by David Nobbs
‘Hello.’
‘Have you heard …’ He dropped his voice. ‘… something very secret and confidential? Concerning Neville.’
‘It seems so secret and confidential that everybody knows it. And if you gloat I’ll knock your block off.’
‘Rita! I’m not gloating!’ They might have been in the middle of the Sahara for all the awareness they had of their surroundings. ‘I’m not gloating. But.’
When she realized that it was one of Ted’s utterly final ‘buts’, Rita said, ‘But what?’
‘Well … I mean … I just thought … you know … I mean, doesn’t it? Rather change things.’
‘Not much, no. It just means I’ve made an utter fool of myself as usual.’
‘No, but … I mean … it makes us … well … free. To try again. Doesn’t it?’
‘I don’t think I want to try again, Ted.’
‘Rita!’ said Ted. ‘Why not? I mean … give me one good reason.’
‘You’re so small-minded. Refusing to talk to Rodney. It’s pathetic.’
‘After what he did …’
‘He didn’t make you bankrupt. Nothing he’s done has actually harmed you. And pretending he doesn’t exist wouldn’t solve anything even if he had.’
Rita set off towards the cloakroom, which was on the ground floor, just off the foyer. Paul was still queuing.
‘Bloody ridiculous!’ he said. ‘One woman to deal with a hotel this size.’
He sounded angry, but Rita sensed that he was glad of the delay. It’s less painful to be furious about delays at a cloakroom than about having lost one’s wife and son.
Rodney Sillitoe had returned. They were trying to watch the dancing without listening to The Crabs, Betty and he. They were tired, but at peace. Too tired to go to the bar. Too much at peace to need to go to the bar.
‘Look out,’ said Betty. ‘Here’s Ted.’
Ted plonked himself down beside them. ‘It wasn’t a bad meal,’ he said, ‘to say they were catering for a crowd.’
‘Quite good,’ said Rodney. ‘Better than the Angel, anyway.’
There was modest applause as The Crabs reached the end of a mournful dirge of their own composition, entitled ‘Everything’s Great Except Life’. They scuttled sideways, into a huddle, to decide on their next number.
‘You spoke to him!’ said Betty.
‘Well!’ said Ted.
‘I’m glad,’ said Betty.
There was a pause. Ted had done his bit. He couldn’t think of anything else to say. Then it struck him. ‘You’re both sober!’ he said.
‘There’ve been enough problems tonight without our … what do you mean?’ said Rodney.
‘Nothing. I just … nothing.’
‘Are you suggesting that usually we aren’t?’
‘No. No!! No, it’s just that …’
‘… we usually take it in turns to get drunk?’ said Betty.
‘Well … yes.’
‘What do you mean, Betty?’ said Rodney.
‘It’s what Rita said earlier.’
‘No tact, that woman,’ said Ted. ‘Never has had.’
The Crabs attacked ‘Don’t Put the Boot in, Boris’, a lighthearted number about a Russian invasion, written by The Crabs. It reminded Ted of something. At first he couldn’t think what. Then he remembered. It was like ‘Everything’s Great Except Life’. But louder.
‘Apparently people have the idea that you and I get drunk alternately,’ shouted Betty.
‘Don’t be offended, Rodney,’ yelled Ted. ‘It’s one of your more likeable qualities.’
‘No,’ shouted Rodney. ‘I was working it out. Do you know I think it’s true? I think we do.’ And he burst into laughter. Betty joined in. Eventually, in spite of himelf, Ted found himself laughing too.
Rita approached. She was carrying her coat. The laughter subsided. She felt that laughter had been subsiding at her approach for almost thirty years.
‘I just carne to say good night,’ she said.
‘Oh. Good night, Rita,’ said Rodney. ‘Thank you for corning.’
‘Thank you for inviting me,’ said Rita. ‘It’s been quite a night. Good night, then.’
Ted caught up with her as she edged her way round the dance floor. He followed her into the bar, where it was quieter. ‘I’m talking to Rodney again,’ he said.
‘Talking to Rodney wasn’t a qualifying test I was putting you through,’ said Rita.
‘What do I have to do, Rita?’
