by David Nobbs
‘I went to a wedding on Clydeside once,’ he said, though this wasn’t at all what he’d planned to say. ‘Everybody did a turn. Everybody. Nobody minded. And because nobody minded, everybody was good. I mean … really … everybody. You lot, you’re so … not cold, because you aren’t, well you aren’t … so knotted up … private … snobbish.’
‘You were making a fool of yourself.’
‘No, because I didn’t mind making a fool of myself. Don’t you realize? You can only make a fool of yourself if you mind.’
A car pulled into the car park, briefly floodlighting them.
‘It doesn’t matter with these people,’ said Ted. They were in darkness again. He put his hand on Liz’s knee, and she didn’t remove it. ‘These people are my people.’
‘Nonsense. You’re managing director of your own factory.’
‘I haven’t forgotten my roots.’
‘Asparagus has roots, but one keeps them well hidden.’
‘Liz! Love! Asparagus is asparagus. People are people. I mean … we use asparagus and chuck it out when it’s exhausted. We don’t treat people like that.’
‘Don’t we?’
‘Exactly! But we shouldn’t.’
The car shuddered as a particularly violent gust swept over the car park. A white fish and chip bag soared over the roof of the Crown and Walnut like a joyful barn owl.
Ted was in a quandary. After a few minutes you feel self-conscious about resting your hand on somebody’s knee. He couldn’t slide it up Liz’s leg. You didn’t do things like that to Rodenhursts in pub car parks. He felt that he had no alternative but to remove it, and rely entirely on the persuasive qualities of his voice.
‘So … ’ he said. ‘Come back in. Show them you like them. Show them you care about them.’
‘I don’t like them. I don’t care about them.’
‘Liz! Oh heck! Love! These people are the salt of the earth.’
‘Were they the salt of the earth at Wisbech?’
‘Liz! It wasn’t typical, wasn’t Wisbech. I mean … they’re Yorkshiremen. When they’re outside the county boundary, well, it’s a bit like being abroad. It’s a bit like being on a cross-channel ferry. I mean … they’re liable to go a bit berserk.’
‘They didn’t just go a bit berserk. It sounds as though some of them went thoroughly nasty.’
‘All right. All right. I’m not saying they’re any better than anybody else. I’m just saying they’re no worse. Look … I mean … I’m chairman. I must go back. Come with me. Please.’
‘What’s the point?’
It was time to play his joker. Ted knew that it would decide the issue one way or the other, but he didn’t know enough about women to be absolutely sure of the outcome.
‘Rita’s turned up,’ he said.
‘Well, why didn’t you say so?’ said Liz.
The tiny, wizened Norman Penfold was playing ‘Send In The Clowns’ and losing to it narrowly. Ellen Ferris, self-appointed contralto and burly wife of Pete Ferris, the self-appointed doorman, was belting out the words and only just failing to reach the top notes.
Laurence felt that if Ted and Liz were talking together, he ought to talk to Rita, out of respect for symmetry if nothing else. So he bought her a drink. They installed themselves in an alcove, beneath a shelf devoted to matchboxes of the subcontinent, including a rare family-size box with a joke on the back in Gujerati.
Laurence saw Betty Sillitoe go to the bar, and said, ‘I wonder whether Betty or Rodney will win the race to get drunk tonight.’ Rita didn’t reply, and he wondered if she was offended. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I don’t mean to be rude to your friends.’
‘They’re Ted’s friends really,’ said Rita, and instantly regretted this small betrayal. ‘Though I like them,’ she added. ‘I think they’ve taken our side.’
‘I should hope so,’ said Laurence. ‘We’re the wronged parties.’ He gave Rita a sharp but not hostile look. ‘With respect, Rita,’ he said, ‘I’m astounded you’ve found the courage to come.’
‘So am I,’ said Rita. ‘You don’t know what you can do till you try, do you? I think, to be honest, it was anger that gave me the strength.’
‘You’re fed up with giving them a clear field?’
‘Exactly.’
‘And this is a chance to create maximum embarrassment for minimum outlay.’
