by David Nobbs
‘A nightmare, eh? Probably you’d had cheese. Unfair. Just because they booed my Peer Gynt in Port Talbot. Laurence, why did you say “just a dentist”?’
‘Well …’
‘Laurence! Don’t say that! I merely pretend to be non-existent people. Or, which is worse, real people saying things they never said. Pathetic! But you … well … without people like you many of us would no longer have any …’ Harvey Wedgewood stopped as he saw Liz approaching.
‘… teeth.’ Laurence finished the sentence, wished he hadn’t, and also saw Liz.
And then Liz saw them, but it was too late. Harvey Wedgewood had her in his vast yet gentle embrace.
‘Laurence!’ he said. ‘I’d like you to meet an extremely good friend of mine, the very ravishing and deliciously naughty Liz Rodenhurst. Liz, you of the wonderfully wandering eyes, meet Laurence, the dreaming dentist. I didn’t catch your other name.’
‘Rodenhurst,’ said Laurence drily.
‘Oh my God!’ said Harvey Wedgewood.
‘Precisely,’ said Liz.
‘Liz …?’ began Laurence, and hesitated diffidently.
‘“… don’t you think it’s about time we had a serious chat about things?”’ prompted Harvey Wedgewood.
Laurence and Liz were briefly united in giving Harvey Wedgewood distinctly unfriendly looks.
‘Sorry,’ said Harvey Wedgewood. ‘But one picks up the conversational style of the place. Exit Harvey Wedgewood, left, in much confusion.’
Harvey Wedgewood exited left, in much confusion. He took an enormous swig of his drink, and sank exhausted onto a bar stool. He had come on a long and painful journey to this watering hole.
So had Paul.
‘Shan’t keep you, gentlemen,’ said Eric Siddall, barman supreme, as he slid past as if on rails to serve the drama teacher at the Abbey School. ‘No problem. Don’t go away. All under control. We’re on our way.’
Paul gave Harvey Wedgewood an uneasy smile.
‘Don’t look so frightened, young man,’ said the exhausted Thespian in a kindly tone. ‘I’m human.’
‘No. That thing you did on the telly. I loved that when I was a kid,’ said Paul.
‘The Forsyte Saga?’
‘Chocky Bar, the between-meals meal that doesn’t spoil your meals.’
‘Yes! I daresay that is what I’m best remembered for after forty-three years,’ sighed Harvey Wedgewood. ‘And you are …?’
‘Paul Simcock.’
‘Another Simcock! Well, congratulations, Paul Simcock. You have a very lovely young lady.’
‘Well, thank you very much. I think so, anyway.’
‘I felt the need of air, and saw you.’
‘What?’
‘Slipping off to the golf course for a swift quickie.’
‘Will you shut up?’ hissed Paul.
‘Harvey Wedgewood, this isn’t your day,’ mused Harvey Wedgewood.
But at two widely separated tables, two married couples who had been widely separated were in conversation again, thanks to the efforts of that egotistical old actor.
Seated round the side of the false chimney breast by the huge curtains, three tables away from the Sillitoes, sat Laurence and Liz.
‘So … er … where are you living?’ began Laurence.
‘I’ve rented a very cheap and thoroughly nasty flat,’ said Liz.
‘My heart bleeds for you,’ said Laurence, and he closed his eyes and wished he hadn’t said it.
There was silence between them.
‘How this icy silence takes me back,’ said Liz, and she closed her eyes and wished she hadn’t said it.
‘There’s so little to say to one’s wife,’ said Laurence. ‘“Where were you born?” “Are you an outdoor person?” “Do you prefer books or TV?” “Would you describe yourself as a political person?” One knows the answers.’
‘My views may have changed,’ said Liz. ‘I’ve been in a different world.’
‘I imagine that was part of the attraction,’ said Laurence. ‘Unfortunately, the attraction between people from different worlds rarely survives unless they remain in those different worlds.’ Again, he closed his eyes and wished he hadn’t spoken.
There was more silence.
‘More silence,’ said Liz.
‘It’s called the companionship of marriage,’ said Laurence.
Ted and Rita were tucked away in a comer table in the restaurant area, beside the wine racks.
