you got to know him, and she’d said, ‘Oh Lord. Is he? How awful!’

  ‘We did,’ said the barrel of laughs. ‘We went to Paris to see the rugby, and ended up inside.’

  ‘Those were the days,’ said Ted.

  ‘Aye, and you know why? ‘Cos there was no V A bloody T, excuse my French,’ said Lester Griddle lugubriously.

  ‘There was Lester and Archie Wainwright and these three French polishers from Sunderland,’ said Ted. ‘Between them they polished off thirteen bottles of French champagne.’

  ‘Inland Revenue, fair enough, give and take, swings and roundabouts, we understand each other,’ quipped Lester Griddle. ‘VATman, no chance. He’s got you by the short and curlies.’

  ‘Are you going to come and serve or do I have to do it all myself, Lester Griddle?’ said Mavis Griddle. Had she always been as sour as a bad pint, or had Lester Griddle slowly curdled her?

  Lester Griddle raised long-suffering eyebrows and moved off.

  ‘He’s a character,’ said Ted. ‘Oh God!’

  Kevin Loudwater was standing beside them.

  ‘He deserved that trophy,’ said the sensual pork butcher to Liz. ‘He worked hard at Wisbech.’

  ‘Kev!’

  ‘I know. I saw him. I know what determination he showed.’

  ‘Kev!’

  ‘Well, aren’t you going to introduce us?’ asked Kevin.

  ‘Oh … yes … of course. Liz Rodenhurst, Kevin Loudwater. Kevin has the pork butcher’s in Newbaldgate, between the unisex hairdresser’s and the organic food shop.’

  ‘Hello, Kevin.’

  ‘Hello, Liz. By heck, you’re a cracker.’

  ‘Well … thank you very much. So, you were upset that they chose fish and chips!’

  ‘You what?’ said Kevin, puzzled.

  ‘Being a pork butcher, Kev,’ said Ted hastily. ‘That’s what we were talking about outside, remember?’

  ‘Oh! Right. Right. It does rile me, Liz. It does. Well, I’ve no time for fish, me. Never have had. I’ll catch ’em, but I won’t eat ’em, no thank you! You must come and visit me one day, Liz,’ he said, as he strode off with his pint. ‘It’ll be right snug when the roof’s repaired.’

  ‘I want to go home,’ whispered Liz.

  ‘Liz! You don’t mean … back to …?’

  ‘No! How can you say that? I want to go and make love.’

  ‘Oh! Right! Well … right! So do I. But.’

  ‘Oh dear. Another thundering great “but”. Well, come on. But what?’

  Ted stared at her as if it was obvious.

  ‘I’m chairman.’

  ‘Is your passion cooling? Is your ardour on the wane?’

  ‘’Course it isn’t. But.’ He continued hurriedly, before she could wax sarcastic about his ‘but’. ‘I mean … Liz! This do is the final responsibility of my term of office.’

  ‘I see. Well, I’m flattered that you’re so keen.’

  ‘I am keen! Madly! Deliriously! But! Oh God, Liz! Does a judge say, “Right. I’m feeling randy. Court adjourned”? Does the Archbishop of Canterbury break off after the first hymn and say, “That’s all for now, folks. I’m going home for a bit of hankypanky. Same time next Sunday.”? Well … it’s the same difference with angling club chairman.’

  The jackpot paid out noisily on the new fruit machine in the public bar.

  ‘Would you say you were a popular man?’ said Liz.

  ‘Well … yes … I mean … rather than no. Yes. Reasonably popular. Well liked. Widely respected. Why?’

  ‘I thought your reception was distinctly lukewarm. I felt angry.’

  ‘Well … a lot of them knew Rita. They liked her, though she never believed it.’

  ‘You talk about her as if she’s dead.’

  ‘She is for me.’

  ‘Will I be dead for you, one day?’

  ‘’Course you won’t! Love! How can you even say that? Really! I mean … you mean more to me than anything in the world. You are my world.’ He kissed her. ‘Now go and talk to the Pilbeams while I sort out the entertainment.’

  Rodney and Betty Sillitoe bore down on Jenny and Paul at their corner table like two sailing dinghies beating into a safe harbour. Was there a slight wobble in their wakes, or was this just imagination?

  ‘May we join you?’ Rodney asked. ‘Only Betty’s embarrassed to show her teeth, and with you you’ll understand and she needn’t talk.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Jenny.

  Rodney and Betty sat down. The big wheel behind Cock-A-Doodle Chickens raised his glass to the youngsters. He looked embarrassed, uncertain, almost as if he were quite a small wheel.

  ‘Betty tells me I may have been a little rude to you at the Dentists’ Dinner Dance, Jenny,’ he said.

  ‘Well … a bit, perhaps, but I didn’t mind,’ said Jenny. ‘I was fascinated to find out how guilty you feel about the way you treat your chickens.’

  Betty was searching in her handbag, and Paul showed his moral support for Jenny over the chicken question by clasping her hand.

  ‘Did I say that?’ said Rodney. ‘I think I may have had a little too much.’

