by David Nobbs
‘Thank you very much,’ said Rita drily. There was no doubt about it. She was relishing the situation! Their reactions were amusing her. They felt resentful. ‘I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised if you’re surprised. Listen boys … hello, Carol! Congratulations!’ Rita kissed Carol Fordingbridge warmly. ‘Listen, boys …’
‘What about me!’ said Elvis. ‘Aren’t you going to congratulate me?’
‘It’s you I should be congratulating,’ said Rita. ‘I should be sympathizing with Carol.’
‘Mum!’
‘Listen, boys,’ said Rita. ‘I’ve brought a friend.’
The siren of a passing ambulance carved through the silence of her sons.
‘What sort of a friend?’ said Paul at last.
‘A male sort of a friend,’ said Rita.
‘What??’ said Elvis.
‘Thank you very much,’ said Rita drily. ‘I rang them, and asked if I could bring him, and they seemed delighted. I think they’re rather short of guests.’
‘Where is he, this male sort of friend?’ said Elvis.
‘Trying to park,’ said his mother. ‘It’s hell round here. He said it didn’t matter if he was late, but I mustn’t be, so he dropped me off. I’m glad. It’s given me the chance to warn you.’
Her two sons exchanged uneasy glances.
‘What do you mean, “warn us”?’ said Elvis. ‘What’s wrong with him?’
‘Has he only got one leg or something?’ said Paul.
‘Nothing’s wrong with him,’ said Rita. ‘I’m delighted to say he’s complete in every respect.’
‘Mum!’ said Paul.
‘So what are you warning us about?’ enquired Elvis, ever the more intellectually persistent.
‘That I have a male friend,’ said Rita.
They stared at her blankly.
‘So that you won’t gawp in astonishment when you see him,’ she explained.
They gawped in astonishment.
‘Why on earth should we gawp in astonishment?’ said Elvis.
‘At the idea that your mother could have a “boyfriend”.’
They blinked in disapproval at her use of the term ‘boyfriend’, but Elvis said, ‘I think we’re a bit more sophisticated than that, Mum.’
‘Yes, well,’ said Rita, ‘we mothers never really believe our children have grown into mature adults, do we?’
‘Who is he, Mrs Simcock, your boyfriend?’ asked Carol Fordingbridge, who had been finding it difficult to join in these family exchanges.
‘You remember that actor they had at the charity horse-racing evening?’ said Rita.
It was Elvis who said, ‘Harvey Wedgewood????’ with four question marks, but it could just as easily have been Paul. They were both gawping again.
‘You’re both gawping again,’ said Carol.
‘Shut up, Carol,’ said Elvis.
‘He invited me to go to his play in London and go backstage.’ As Rita talked, shirt-sleeved salesmen peered out of their slowly moving cars, trying to catch a glimpse of the bride. ‘It took me weeks to pluck up the courage to go, but in the end I thought … well, I’ve been invited, I’ll go. I was shaking. I mean, little provincial me, in an actor’s dressing room in the West End! I nearly turned away when I got to the stage door. The man was so off-putting. But I thought, No, Rita. You’ve come this far. And what does it matter if Harvey doesn’t recognize you? Nobody you know need ever know you came here. He did remember me. Straightaway. It turned out to be the best move I ever made in my life.’
There was a brief, appalled silence, as the golden sun streamed down on the concrete. The boys were contemplating Harvey Wedgewood, the actor, as their step-father. Harvey Wedgewood’s multi-cratered face beside their mum’s. Harvey Wedgewood’s boozy breath on her prim cheeks.
‘Mum!’ said Elvis faintly.
‘Oh dear,’ said Rita. ‘You do sound displeased with me.’
Carol Fordingbridge tried to look interested in the flowerbeds.
‘No,’ said Elvis. ‘It’s your life. You’re old enough to know your own mind. But.’
‘That “but” sounds very like your father. He had a very ominous “but” when he wanted to.’ Rita wished she hadn’t mentioned their father.
‘No! Mum!’ said Paul. ‘All we mean is … I mean … isn’t he? I mean, he is. A bit old.’
‘You’re both sounding like your father.’
‘Because we feel responsible for you,’ said Paul. ‘Because we love you. We’re delighted to see you get your share of female emancipation, but … Elvis is right … we’d be a bit happier, for your sake, if it were somebody younger. That’s all.’