‘I’ve got a job,’ said Rita, not without a hint of pride. Getting a job had been a minor moral victory. Bringing herself to apply in the first place had been a major moral victory.
‘Splendid!’ said Ted. ‘Wonderful. What a turnabout! The whole family’s working except me.’
‘Oh, Ted!’ said Rita. Don’t allow yourself to be flattened by him, she told herself.
‘Well!’ said Ted. ‘I mean …’
‘I was dreadfully sorry to hear about the foundry,’ said Rita.
‘Were you?’
‘Ted! Of course I was. I felt physically sick.’
‘I didn’t feel too grand meself.’
‘No.’
‘So … what are you doing?’
‘The old exciting stuff. Secretarial. With a finance company.’
‘Well, it would be. I mean … nobody’s creating wealth round here any more. They’re just moving it around.’
There was silence between them.
‘I was very sorry about your mother,’ said Ted.
‘It was better than lingering,’ said Rita.
‘I … er … I’m sorry it happened while I was away,’ said Ted awkwardly.
‘You make it sound as if you’d gone for a weekend break in Morecambe,’ said Rita.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ announced the bluff Graham Wintergreen, breaking in on these conversations. ‘All bets are now placed for the third race. It’s auction time again. Who will start me off for horse number one?’
‘Twenty pounds,’ said Rodney Sillitoe.
‘Thank you, sir. Any advance on twenty pounds?’
There was silence. The first horse in the first race had gone for twenty pounds, and since then nobody had liked to offer less or wanted to offer more. The auctions had been dull, but brief.
‘Sold to Mr Rodney Sillitoe, managing director of Cock-A-Doodle Chickens,’ said Graham Wintergreen. ‘Would you like to name your horse?’
‘Yes, I would,’ said Rodney. ‘Could I call it Beautiful Betty?’
A sentimental breeze of ‘Aaah’s pervaded the golf club restaurant and bar.
‘What a lovely man!’ said Betty Sillitoe, kissing him.
There were eight horses in the race. Others were bought by Colonel Partridge; the drama teacher at the Abbey School; the headmaster of the Abbey School, who could hardly refuse after the drama teacher had been so generous; the suave Doctor Spreckley; and Melissa Holdsworthy, the handsome, statuesque, grey-haired sculptperson whose controversial piece representing the agonized emergence of life from the primordial slime adorned or disfigured the foyer of the theatre, according to one’s tastes, and who was assumed by most men to be lesbian because she was tall and had never met a member of their sex whom she liked enough to marry. Doctor Spreckley knew better. He had removed her appendix once and her putty-smeared jeans seventeen times. She was a very independent woman and sent him messages when she was ready for him. He interpreted her purchase of the adjacent horse in a race for three-year-old American geldings as being one of those messages.
‘Go on. Don’t be mean for once,’ said Liz, just loud enough for people at neighbouring tables to hear, as the last horse came up.
‘Oh God, how undignified!’ said Laurence. He called out shyly, ‘Twenty pounds.’
‘Thank you, sir. Any advance on twenty pounds?’ said Graham Wintergreen, as a pure formality.
‘Twenty pounds fifty,’ called out Rita from the restaurant area, and heads craned to see her.
‘Rita!’ said Ted.
‘Push them up,’ said Rita.
Heads swivelled back towards Laurence.
‘Go on,’ hissed Liz. ‘Don’t let them beat you.’
‘Twenty-one pounds,’ called Laurence self-consciously.
‘Twenty-one fifty,’ called Rita immediately.
‘Rita!’ said Ted. ‘I can’t afford it.’
‘I can,’ said Rita.
Rodney and Betty Sillitoe were swivelling back and forth like two footballers on the same rod in a football game in an amusement arcade.
‘Laurence!’ hissed Liz.
‘She’s making us a laughing stock,’ said Laurence. The words ‘twenty-two pounds’ emerged thickly, as if pulled out of his throat against his will.
Rita’s reply of’ Twenty-two fifty’ was absolutely instantaneous.
‘Rita!’ Ted was getting desperate. The last thing he wanted on his very first public appearance as a bankrupt was to have a hundred and fifty people staring excitedly in his direction. The sweat was surging down his back.
‘She’ll make him go on, which will mortify him,’ said Rita. ‘Or he’ll stop, which will mortify her.’