‘That makes it sound awful.’
‘My dear woman, you have every right.’
Ted and Liz entered. Ted murmured something to Liz, but neither Laurence nor Rita could lip read. (He actually said, on hearing the closing moments of Ellen Ferris’s song, ‘It could be worse. It could be “My Way”.’)
‘Talk as if we’re being intimate,’ said Laurence.
‘Pardon?’ said Rita.
‘For effect. To worry them. Say something intimate.’
There was silence from Rita.
‘I’ve gone blank,’ she said.
‘Well … pay me compliments. Say you find me … very attractive … or something. Just for effect.’
Again, there was silence.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I can’t.’
‘I see.’ Laurence sounded slightly piqued. ‘Look, just … choose my best features. Compliment me on them.’
Again, there was silence from Rita.
‘Sorry,’ she said.
‘For goodness sake,’ said Laurence. ‘Just say … oh, I don’t know … er … “You have nice eyes. Do you know you have an elegant, shapely, rather distinguished nose?” Whatever!’
Again, Laurence waited expectantly.
‘I’m sorry. It’s no good,’ said Rita.
‘I see!’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘It doesn’t matter! It was just … to say something. For God’s sake, Rita, it doesn’t matter if it’s utter nonsense. Just look as if it’s intimate.’
Laurence tried not to look fierce as he waited.
‘I’m not very good at nonsense,’ said Rita at last.
‘Well, anything!’ Laurence was becoming irritated now.
Why didn’t he start, thought Rita, if he was so keen? Why did he have to put all the burden onto her?
‘Tell limericks,’ he commanded.
‘Limericks??’
‘Why not?’
And suddenly Laurence did start. Rita was astounded, as he leant forward and talked very intimately indeed, even, in so far as he was capable of it, sexually.
A certain young gourmet of Crediton,
Took some pâté de fois gras and spread it on
A chocolate biscuit,
Then murmured ‘I’ll risk it.’
His tomb bears the date that he said it on.
‘This is ridiculous,’ said Rita.
‘Try,’ urged Laurence.
‘What are they talking about?’ said Ted, as they settled down at the table so recently vacated by Laurence and by Neville Badger, who had joined Betty Sillitoe at the bar.
‘You aren’t interested, are you?’ said Liz. ‘You aren’t worried?’
‘No! I’m not remotely interested. I’m not remotely worried. I’m just mildly intrigued, that’s all. I mean … they look quite intimate.’
Rita tried hard to sound and look sexy and intimate as she whispered to Laurence:
There was a young lady from Spain
Who was dreadfully sick on a train.
Not now and again,
But now … and again …
And again … and again … and again.’
‘They’re not going to start up as well, are they?’ said Paul, watching the alcove with ill-concealed interest.
They were alone again, Rodney Sillitoe having gone to the bar to keep an eye on Betty’s drinking.
‘Well, I suppose it would solve the problem,’ said Jenny.
‘I know, but I don’t think I could cope with it. It might scar me permanently.’
Again, Laurence spoke in his idea of an intimate, sexy voice
.
There once was a pious young priest,
Who lived almost wholly on yeast.
‘For,’ he said, ‘It is plain
We must all rise again
And I want to get started, at least.’
Rita thought hard. She leant forward and gazed dreamily into Laurence’s eyes.
There was a young lady from Spain,
she murmured.
‘Again!’ said Laurence.
Who was dreadfully sick on a train.
Not now and again,
But now … and again,
And again … and again … and again.
‘It’s the only one I know.’
They laughed.
‘They’re laughing!’
‘Ted!’
‘Oh, I don’t care. I’m just astounded.’
‘It’s all for show. It must be, if Laurence is involved.’
Young Rod Wagstaffe, who had recently sacrificed his beloved hippie appearance in order to get accepted on a TOPS course in plumbing (a victory for common sense but a defeat, Rod still felt, for the richness of human life), had popped back to his home in Admiral Benbow Crescent on the Highcliffe Estate, and fetched his guitar. He had been conferring with Norman Penfold, and the result of their deliberations now began to assault the ears of the assembly.
