Fair Do's

by David Nobbs

  ‘Yes. Incredible,’ said Rodney. ‘I mean, not that I ever … hello, Trevor.’

  ‘Hello! My word, they don’t look bad “in situ”, do they?’ said Trevor Coldwell, whose paintings of fruit and vegetables decorated the spartan walls.

  ‘Very good,’ said Betty.

  Trevor Coldwell, who had a heavily lined face and a spectacularly unconvincing orange wig, which stirred occasionally like a dreaming cat, moved over to examine one of his works, ‘The Peach’. Every tiny furry hair on the richly textured skin was clearly visible. ‘I’ve done for the peach what Albrecht Dürer did for the hare,’ thought Trevor Coldwell with an immodesty that he never allowed the world to suspect.

  Rodney and Betty beamed at all these new arrivals. In their hearts there began to burn the glow of success.

  ‘Rita?’ said Rodney. ‘Will you make a little speech about the raffle?’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Well, it was your idea.’

  ‘Oh Lord.’

  ‘Rita!’ Betty was amazed by Rita’s reluctance. ‘You do on the council.’

  ‘You made a wonderful speech at your wedding,’ said Rodney. ‘I mean, your non-wedding.’

  ‘Yes, it was very appropriate, Rita,’ agreed Betty. ‘Everyone said how appropriate it was.’

  ‘Thank you, but this is different,’ said Rita. ‘It’s still there, you know. I mean, sometimes I feel quite confident for minutes on end. Then back it comes.’

  ‘Back what comes, Rita?’ Betty was puzzled.

  ‘My life. The long years of feeling inadequate. You don’t lose it. Don’t worry. I’ll make the speech.’

  Simon breezed up to them. ‘Rodney, Betty, congratulations,’ he beamed. If his father could have seen him, he’d have been proud of those teeth. He cast an uneasy glance towards Rita, then turned back to the Sillitoes and beamed again. ‘A great night.’

  Rita excused herself wryly. As soon as she’d gone, Simon said, ‘It’s embarrassing. I’m not allowed to talk to her.’ He changed his tone, as if approaching dangerous but exciting waters. ‘Look … er … I’ve … er … I’ve been a bit naughty.’

  ‘Congratulations. Do we know her?’ said Rodney.

  ‘Rodney!’ said Betty.

  ‘I don’t think you do, no,’ said Simon.

  ‘You what?’ said Rodney.

  ‘Know her. I’ve … er … I’ve met this friend. Well, I mean, she wasn’t a friend when I met her, she couldn’t be, I’d never met her, but then I did.’

  ‘And you were naughty.’

  ‘Betty!’

  ‘Oh no. No, no. Not naughty in that … well, not yet. No, I mean, I … er … what was naughty was, I’ve invited her tonight.’ Simon’s eyes swept in wonderment round the juice drinkers, who were now thronging the bar. ‘I shouldn’t have. It’s so full. But I never dreamt … she may not come, of course. Probably won’t, it being me.’

  ‘We’re delighted you did, and we hope she does,’ said Rodney.

  When Simon had gone, the Sillitoes sipped their carrot juice reflectively.

  ‘What sort of girl would fall for Simon?’ said Rodney at last.

  ‘A short-sighted estate agent?’ suggested Betty.

  The ravishing Liz Badger bore down on them ravishingly.

  ‘I thought I ought to mention it,’ she said. ‘I’ve been a bit naughty.’

  ‘Male or female?’ enquired Rodney.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The person you’ve invited.’

  ‘How on earth did you guess?’

  ‘There seem to be about four hundred uninvited people invited,’ said Rodney. ‘If you see what I mean.’

  ‘Oh Lord. But I never dreamt that so many …’ Liz didn’t complete her sentence. She didn’t need to.

  Betty finished it for her. ‘People would come? It’s all right. Neither did we.’

  ‘Male,’ said Liz.

  ‘What?’ said Rodney.

  ‘He’s a he. My brother.’

  ‘Brother?’

  Betty echoed Rodney’s astonishment. ‘I didn’t know you had a brother.’

  ‘Oh yes. An elder brother.’ Liz was enjoying their surprise. ‘He’s been abroad for twenty-two years. He’s an anthropologist. He specialises in the social behaviour of primitive tribes.’

  ‘He’ll be in his element,’ said Rodney drily.