And indeed, as the excitement buzzed round the room – nobody needed to be tactful about their curiosity now – Liz whispered to Laurence, ‘Don’t let them get it. Just for once, win.’
‘Sir?’ said Graham Wintergreen, whose great moment this was. There was nothing the actor could do to steal attention from him. ‘With you, sir?’
Laurence shook his head, an almost imperceptible gesture which he hoped nobody would notice.
Graham Wintergreen noticed. ‘Thank you, sir,’ he said. This wasn’t going to end quickly, if he could help it. ‘Twenty-three pounds. With you, madam.’
‘Twenty-three fifty.’
‘Thank you, madam. Sir?’
Laurence tried to remain totally immobile. All eyes were upon him. He wanted to sneeze.
He sneezed.
‘Twenty-four pounds! Thank you, sir!’ Graham Wintergreen’s eyes twinkled maliciously, and there was a loud laugh. Eat your heart out, Harvey Wedgewood.
Rita waited till the laughter had died down, before saying, ‘Twenty-four fifty’ quite softly.
‘Sir?’ said Graham Wintergreen to Laurence, who was looking fiercely embarrassed. ‘Nice round twenty-five?’
Liz’s eyes implored Laurence to continue, but he remained totally immobile. He was desperately fighting off the urge to blink and to twitch. He was terrified that another sneeze was on its way. He even had a fear that he might fart.
‘Twenty-five, sir? No? For the last time! Going. Going. No, sir? Are you sure, sir? Sold to Rita Simcock for twenty-four pounds fifty!’
‘Oh God,’ said Ted, as angry at the victory of the Simcocks as Liz was at the defeat of the Rodenhursts.
‘Do you have a name you’d like to give it, madam?’ asked Graham Wintergreen.
‘Give me a name for it, Ted,’ said Rita.
‘Tremendous Ted,’ said Ted.
‘You must be joking,’ said Rita.
‘A gesture of reconciliation,’ said Ted.
‘That’s a nice thought,’ said Rita.
Ted smiled.
‘I’d like to call it Karl Marx,’ Rita called out.
There was a stir, then a burst of talk erupted all round the room.
‘Rita!’ said Ted.
‘Stir them up a bit,’ said Rita.
And Betty Sillitoe, exhausted from all the swivelling, limp after all the excitement, and above all pleased that Rita had won, leant on her husband’s shoulder and said, ‘Wonderful!’
‘Karl Marx?’ said Rodney. ‘It’s a ridiculous name.’
‘No! They’re competing against each other as couples. They’re together again. Everything’s going to be all right.’
The crowds gathered round the screen, the lights were dimmed, the projector whirred, the American geldings carried their grotesquely garbed jockeys along the unbelievably green, white-fenced, neat-as-a-toy racecourse in some corner of America which none of them would ever know. It was as if an over-coloured photograph in the National Geographical Magazine had burst into movement. Many people cheered with genuine excitement, others with frenzied excitement, to make sure the evening went with a swing. Laurence and Liz tried to look as if they were Mr and Mrs Einstein and this was the Eurovision Song Contest, but in fact they were dreading a victory for the horse that they had so nearly bought. Simon Rodenhurst, of Trellis, Trellis, Openshaw and Finch, got so excited that the cynical Elvis Simcock worried that he might have a hernia. Elvis adopted a cooler pose, reflecting on the absurdity of cheering an event that had happened months ago, of urging a result different from the inevitable one. Ted and Harvey Wedgewood felt their hearts beat faster as they longed for victory, and Rodney Sillitoe felt his heart beat faster as he longed for defeat. Then, as the winning horse flashed past that distant post, giving the same result for the two hundred and seventy-ninth successive time, there was a great cheer from a few, and a huge sigh from many.
Beautiful Betty beat Karl Marx by a short head. Rodney should have realized that he was bound to win if he switched to his lucky number.
And then it was time for the fork supper. Two huge trolleys were wheeled in from the kitchen. On the trolleys there stood a vast pot of goulash, and a smaller pot of vegetarian casserole. To accompany them there was rice, buttered potatoes and mixed salad. There was a wide selection of sauces, dressings and condiments on a table nearby. On every plate there was a picture of Tony Jacklin holding the Ryder Cup. It seemed sacrilege to cover him with goulash.