  ‘Have you thought seriously about umbrellas?’ Jenny asked.

  Rodney stared at her. Beside him there was a ledge crammed with Scandinavian matchboxes, including, did he but know it, one specially produced for a bar in Trondheim, and featuring a photograph of that cosy refuge from the arctic night. Above the ledge there was an aerial photograph of this cosy refuge. More than half the photograph consisted of car park.

  ‘Umbrellas?’ he said at last.

  ‘You said you’d switch production to umbrellas.’

  ‘Oh Lord. I was drunk!’

  ‘It’s not a bad idea, though, is it?’

  ‘You can’t do things like that, Jenny. I sell to butchers. Supermarkets. Hotel chains. I can’t suddenly say, “Sorry. No chickens this week. How would you like some umbrellas?”’

  ‘No, but in time you’d find new outlets,’ said Paul, removing his hand, as if speaking and clasping Jenny’s hand were alternative expressions of support, and to give both at the same time would be excessive.

  ‘I’d love to make umb
rellas,’ said Rodney. ‘But they’re dodgy in this climate. Get a wet summer, and you can’t satisfy demand. Get a fine summer and you’re knackered.’

  Betty had produced a notepad from her bag and was writing a note. There was a painting of a sheaf of wheat on each sheet of paper.

  ‘It doesn’t have to be umbrellas,’ said Jenny, and Paul squeezed her hand. ‘It could be … oh …’

  ‘… socks,’ said Paul, letting go of her hand.

  ‘I don’t know about socks,’ said Rodney. ‘I don’t know about umbrellas. I know about chickens. It’s a boom industry in which British technology leads the world. Our product is cheap, standardized and almost totally tasteless. Other countries can’t manage that.’

  ‘I should have helped you set your chickens free,’ said Jenny, ‘but I couldn’t.’

  ‘You chickened out!’ said Rodney.

  ‘There’s nothing funny in discovering what a coward you are,’ said Jenny, and she burst into tears and hurried out to the toilets.

  ‘I always seem to end up making your wife cry,’ said Rodney.

  ‘Oh, don’t worry,’ said Paul. ‘She cries a lot,’ he added proudly.

  ‘Doesn’t it worry you?’

  ‘The kind of world we live in, it’ll worry me when she doesn’t cry.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you go to her?’

  ‘No. There are moments when a woman needs to be alone.’

  Betty handed Rodney the note she had been writing, and he read it aloud before she had a chance to warn him not to.

  ‘“It must be tough on the dole, whatever some people say,”’ he read. ‘“Buy them large drinks without looking as if you’re patronizing them. And get me one while you’re at it. You’ve had enough.” Betty!’

  The abstemious Pilbeams were saying good right to Leslie and Patricia Horton, who hated to be called Les and Pat. Ted could wait no longer, if his evening was to be saved from collapsing around his ears.

  He leapt onto the little platform by the curtained bay window.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen!’ he cried. ‘Ladies and gentlemen!’

  The noise, never terrific, soon died down. A gust rattled the windows, and Lester Griddle almost smiled. He’d made sure that all the windows rattled. There was nothing better than rattling windows for emphasizing the cosiness of the pink-and-red womb over which he presided.

  ‘Thank you!’ said Ted. ‘Thank you! Unfortunately, through no fault of ours, we have been badly let down by our entertainment. Never mind. I mean … so what, eh?’

  Jenny returned, and tiptoed to her seat. When she saw Ted addressing the assembly, she wished she could leave again.

  ‘So come on. Let’s prove to our visitors that we have unexpected talents in our midst,’ said Ted. ‘We’ll make our own entertainment.’ The Pilbeams were edging their way towards the door. ‘George? Sybil? Not going, are you? Come come. The fun’s just beginning.’

  The Pilbeams gave each other looks, and everyone turned to look at them, and they went very red and returned to their seats in much confusion and mortification.

  ‘I’m very glad to be able to tell you,’ said Ted, ‘that Norman Penfold will do some amazing things on his instrument.’

  The bachelors and those who hadn’t brought their wives jeered, whistled and made cat calls and suggestive cries. So did some of the wives. The Pilbeams and the Hortons smiled bravely. Liz, sitting between Laurence and Henry the Eighth, tried to look loftily detached. Laurence smiled his supercilious smile. Neville Badger looked puzzled, a king unused to the amusements of his subjects.

  ‘Now come on,’ said Ted. ‘That’s not the spirit. I mean … is it? Is-it the spirit? It isn’t, is it? Right. So … let’s hear it for Norman Penfold and his squeeze-box.’

  A tiny, wizened, elderly man stepped onto the platform with his accordion. The audience applauded and cheered.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Ted. ‘That’s better. And to set the ball rolling, I’m going to start things off myself.’

  There was a mixture of cheers and jeers. Liz looked mortified. Ted avoided looking at her. He wished he didn’t have to do this but, if he didn’t, history would record that his year’s tenure of office had ended in fiasco.

  ‘After me, you’ll all sound good,’ he said. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, a witty little ditty from the days of the music hall, entittled “The Tuner’s Oppor – ‘tuner’ – ty”.’ Surely even Liz would find mild vulgarity acceptable if it was historical?