  ‘He may not come, of course. This may be too frightening after African headhunters.’ Liz flashed them a soft smile that was as deadly as a blowpipe, and slid regally away.

  ‘Cow,’ said Betty.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Taking it on herself to invite people. And Simon. Typical Rodenhurst arrogance.’

  ‘Rita and Carol did the same thing.’

  ‘That’s different.’

  ‘What’s different about it?’

  Betty was briefly on the verge of being flummoxed.

  ‘I like them,’ she said.

  ‘Time for the opening ceremony,’ said Rodney, looking at his watch.

  ‘But the mystery celebrity isn’t here.’

  ‘Oh yes she is.’ Rodney was coyly mysterious.

  Betty joined in the game. ‘“She”! Ah! Where?’

  ‘Somewhere on the premises.’ Rodney moved over to the long brick wall opposite the door to the street. In this wall there was another arch, which led to a corridor along which were the gleaming new toilets with their recycled toilet paper and soap from a firm which made no cosmetic experiments on animals.

  Rodney stood, framed in the arch, with Trevor Coldwell’s wrinkled prunes to his left and his masterly hairy peach to the right.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said. ‘Thank you all for coming out, on this unseasonal night, to this bumper opening of Sillitoe’s.’ There was cheering. Rodney beamed. ‘Thank you. You are already sampling our cornucopia of non-alcoholic drinks.’ There was no cheering. Ted made a disgusted face. Rodney beamed. Despite his many weeks as a teetotaller, his face had its usual flushed, battered look, as if he’d been drinking bad wine in some hotel bar till two o’clock that morning. ‘Shortly you will be confronted by the widest range of vegan and vegetarian foods in Yorkshire.’ There was a soft murmur of approval. Prunella Ransom said, ‘Hear hear.’ Ted grimaced again. ‘Don’t all cheer at once. And there’ll be folk singing from that popular Pennine group, the Hebden Bridge Griddlers.’ There were cheers and applause, especially from those who had never heard the Hebden Bridge Griddlers. ‘And I haven’t finished yet! There will also be a raffle. A rather unusual raffle. To explain, I will call upon the brains behind the raffle, Councillor Rita Simcock.’

  Rodney stepped to one side, and held out his hand towards Rita, inviting applause.

  Rita stepped forward, shyly smiled her acknowledgement of the applause, and began. ‘Well … hello – “the brains”! – Well, our raffle tonight … I mean, the proceeds from it, will go to a Third World charity.’

  ‘Surprise surprise,’ muttered Ted.

  ‘Yes. And despite everything you’ve done to me, Ted, I’m glad you’re well fed enough to find starvation boring,’ snapped Rita.

  Ted shrugged at Corinna. Her answering look was a mixture of coolness and warmth. ‘Well, you did rather ask for that,’ said her look.

  ‘Tickets will be 25p each, or a pound for a strip of five. So that’s one free if you buy five, or four is all you buy, in other words, so I hope you’ll all have a strip.’

  ‘Oooh! Sounds naughty!’

  In his delight at his wit, Simon had forgotten that he wasn’t supposed to be speaking to Rita. He was soon reminded.

  ‘I’d heard rumours that the Rodenhursts weren’t speaking to me,’ said Rita. ‘I’m glad it’s not true. I’d hate to miss gems of that intellectual quality.’

  Liz gave her son a furious glare. He looked suitably abashed.

  ‘First prize,’ continued Rita, ‘is a First World hamper, i.e., containing the average calories, protein etcetera of the average Western adult daily diet, as per UN statistics.
’

  Betty produced, from a trolley concealed in the corridor, a wicker hamper, not very large, tied with green bows. She showed it to the gathering, turning the hamper to face all corners of the room, like a scantily-clad young lady on a television game show.

  Ted yawned theatrically.

  ‘Second prize is a Second World hamper, i.e., Iron Curtain rations.’

  Betty showed the gathering a smaller wicker hamper.

  ‘Third prize is a Third World hamper, the average daily diet of the Third World.’

  Betty showed a still smaller, almost square wicker hamper, tied with a large green bow. The size of this hamper had been a subject of great debate. It had been suggested that it should be the largest, since the Third World diet was all bulk and no protein, but this had been overruled on grounds of symbolism if not of accuracy.

  ‘Everyone who buys a ticket guarantees if they win to eat on their nominated day their diet and nothing else.’