Some people hurried to be first in the queue for food. Others, longing to hurry, ambled. Others waited with dignity for the rush to die down. Upstairs, as if the idea of a meal had been transmitted to him in his sleep, Thomas awoke and began to bawl. Jenny fed him gladly. She felt that it was indefensible to scramble for food while there was so much starvation in the world.
‘Rita?’ said Ted, in a tone which rendered immediate goulash impossible. He had decided to ignore her extraordinary behaviour. ‘Rita? What I wanted to say was … I mean … love … I won’t. I’ll never stray again. I promise.’
‘You seem to assume I’m having you back,’ said Rita.
‘But, Rita …’
‘You wouldn’t expect me to have you back, after what you’ve done to me, without making you beg for forgiveness, would you?’
‘Well … I suppose not … I …’ Ted looked round, desperately, hoping nobody in the restaurant area was looking at them. ‘Oh heck,’ he said. ‘It just isn’t me, isn’t begging.’ He lowered his voice almost to a whisper. ‘I’m very sorry, Rita,’ he croaked. ‘I’ve been a fool.’ Betty and Rodney Sillitoe, craning their necks to watch, foregoing goulash in their excitement for their friends, were pleased to see this evidence of intimacy. ‘When I saw her for what she was …’
‘Would you ever have seen her for what she was if you hadn’t gone bankrupt?’
‘Voluntary liquidation!’
‘If you were still in business, you’d still be with her.’
‘No! Rita! Honestly! I’d long since realized what a fool I’d been. I had, love! I mean … I had! Honestly! Love! I had!’ He paused. ‘Right,’ he resumed. ‘Well … I’ve begged. So … will you take me back, my love?’
‘No.’
‘Thanks. What?’
Rita stood up.
‘Where are you going?’ he asked.
‘I’m hungry.’
‘Sit down!’
Rita sat down.
‘Rita! What’s got into you?’ he said.
‘Life.’
‘You what?’
‘In the last few months I’ve lost both my parents and my husband. I’ve had to learn to stand on my own feet.’
There was a slight kerfuffle as Mrs Spreckley nervously tried to persuade her suave husband to leave the vegetarian casserole for the vegetarians. He refused, saying that he didn’t like goulash. The real reason was th
at he wanted to stand behind the tall, handsome Melissa Holdsworthy in the vegetarian queue and murmur ‘Tuesday’ suavely, sexily into her ear. Ted and Rita, oblivious to anything except each other, would never know of this.
‘You don’t have to have lost me, my love,’ said Ted.
‘I’ve lost you whether you come back or not,’ said Rita. ‘I’ve changed. I’ve gained confidence.’
‘What? You mean … on your own … without me?’
‘Yes. Sorry.’
‘I just don’t understand it.’
‘It’s simple. When you step out of the shadows you feel the sunshine.’
‘Rita! I know it seems as if I’ve failed. I know it looks as if I’m a flop. But …’
It didn’t sound like one of Ted’s old, confident, infuriatingly final ‘buts’. It practically begged her to say ‘But what?’ Rita had no intention of being deliberately cruel to Ted. It was impossible to feel much hostility for him now. ‘But what?’ she said.
‘But I haven’t. Failed. I haven’t. I’m moving laterally into design, that’s all.’
‘I’m not not having you back because you’re a failure.’
‘Rita! Are you saying you’d rather be on your own without me?’
Rita tried hard to admit no element of coyness or smugness into her voice as she said, ‘Those aren’t the only alternatives.’ She wasn’t entirely successful.
Ted’s mouth dropped open. ‘Oh, come on, Rita,’ he said. ‘I mean … Rita! Who’d …? He stopped.
‘… look at me? Is that what you were going to say?’
‘No! Of course not! Love! Really! But.’
This was more like a ‘but’ of the old school. It hung there, infuriatingly, in the silence. She couldn’t let him get away with it.
‘But what?’
‘Well! … I mean … you aren’t young any more.’
And she’d been on the verge of sympathizing with him!
‘I mean … Rita! … you aren’t! Are you? So … I mean … not being rude … but! … who’d have you that’s worth having?’
‘Neville. And now I’m going to get some of Brenda’s goulash.’