‘The one thing that’s impossible, I’m afraid.’ She spoke sadly, gently, regretfully. ‘Have behaved up till now differently from what you have.’
‘So … this is it, then, is it?’
‘I really do think so, Ted.’
They had passed right through the bar. A board in front of one of the lifts read ‘Out Of Order’. Rita pressed for the other lift.
‘Rita?’ said Ted. ‘Don’t get me wrong. This isn’t important. But … oh heck … the house …’
‘I don’t see the problem,’ said Rita. ‘I’ve got the house you walked out of. You’ve got the flat she walked out of.’
‘Yes, but … not that it matters, but … I paid for it. You’re living in it.’
‘I’ll move out soon, don’t worry.’
‘I don’t want you to move out! I want to move in.’
The lift carne. They travelled down in the company of an underpaid Portuguese waiter who was carrying a plate of smoked salmon sandwiches, at least half of which hadn’t been eaten. They didn’t like to discuss personal matters in front of the waiter or the sandwiches.
When they had stepped out into the vast brightness of the tinkling foyer, Ted said, ‘Why shouldn’t we try again?’
‘Oh Ted!’ said Rita. ‘Do you really want to? Don’t you think there must be something better?’
Paul stood by the fountain, patient because he had nowhere better to go.
‘Where am I going to find anything better?’ said Ted. ‘A failed bankrupt with no money.’
‘I didn’t think you’d failed,’ said Rita. ‘I thought you were moving laterally into design.’
‘I am,’ said Ted. ‘I am, Rita. But … I mean … I can’t concentrate without a good woman.’
‘Find one,’ said Rita. ‘We’re a splendid sex.’
‘I won’t do anything like that again. I mean it, Rita. I won’t.’
‘It’s too late, Ted.’
‘On your own head be it, then.’
‘You what?’
‘If anything happens to me, Rita. If I stab myself to death with one of my own toasting forks.’
‘Don’t be silly, Ted,’ said Rita. ‘Don’t say such things.’
‘I’m serious,’ said Ted. ‘Do you really think my life’s worth living any more? And if I do, Rita, I’ll make sure everyone in this town knows who drove me to it. I mean … I will.’
Ted strode back towards the lifts. Rita watched him, wondering. He got into the lift, pressed the button, and stood, staring bleakly, angrily into the vast soft foyer, so carefully designed to blot out all bleakness and anger. At last the lift doors closed slowly and silently. Rita sighed, and joined her son.
As Ted re-entered the bar he glared at the whole assembly, but especially at Liz, and especially at her swollen belly. That was his baby in there.
He ordered a double whisky. The dark, intense Alec Skiddaw hesitated before serving him.
Laurence approached Liz. He avoided looking directly at her, and especially at her swollen belly.
‘I’m off now,’ he said, ‘but I couldn’t leave without congratulating you. I understand you’re engaged. What splendid news! We’re still married, and there’s been no talk of a divorce, but these are mere bagatelles. When is Ted’s dear one expected?’
‘Don’t be angry, Laurence.’
‘Why on earth not? What an extraordinary remark.’
‘You wouldn’t really have wanted to bring up my child, would you? You never seemed all that kee
n on your own.’
‘Maybe I wanted a second crack at parenthood. It’s possible that one learns from one’s mistakes, don’t you think?’
‘But it may grow up to look like Ted.’
‘I don’t resent Ted any more. After all, he was just a pawn in your game.’
Liz’s breasts, though flattened by the downward pull of her baby, heaved. She went white.
‘What do you mean?’ she said.
‘You didn’t decide to keep the baby because you wanted Ted’s child. You’ve kept it as an excuse to break with me. You never dreamt I’d make things awkward by accepting it. You kept that baby for Neville.’
Liz was icy, rigid. She just managed to move her dry lips enough to say, ‘Are you suggesting I planned all this?’
‘How much does a cat plan?’ said Laurence. ‘Or does it just instinctively behave in such a way that it gets what it wants? Ah! There’s your fiancé. I must go and thank him for inviting me. He’s a stickler for good manners, and he tried so hard to bring you and me together tonight. He must be devastated by the extent of his failure. I must go and sympathize with him. I’ve rendered you speechless at last. Goodbye, Liz.’