‘Because we love you,’ said Elvis.
‘And we don’t want you marrying somebody and his needing to be looked after all the time,’ said Paul.
‘And dying and breaking your heart,’ said Elvis.
‘That’s all,’ said Paul.
‘Because we love you,’ said Elvis.
A redhaired, freckled, good-looking man in a good suit and his mid-thirties stepped energetically towards them.
‘This is Gerry Lansdown,’ said Rita.
Elvis and Paul gawped in astonishment.
‘Gerry, this is Elvis, my oldest. Paul, my youngest. And Elvis’s fiancée Carol,’ said Rita.
‘Hello,’ said Gerry Lansdown. ‘I know this sounds corny, but I’ve heard so much about you boys, it’s nice to meet you at last.’
‘You all seem stunned,’ said Rita.
‘Well …’ said Paul.
‘I was trying to tell them how I met you, Gerry. I got to the bit about going to Harvey’s dressing room, and they leapt to conclusions. Gave me the most tremendous ticking off because they thought I was throwing myself away on a geriatric.’
‘No, I’m not quite a geriatric yet,’ said Gerry Lansdown with a smile, which Elvis and Paul instantly hated. ‘I’m a friend of Harvey’s son. Your mother and I met in Harvey’s dressing room.’
Neville Badger arrived, with two other men. If Neville had seemed immaculate before, it must have been an illusion. Now, dressed for his own wedding, he really was immaculate.
‘Hello, all,’ he said.
‘You look marvellous, Neville,’ said Rita.
‘Thank you, Rita.’ Neville realized that politeness required more of him. ‘So do you,’ he said. ‘Marvellous.’ He noticed Rita’s appearance for the first time. ‘No!’ he said. ‘You really do! I mean …’ He stopped, embarrassed.
‘This is Gerry Lansdown,’ said Rita.
‘Good …’ Still off balance, Neville almost said ‘Good Lord!’, but managed to amend it rapidly. ‘… to meet you, Gerry. My brother Arthur …’
Arthur Badger was slightly older and smaller than Neville, and fractionally less charming and immaculate.
‘… and his son-in-law Andrew Denton.’
Andrew Denton was in his thirties, worked in banking in Leeds, but wasn’t rising quite as rapidly as his father-in-law had hoped.
‘Andrew’s wife can’t be here. A great shame. Rita’s boys, Elvis and Paul, and Elvis’s … er …’ continued Neville.
‘Carol Fordingbridge,’ said Carol.
‘And Elvis’s Carol Fordingbridge,’ said Neville. ‘Well, here we are, eh? All on parade. Well done. Any … er … any sign of Simon?’
‘Not yet,’ said Paul.
‘Ah!’ said Neville.
‘More important, no sign of the lovely bride,’ said the almost immaculate Arthur Badger.
Andrew Denton surprised everybody by leaping into life, and choosing as his opening remark, ‘She’s probably buying bedsocks.’ They all stared at him. ‘Because she’s got cold feet,’ he explained. ‘Joke!’
Arthur Badger gave his son-in-law a meaningful look. It meant, ‘Belt up, will you?’
‘I think they must be running late,’ said Carol. ‘The last lot aren’t out yet.’
‘It is rather like waiting for your turn on a boating lake, isn’t it?’ said Neville
.
A cool breeze gusted briefly, emphasizing the fragility of this late summer. Neville Badger sighed, as if emulating the breeze to the best of his ability, and said, ‘Oh dear!’
‘Oh dear,’ said Rita.
‘Oh dear, oh dear, Rita, why the “oh dear”?’ said Neville, giving her one of his most irresistible smiles. He felt enormously warm towards her, in gratitude for her production of Gerry Lansdown, which had freed him from the guilt which he’d felt ever since he’d realized that he’d trampled on her feelings.
‘No, I was saying “oh dear” because you said “oh dear”,” said Rita.
‘Did I? Oh dear.’
‘The condemned man ate a hearty breakfast,’ said Andrew Denton, like an unexpected noon broadside from a ceremonial gun.
‘Pardon?’ said Neville Badger.
‘Joke,’ explained Andrew Denton.
‘Ah!’ said Neville, failing to conceal his mystification.
Arthur Badger gave Andrew Denton a dry look.