  Jenny looked as if she might cry. She clutched Elvis’s hand for support. He looked down at her hand, wonderingly.

  ‘A tiny little gesture.’ Rita’s voice began to crack. ‘A symbol of our concern for those less fortunate than ourselves. I’m sorry. This is silly. Sorry. Thank you.’

  Rita almost ran off, to hide among the guests.

  Rodney led the enthusiastic applause. Ted was astounded to see that Corinna’s eyes were moist. Even Eric Siddall, barman supreme, wiped the corner of his eye when nobody was looking.

  ‘Splendid,’ said Rodney. ‘Well done, Rita. And now, our mystery celebrity.’

  Betty, who had been carefully replacing the prize hampers on the trolley, backed slowly into view, eager to learn the identity of the celebrity.

  ‘It’s somebody I’ve admired more than anybody in the world,’ continued her husband. ‘The mystery is why she puts up with me.’

  Realisation dawned slowly on Betty’s face. Slowly, her mouth opened in disbelief.

  ‘Yes, it’s the only celebrity in my life, my wife Betty.’

  ‘Oooh!’ cried Betty.

  There was warm applause. A few people cheered. Even Ted smiled.

  Betty made her way through the excited throng to the green tape. Rodney followed, carrying a large pair of scissors.

  Betty turned to face her audience. Beside her, a young couple with Friends of the Earth badges and hole-studded jeans kissed in their excitement. Everyone was excited. Elvis and Jenny forgot not to clasp hands. Even Liz couldn’t find a fittingly caustic expression.

  ‘Well!’ said Betty. ‘Well! Oooh! Rodney, what a … ladies and … oh dear. I’m overcome. I am. I’m overcome. Oooh, what a lovely … what a total … so now, without further ado … I don’t know what to say, I’m knocked all of a … so without further ado … I feel like a queen. I do. I feel like a queen. Ladies and gentlemen, I name this health food complex and wholefood vegetarian restaurant “Sillitoe’s”. God bless her and all who eat in her. Oooh!’

  She had a moment of panic as she realised that she had no scissors.

  Rodney handed her the scissors. She laughed with relief.

  She snipped the tape. Its two green arms fell lifeless to the ground.

  Beyond the arch, all the lights came up, revealing an Aladdin’s cave of stripped pine, exposed brick, and tasteful paintings of vegetables. At the far end of the room, which looked slightly like an aircraft hangar, there was a long counter, laden with many dishes of hot and cold food. Beyond the counter, two waitresses waited for the rush. But the guests, sobered more by thoughts of the Third World than by lack of alcohol, filtered only slowly through into the larger room.

  The Hebden Bridge Griddlers tuned up briefly and began to play. There were two male griddlers. One of them looked like an ageing hippy and moved every part of his anatomy as he sang. The other one was tall and grizzled, and looked as if he could have been a sergeant in the marines. He was very cool and laid back. Between them the lady griddler smiled and swayed, flashed her dark eyes, tossed her dark hair, heaved her fine bosom and tried to look as if she had gipsy blood in her veins. In this she was surprisingly successful, considering that she was a chiropodist’s daughter from Batley.

  ‘Well, this is ridiculous. Somebody must try the food,’ said Melissa Holdsworthy, the tall, handsome sculptperson with the prematurely greying hair and the belatedly growing reputation. Unhonoured in Britain, she had recently held major exhibitions in Bremen and Seville. She strode athletically to the counter and gazed with astonishment at the food. ‘Bloody hell,’ she said, ‘I think this place might be the real McCoy.’

  Once the ice was broken the tables soon began to fill with eager diners.

  Others, the natural holders-back, the ones who never queued to get off ferries, or hurried at airports, decided to examine the contents of the shop first.

  You will not be surprised to learn that the third and final part of the complex had walls of exposed brick, bare save for Trevor Coldwell’s matching studies of globe and Jerusalem artichokes. An arch led to the restaurant, and through it there could be heard the strains of ‘Barnyard of Dalghaty’, from the Hebden Bridge Griddlers.

  Neville found Rita escorting some guests round the wellstocked shelves.

  ‘Ah! There you are, Rita!’ he said.

  ‘Feel free to browse,’ Rita told the guests. ‘And if you find you’ve found anything that you can’t find, let us know. Excuse me.’ She hurried over to Neville. ‘Neville! You’re talking to me!’