Liz felt her contractions begin. She was frightened. She needed to be with Neville. She waited for Laurence to finish with him.
She didn’t have to wait long. Laurence handed Neville a piece of paper and carried on towards the lifts, raising his right arm in a parody of farewell as he left the Royalty Suite.
‘Thank you for inviting me, you bastard,’ read Neville Badger.
Sixth Do
September:
The Registry Office Wedding
An Indian summer hung over the solid, squat council offices, which housed the social services department, the housing department, the planning department and the registry office. The autumn sunshine was pale, misty and golden, and a warm, gentle breeze wafted the exotic scents of turmeric and fenugreek, cumin, chillies and garam masala, garlic and ginger, cardamom and coriander, saffron, mace and cinnamon, over the unlovely stonefaced municipal fortress at the wrong end of Commercial Street.
Two unlovely stone-faced planning officers emerged from the fortress, eager for their early lunch. They glared at the row of decaying unambitious brick buildings opposite. Piles of old packing cases and yellowing files were visible at the windows of the semi-derelict upper storeys. The planning officers sniffed the rich spicy air and smelt nothing but scope for redevelopment. Nor did they have any eyes for the young couple who were approaching the registry office.
The owner of the good Indian restaurant, at 114 Commercial Street, stood at the door of his dark temple of gastronomy, and stared with a superior air at the daytime activities of the English, whose graceless behaviour in his restaurant he despised so much. He did have eyes for the young couple. Disapproving eyes. His long, equine nostrils curled in contempt for the semi-long-haired young man in the ill-fitting suit, who was accompanied by a beautiful and extremely long-haired young lady. She moved with, for an English girl, a surprising, gentle sexy grace which aroused the owner of the good Indian restaurant. But what a fool the girl was to throw herself away on this abysmal fellow, this graceless Anglo-Saxon young man, who no doubt got himself ‘tanked up’ and then came into the restaurant at closing time, to be loud and patronizing while he stuffed his crude gut with lovely food which he was quite incapable of appreciating, the clod-hopper! Beautiful English girl, I hate you for your lack of judgement, thought the owner of the good Indian restaurant, where all the dishes were expertly and subtly spiced.
The owner of the bad Indian restaurant, at 110 Commercial Street, stood at the door of his more cheery establishment and beamed at the world with an infectious, gleaming smile. He liked the look of the young couple who were standing on the concrete at the side of the registry office. The young man put a friendly, encouraging hand on the small of the girl’s back. These two young people had already had carnal knowledge of each other. Well, that was normal these days. I am happy for you both, thought the owner of the bad Indian restaurant, where all the dishes came with variations of the same fiery, red, gut-churning sauce.
‘I knew we’d be early,’ said Paul Simcock.
The young couple stood in the sunshine on the concreted area at the side of the building. They were reluctant to enter its gloomy recesses until it was unavoidable.
They found it hard to believe that everyday life, life outside the wedding, could still be continuing. But it was. They saw Larry Benson, of fitted kitchen fame, lock the door of Kitchen Wonderland, at 112 Commercial Street. They saw him walk away from his island of formica, entirely surrounded by curry. He walked wearily, as if soon to be defeated by life, in the direction of the Black Horse where, unbeknown to them, he would meet his lady wife, who was no lady. They saw the tall, handsome Melissa Holdsworthy stride past purposefully. They saw the suave Doctor Spreckley drive by and suddenly lose all his suavity as he caught sight of her. They saw him turn his head just too late to avoid her witheringly contemptuous stare. He had steered well clear of her since he’d heard of her antics at the crowning of Miss Frozen Chicken (UK). They saw the first customers enter the bad Indian restaurant. They saw the owner of the good Indian restaurant give a silent snort of his long nose and close his door upon this hopelessly undiscriminating town. He didn’t realize that more people went to the bad restaurant than to his because most English people are so insecure that it’s more important for them to feel liked in a restaurant than to get good food.
‘Perhaps people are inside,’ said Carol Fordingbridge. ‘There’s a waiting room.’