The traffic was heavy and slow-moving, and there was still no sign of the bridal limousine. Neville could feel the beginnings of panic. He had to talk. ‘I hope I don’t feel quite condemned,’ he said, ‘although I must say that, the way I do feel, if I was council property I probably would be. I just feel most dreadfully nervous. After such a long, idyllic first marriage, I think a second marriage is bound to be nerve-racking. I think these registry places make it rather … I don’t know … and yet our first wedding was so large, so grand, Jane always says it made her feel that she and I were irrelevant. Oh Lord. I really ought to stop talking about her as if she’s still alive now, oughtn’t I?’
It was clearly a rhetorical question, so nobody answered. Indeed, nobody spoke at all. Andrew Denton wound himself up to fire another joke, but Arthur Badger managed to silence him with a look.
A rather forlorn group of six people emerged from the main entrance and came round to the side door. They carried confetti.
The funny little man with the big ears, who went to all the weddings, hovered about twenty yards away from them.
A young couple came out of the side door. The groom had pink hair. The bride, who was heavily pregnant, had painfully thin legs. The six guests threw confetti. It swirled listlessly round the notice that said ‘Please help your council – do not throw confetti’.
‘They’re so young,’ whispered Rita. ‘There are so few people. What does life hold for them?’
‘We’ll never know,’ said Elvis, ever the philosophical realist.
‘I’d like to know,’ said Rita. She went up to the young couple and kissed the astonished bride. She was almost crying. ‘I hope you’ll both be terribly happy,’ she said, with a gulping break in her voice.
‘Rita is a most remarkable person,’ said Gerry Lansdown to Neville.
‘She is indeed,’ said Neville Badger. ‘She is indeed, Tom.’
‘Gerry,’ said Gerry.
Rita returned, sniffing and smiling.
‘That was wonderful,’ said Gerry. ‘Very few people could have done that.’ He kissed her. Elvis and Paul looked embarrassed.
‘Don’t be absurd, Gerry,’ said Rita. ‘And my children are very embarrassed at the idea of you being physical with me.’
‘Mum!’ said Paul. ‘Of course we aren’t. We’re the emancipated generation.’
‘Not quite so emancipated that you’re happy for me to be the emancipated generation as well,’ said Rita. And she strolled off, arm in arm with Gerry Lansdown, to examine the municipal flowers.
The almost immaculate Arthur Badger led Andrew Denton in the opposite direction.
‘Andrew?’ he said. ‘I know you’re always like a boy let out of school when you manage to get out without my daughter, but do you have to keep making your jokes?’
‘It’s a happy occasion,’ said Andrew Denton. ‘Surely a touch of humour would be welcome?’
‘My point precisely,’ said Arthur Badger.
The owner of the good Indian restaurant, still without customers, came to the door to have another look at the English girl who moved her creamy body with an almost Oriental serenity. She had two men with her now! Probably she was as shallow and coarse as the rest of her race. He glared at two shapeless women dragging bags of dirty washing to the launderette, and returned into his empty temple of gastronomy.
‘I’m not embarrassed, Carol,’ protested Elvis Simcock.
‘Oh no!’ said Carol Fordingbridge. ‘You both are.’
‘I’m not,’ said Paul. ‘It’s just that it all seems wrong. Under the circumstances.’
‘Life has to go on,’ said Elvis.
‘What insight your study of philosophy has given you!’ said Paul. ‘I know life has to go on, you dumbo, but it doesn’t for him, does it? I mean … what is it? Three months? It’s as if they don’t care about all that. I mean, if it had been natural causes, it’d be bad enough. But suicide!’
The wedding car pulled up, festooned with ribbons.
Liz’s dress was long, elegant, expensive … and pink! Nobody had ever seen her in pink. It seemed like a declaration of a new personality. She looked demure.
Jenny wore a middle-class, up-market, black-and-white dress. She looked more like her mother than Paul had ever seen her. He felt that a great chasm had opened up between him and his young wife. He wondered if she meant him to.
Evidently not. Evidently she hadn’t been expecting him. She looked thunderstruck.
‘You didn’t tell me you were inviting Paul,’ she said.
‘Didn’t I, dear?’ said her mother. ‘Well of course I invited him. He’s family.’
The immaculate Neville Badger kissed his bride-to-be shyly. ‘You look stunning, my love,’ he said.