‘Er … if you … er … feel like coming over any time over Christmas, don’t hesitate,’ said Laurence. ‘I’ll be there.’
‘Well … I may … yes … thank you … I may,’ said Rita.
‘It’s going to be a funny old Christmas.’
‘Yes. Yes, it is.’
‘Have you asked them for Christmas Day yet?’ said Jenny, trying not to keep looking across the smoky room to Rita and Laurence in their alcove.
‘I’m beginning to wonder if we should. Your mum and my dad, fair enough. Well, I don’t mean “fair enough”, I mean “absolutely dreadful and shocking and all too typical of parents today, but … I can understand”. But my mum and your dad! The mind boggles! If they went for a lie-down full of turkey and I heard them tiptoeing to each other’s rooms, I think I’d have a nervous breakdown. My tender and idealistic young mind wouldn’t be able to comprehend the unimaginable.’
‘They wouldn’t be full of turkey,’ Jenny pointed out. She was finding the bar stifling. It must have been a man who had described pregnancy as an ‘interesting condition’. Just now it seemed a distinctly boring condition. She felt too hot all the time. She felt enormously heavy. Chairs were incredibly uncomfortable. She grew tired easily. She couldn’t drink, and had almost stopped breathing several times in her efforts not to inhale cigarette smoke and stunt her baby’s growth. ‘They’d be full of soya bean loaf.’ They had decided that it would be ridiculous to have a turkey for one. Paul would be eating it till February.
‘Well, this is it, Jenny. What’d we give them? It’s not just the turkey. It’s the trimmings. Mum says the trimmings make a Christmas dinner. She’d be lost without her chipolatas. Well, you can’t have vegetarian chipolatas, can you? You can’t have bread sauce and cranberry sauce and two kinds of stuffing with soya bean loaf.’
‘Will you miss your Christmas dinner?’
‘Of course not. You’re what matters to me, not turkey.’
They kissed, a spontaneous and delightful kiss, bringing Christmas joy to the undecorated half of the room. Lester Griddle, watching lugubriously, twitched. Mavis Griddle, as sour as a bad pint, lugubriously watching Lester Griddle watching lugubriously, narrowed her bloodshot licensed victualler’s eyes. Lester Griddle returned rapidly to the pulling of pints. The whole room burst into generous applause. Paul and Jenny broke off shyly, as if they thought the applause was for them. Then they realized that it was an ovation for courage at the end of the guitar and squeeze-box recital.
‘It’d be worth your having turkey if they come,’ said Jenny.
‘I’d rather have soya bean loaf and just us, but maybe we ought to ask them.’
Ted jumped up onto the platform.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘Now. Who else is going to entertain us?’
‘I will,’ said Rita.
She stepped forward, leaving Laurence looking astounded.
Ted also looked astounded, and more than a little put out.
‘Rita!’ he said.
Rita stared at him defiantly. Her heart was thumping.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ said Ted. ‘My … er …’ He couldn’t say ‘my wife’. ‘My … er …’ He couldn’t say ‘My ex-wife’. ‘… my word, this is a stout effort, so let’s hear it for Rita Simcock.’
Ted moved to the side as the applause rang out, and stood there, as if ready to interrupt if Rita’s material turned out to be unsuitably blue. He was feeling a mixture of anger – what right had she got to do this to him? – and protectiveness – you couldn’t wipe out twenty-four years of marriage just like that. Ted felt that he must be there to rescue her, should the need arise. And surely it must? His Rita, trying her hand at being a pub entertainer? It wasn’t possible. He glanced uneasily at Liz, who was watching him with a faintly sardonic expression.
‘We live in troubled times,’ said Rita, to the astonishment of everybody except Lester Griddle, who nodded his fervent agreement. Rita gave Ted a long, cool look. ‘Sometimes I wonder if mankind has gone stark, staring mad.’
Ted looked extremely uneasy.
There was a pained, throbbing tension in Rita’s voice, but she ploughed on.