‘I’m not going in there,’ said Paul. ‘It’s like a doctor’s waiting room without the magazines.’
‘I hate doctors’ waiting rooms,’ said Carol, who was wearing a pretty, very pale yellow dress which made her look as if she were very nearly a virgin, and might become one some day, if she was careful. ‘You look at other people and you don’t know whether it’s a fatal disease or a pimple on the bum. Plus which, some of them are so infectious, if you aren’t ill when you go you will be by the time you leave. I’m talking too much. It’s nerves. I’m very nervous.’
‘You look lovely today, Carol.’
He kissed her. Her soft, creamy cheeks went ever so slightly pink.
‘Thanks,’ she said.
‘I don’t know why I said “today”,’ he said. ‘It makes it sound as if you don’t look lovely on other days. And you do. Every day.’
‘Thanks,’ she said, and she kissed him.
Elvis Simcock arrived at last. He wore a very casual suit on which there was one bright orange stain, a relic of the bad Indian restaurant.
‘Sodding cars,’ he said. ‘Sodding inadequate municipal parking facilities.’
‘The great philosopher has spoken,’ said Paul.
‘Why can’t I park a car?’ asked Elvis.
‘Because philosophers aren’t practical men,’ said Carol.
‘Exactly,’ said Paul. ‘I don’t expect Bertrand Russell could reverse into a parking space. And Jean-Paul Sartre wouldn’t have recognized a rawlplug if he’d fallen over it.’
‘Bertrand Russell didn’t work for Cock-A-Doodle Chickens. Jean-Paul Sartre didn’t get a bad third at Keele.’
‘Cheer up, Elvis,’ said Carol Fordingbridge. ‘It’s supposed to be a wedding.’
‘I’ll cheer up when I want to, Carol.’
‘Charming!’
The two young men scuffed their heels uneasily. The concreted area was surrounded by municipal flowerbeds, with flowers evenly spaced in rows, like councillors at a meeting. Beside a small side door, there was a notice which stated, ‘Please help your council – do not throw confetti’.
‘I’ll go and see if there’s anybody in the waiting room,’ said Elvis. ‘Anything’s better than standing here like lemons.’
‘Charming!’ said Carol.
Elvis strode off to the main entrance.
‘I assume,’ said Paul.
‘You what?’ said Carol.
‘I said you look lovely every day. I can’t be absolutely certain that’s true, because I haven’t seen you every day.’ He was talking too much. He couldn’t help it. He was very nervous. ‘It’s possible that on all the days I see you, you look lovely, and on all the days I don’t see you, you look absolutely hideous, but it’s very improbable.’
‘You are an idiot.’
‘Oh Carol!’
‘What?’
‘It churns me up when you say nice, affectionate things like “You are an idiot”. If it wasn’t for my making love to you, I wouldn’t have split up with Jenny, and now that I’ve split up with Jenny and I’m free to make love to you, you go and decide to marry my brother.’
‘You don’t want me. You still love Jenny. You’re coming out with all this nonsense because you’re nervous because she’s going to be here.’
‘Rubbish.’
Elvis returned. ‘Nobody,’ he said. He kissed his fiancée. ‘Was I a bit abrupt earlier?’ he said.
‘You could say that,’ said Paul.
‘I’m speaking to Carol,’ said Elvis.
‘You could say that,’ said Carol.
‘I’m sorry, love. I’m nervous.’
He kissed her. They clung to each other. Paul smiled broadly, trying not to feel redundant.
‘I don’t know why they’ve invited us if it’s family only,’ said the cynical Elvis Simcock. ‘I’m not their family.’
‘You are,’ said Paul. ‘You’re my brother. You just about scrape in.’
‘I think they must be short of people to invite,’ said Carol.
Rita joined them. She was wearing an elegant and expensive trouser suit which revealed the contours of her attractive body as none of her curtain-like dresses ever had. It was fennel-coloured. Her hair was stylishly cut. She looked altogether younger.
‘Mum!’ said Paul.
‘Good God!’ said Elvis.
‘Thank you very much,’ said Rita drily.
‘No, but … you look amazing!’ said Paul.
‘You look lovely!’ said Elvis.