‘You don’t look so bad yourself,’ she said.
They approached the rest of the gathering, arm in arm. Neville looked gallant.
‘Hello, Jenny,’ said Paul.
‘Hello,’ said Jenny coldly, walking past him.
‘Rita!’ said Liz. ‘You came! You look wonderful! No, you really do! What’s happened? I mean …’
‘Liz, Jenny,’ said Rita. ‘I’d like you to meet my friend Gerry Lansdown.’
‘Hello, Gerry,’ said Liz, almost managing to hide her surprise as she shook hands with him. A firm, dry handshake. If he had feet of clay, it wasn’t evident in his hands.
‘I know it’s corny,’ said Gerry, ‘but I’ve heard so much about you both, it’s nice to meet you at last.’
Those who were looking for indications of the faults which Gerry Lansdown must surely possess felt that there could be telling evidence in this remark. He’d said it before. Perhaps he was a bore. It sounded rather glib. Perhaps he was a creep. Perhaps he was a creep and a bore. Time would tell.
‘I think we’d better go in,’ said Neville. ‘We’re late.’
Indeed, the funny little man with the big ears had already gone in.
‘Sorry,’ said Liz. ‘The traffic was awful. I really resented it, too. What right had all those people to be on the road as if it was just a normal morning when it’s my wedding day? Any sign of Simon?’
‘I’m afraid not,’ said Neville.
‘Oh dear.’
‘Come on, then. Best foot forward.’
‘Right.’
Neville and Liz led the way towards the main entrance of the council offices. They were preceded up the steps by an embarrassed homeless couple and a very angry, unshaven man with a grudge against the social services.
‘Oh dear,’ said Liz.
‘Oh dear oh dear!’ said Neville.
‘Oh dear oh dear!’ said Liz. ‘Why all the “oh dears”? Are you having second thoughts?’
‘No! No!! Good heavens, no! No, I was saying “oh dear” because you sighed and said “oh dear”.’
‘Did I? Oh dear.’
A housing officer, hurrying out before he had to deal with the homeless couple, held the door open for the wedding party with a pained expression, as
if to say, ‘Please don’t worry about knocking a minute and a quarter off my lunch hour. It happens every day.’ A spark of humanity seeped through his municipal exterior, as if he’d added, ‘Oh, and … good luck.’
‘Are you having second thoughts?’ said the immaculate groom, as they adjusted their eyes to the dark entrance lobby.
‘No! No!! Good heavens, no!’ said Liz. ‘No, I suppose I meant “oh dear, Simon hasn’t come. Oh dear, the rest of my stuffy family are also boycotting the event. Oh dear, Jenny’s still totally hostile to Paul, and, whatever we think of him, he is her husband. Oh dear, what does Rita think she’s playing at? and, Oh dear, it’s hardly Westminster Abbey, is it?”’
‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ said Neville Badger. ‘What a lot of “oh dears”.’
They entered the registry office.
‘The restaurant that brings a touch of the Loire Valley to the banks of the Gadd’ was how an advertising feature in the Argus had described Chez Albert in Moor Street, on its opening eighteen months previously. ‘The eponymous Monsieur Albert uses only fresh materials, down to the last pea and chip.’ It was unfortunate that a display advertisement on the opposite page should have read ‘Tyne-Tees Oven-Ready Chips, suppliers to Chez Albert, wish Monsieur Albert and his restaurant every success.’
Monsieur Albert surveyed his establishment with a critical eye. His hairstyle, his luxuriant gallic moustache, his paunch, his Parisian clothes, all proclaimed his French origins.
The candles were lit on the table laid for eleven, and very pretty it looked. The wedding party hadn’t paid the supplement which he’d have required had he closed the restaurant for them. They’d thought it would be more relaxed if they weren’t the only people in the restaurant. Well, they were going to be the only people, even though they hadn’t paid the supplement. The recession had hit the business lunch trade badly.
When the door opened, Monsieur Albert thought it would be the wedding party or a glassware salesman, but it was a middle-aged couple.
‘Good morning,’ said the man, who was wearing a crumpled suit. ‘Do you have a table for two?’
Monsieur Albert’s eyes swept swiftly over his empty restaurant. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said, ‘I sink I can squeeze you in. Can I get you somesing pour boire – to drink?’