‘Womankind has on the whole done rather better.’ She fixed her gaze on Liz. ‘But there’s no room for complacency in this area either. People have abandoned moral standards in order to gratify their greed for pleasure.’
It was Liz’s turn to look uneasy. Laurence, alone in his alcove beneath the oriental matches, wore his fixed, stuffed, supercilious smile. The cynical Elvis Simcock, standing at the bar with a group of fairly drunk young anglers, seemed to be relishing the drama.
‘It’s the pills,’ whispered Paul. ‘It must be.’
‘So,’ said Rita, ‘I would like you to remember that it is a Christmas party. If Norman would accompany me, I would therefore like to sing “Hark, the Herald Angels Sing”.’ She turned to Norman Penfold. ‘Do you know it?’ she asked.
The little old man gave an almost imperceptible nod of his wizened head, as if to say that he thought he knew it, but wasn’t guaranteeing anything.
‘Good.’ Rita fixed a fierce eye on Elvis and the young anglers. ‘You may all join in the chorus. And I don’t want any funny words.’
Elvis felt strangely abashed. He glared at the young anglers, indicating that he didn’t want any funny words either.
Rita cleared her throat. Norman Penfold’s lips moved as he rapidly recalled the tune. Jenny closed her eyes, unable to witness a fellow female making a fool of herself. Paul felt sick.
They were totally unprepared for the attractive, clear, strong, tuneful voice which flung out the words defiantly.
Hark, the herald angels sing
Glory to the newborn king.
Peace on earth, and mercy mild,
God and sinners reconciled.
Jenny opened her eyes in astonishment. Paul smiled. Elvis gawped. Mavis Griddle, who had a singing voice like a butch corncrake, twitched sourly. It would be an exaggeration to say that Norman Penfold was accompanying Rita, but he was following her quite closely, and there was a smile on his wrinkled old face.
Rita signalled to the gathering to join in the chorus. Many of them did.
During the second verse Laurence began to look uneasy, as he found his supercilious smile becoming inappropriate and couldn’t discover any more suitable expression. Ted was looking quite moved. Liz was looking somewhat caustic at the sight of Ted looking quite moved. Laurence found his new expression. He was able to look faintly amused at the sight of Liz looking somewhat caustic at the sight of Ted looking quite moved.
The second chorus was a distinct improvement on the first, and Rita even vent
ured a little smile of encouragement at Norman Penfold.
Alternative naughty words froze on the lips of cynical young anglers. Lester Griddle, their lugubrious host, sang as he hadn’t sung since the introduction of VAT. Norman Penfold became so inspired that for several bars he was in time and in tune with Rita. Rodney and Betty Sillitoe watched in delighted amazement, almost carried away. But Rodney wasn’t so carried away that he couldn’t find the time to raise his glass to his lips. And Betty wasn’t so carried away that she didn’t notice this and take the drink away from him. She poured the contents into her own glass. It was the least she could do for the man she loved.
By the final chorus the noise was quite thunderous, as anglers and wives and guests belted out, in almost perfect unison:
Hark! The herald angels sing
Glory to the newborn king!
For a few seconds it might have been Bethlehem. There was a burst of applause. Then it was the lounge bar of the Crown and Walnut again. The applause died down. Norman Penfold became a little old man again. Lester Griddle returned to the mundane business of taking orders, grimacing with irritation at the need to keep the money for crisps separate from the money for drinks.
Rita rushed out of the bar. Ted followed her, passing Liz’s table without even giving her a look.
Laurence’s supercilious smile was well and truly back in place.
‘Well, well, well!’ he said. ‘Can the king of the coal scuttles be scuttling back to wifey, do you think?’
‘Rita! Rita!’
She was just disappearing round the side of the pub. He hurried after her. He felt as if he were spending half this cold, windy evening out here.
He caught up with her just before she reached the Knapperley Road. Here, on the very edge of the town, as a result of a recent economy measure, only half the street lamps were lit.
‘Rita! Where are you going?’ he asked.
‘Home.’
‘Rita!’
‘Shouldn’t you be with her?’
‘Yes, but … I wanted to say I’m very sorry for what’s happened.’