  Norman Penfold played with more enthusiasm than skill. Ted sang as one would expect of a man whose more usual audience consisted of toothbrushes, sponges and face-flannels.

  Miss Crotchety Quaver was sweet seventeen,

  And a player of exceptional skill.

  She would play all the day, all ev’ning as well,

  Making all the neighbourhood ill.

  And to keep her piano in tune she would have

  A good tuner constantly there.

  And he’d pull up the instrument three times a week

  Just to keep it in proper repair.

  Even before he flung himself upon the first chorus, Ted’s hopes that Liz would find it amusing were fading fast. In private she might be extremely sexy, but in public … he caught a glimpse of her embarrassed face, and of Laurence looking amused at her discomfiture.

  He launched into the chorus, and he was very nearly in tune with Norman Penfold. Every now and then the wizened old musician sensed that he was falling behind his own rhythms, and produced a sequence of very fast notes, like an overexcited and slightly asthmatic blackbird, until he was satisfied that he’d caught up with himself.

  And first he’d tune it gently, then he’d tune it strong, sang Ted.

  Then he’d touch a short note, then he’d run along.

  Then he’d go with vengeance enough to break the key.

  At last he tuned whene’er he got the oppor – ‘tuner’ – ty.

  Paul and Jenny were also embarrassed. They raised their glasses to Rodney Sillitoe, thanking him for their unpatronizing large drinks, and settled to listen to the second verse with fixed smiles.

  He came there so often I thought I’d complain

  That in March, April, May and in June

  That tuner had been there once ev’ry day,

  To keep her piano in tune.

  I said, ‘He’s too often here, hanging about,

  And he’s costing you no end of pelf,

  If your instrument wants such a lot of repairs,

  I’ll attend to the business myself.’

  Towards the end of the verse, Liz walked out. Ted wavered, longed to follow her, couldn’t follow her, didn’t follow her. Instead, he launched rather viciously into the second chorus, somewhat behind the accordion. Norman Penfold played excitedly, breathlessly, jerkily and, just occasionally, squeakily. Ted signalled to the audience to join in, and here and there somebody did remember the odd word, and some of the words they remembered were very odd indeed.

  By the end of the chorus, Ted had just caught up with Norman Penfold. He began the third verse.

  But vainly I spoke to Miss Crotchety Q. –

  She said, ‘Fred, I’ll do just as I please.’

  And the very next time I called I saw

  That tuner still fingering the keys.

  I said ‘Get out.’ They said ‘Get out yourself.’

  And they meant it – for out of the place

  I went with a foot (his or hers) in my back,

  And the door, it was slammed in my face.

  Again, Ted signalled to the audience to join in the chorus. This time Norman Penfold was careful to wait for Ted, and Ted leapt in as fast as he could, so it was Norman Penfold who was behind throughout and only caught up at the end of the last line.

  And at that moment of rare synchronization between singer and musician, Rita walked in. She was wearing a bottle-green outfit that was deeply unflattering.

  Ted looked thunderstruck, and Norman Penfold’s accordion gave out a surprise
d, excited squeak.

  ‘Rita!’ muttered Ted under his breath.

  There was a pause, then Ted signalled to Norman, and they began again.

  I got over my folly, I courted again

  A bewitching but sensible maid.

  Rita gave Ted a challenging look, then searched the bar for Liz.

  But I went in for tuning, and in less than a month

  I was quite an adept at my trade.

  Rita gazed in amazement at Henry the Eighth, alias Neville Badger.

  Now we’re married, and all my doubts and fears

  Are for evermore laid on the shelf.

  ‘But are they?’ thought Rita, as she met the astonished eyes of Paul and Jenny. ‘Where’s Liz?’

  For if ever her instrument gets out of tune,

  I am able to tune it myself.

  Rita caught Elvis’s more detachedly surprised expression. Her elder son joined in the last chorus defiantly, making up the words that he couldn’t remember.

  And first I’d tune it gently, then I’d tune it strong, roared Ted.

  Then I’d touch a short note, then I’d run along.

  Then I’d go with vengeance enough to break the key.

  Ted signalled to them all to make one last effort, and they thundered out, with a fair degree of gusto:

  At last he tuned whene’er he got an oppor – ‘tuner’ – ty.

  There was a fair round of applause. Ted acknowledged the applause briefly, then rushed out, straight past Rita.

  ‘It was just a song, Liz. Just a bit of fun.’

  ‘I hated seeing you making such an exhibition of yourself.’

  They were sitting in Ted’s Cavalier 2000 GL. He had had GB plates and Townsend Thoresen stickers put on even though the car had never been abroad, but it wasn’t really cheating because he had been abroad, in Rodney’s car.

  The engine was running. Ted wasn’t sure whether he’d started it to work the heater or because they were going home. He hoped they weren’t going home. He had to speak to Rita. He had to see his year of office through to the bitter end. It was impossible to go home.

  Nevertheless, he felt that if he didn’t handle the conversation very carefully, they would be going home.