  ‘No. I’m afraid not.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m not talking to you, but I wanted you to know that I’m only not talking to you because Liz isn’t talking to you.’ Neville was frowning with concentration as he sought to identify his position accurately. ‘I’m not not talking to you really.’

  ‘Well, thanks, Neville.’ Rita decided to try to reason with this eminently reasonable man. ‘Look, I know it’s a very nice magnolia, but in the context of the rain forests being cut down at the rate of two football pitches a minute …’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

  ‘That’s a squash court every 0.7 seconds.’

  But Neville’s face had become yet another brick wall on that evening of brick walls.

  ‘I must get back to her,’ he said.

  In the restaurant all was noise and bustle. The Hebden Bridge Griddlers were bashing out ‘Prickly Eye Bush’. Behind the counter Jenny was helping the waitresses. The quiches and salads were proving popular, but so were the more unusual dishes: the walnut and mushroom bake with dark orange sauce and red cabbage, and the aubergine and butter bean biryani. Rodney and Betty Sillitoe could scarcely hide their excitement as they clinked their glasses of carrot juice.

  At one table Melissa Holdsworthy raved to the abstemious Pilbeams about the spicy, saffrony Rata Marseillaise. ‘It’s bouillabaisse without the fish,’ she told them. They smiled abstemiously, and said the quiche was nice. Melissa ‘real sculptpersons don’t eat quiche’ Holdsworthy sighed and hoped Rodney and Betty weren’t going to be too adventurous for local tastes. She sipped her damson and dandelion cocktail and sighed again, wishing it was rich red Burgundy.

  At another table, Prunella Ransom found the Mayor and Mayoress making a bee-line for her, bearing trays of spinach cannelloni and salad. Being shy, they were thrilled to find somebody they knew. She’d nothing against them, they were dear souls, but she had a feeling that tonight she’d meet an interesting unmarried man, and the Mayor with his three cats and his budgie certainly wasn’t that.

  At a third table, Corinna Price-Rodgerson was eating her biryani with enthusiasm. Beside her, Ted Simcock chewed his walnut and mushroom bake as if it were polystyrene.

  ‘Great food, isn’t it?’ said Elvis, plonking himself into the empty chair beside his father.

  ‘Delicious, if you happen to be a squirrel,’ said Ted, nibbling sourly.

  ‘I’m going to give this place a rave report in my “Gosh, what nosh” spot that you’ve no doubt hear
d me do on early morning extra,’ said Elvis.

  ‘No,’ said Ted dismissively.

  ‘Ted!’ Corinna gave Elvis a real Bramah of an impending stepmother smile and said, ‘I’m interested in your local radio career, anyway, Elvis. How’s it going?’

  Resentment for Corinna fought briefly with pride in his career. Pride won easily. ‘Not too bad at all. I’m not really interested in reporting, of course, but you can’t expect to become a chat show host straightaway.’

  ‘Chat show host?’ Ted was astounded.

  ‘That’s my ultimate goal. Why not? I’ve got the name for it. A name with that showbiz ring.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ said Corinna. ‘Yes. “Elvis”.’

  ‘No. “Simcock”,’ said Elvis.

  ‘“Simcock”?’ said Ted.

  ‘It sounds good, don’t you think? Tonight “Simcock”, with Sue Lawley. Because they get fabulous holidays, chat show hosts.’ Elvis turned to Ted, seeking, perhaps suddenly needing, his father’s approval. ‘Won’t you be proud, Dad, when the family name’s a household word?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Ted, who had so recently dreamt of his own cookery show. ‘It’ll be a great thrill as I pick my way through the rubble to which council JCBs have reduced my life’s dream.’

  ‘Darling!’ Corinna’s reproof of his bitterness was gentleness itself. ‘Think positive. We regard this little setback as an opportunity.’

  ‘Oh yes, yes,’ said Ted. ‘We do. An opportunity, Elvis.’

  ‘An open sesame to wider horizons.’

  ‘An open sesame to wider horizons, Elvis.’

  ‘Good,’ said Elvis airily. ‘I’m glad.’

  He moved away to chat to Jenny across the food counter.

  ‘Patronising berk!’ said Ted. ‘What opportunity, love? What open sesame to what wider horizons?’

  ‘I have an idea,’ said Corinna. ‘I’ve travelled almost every inch of East Africa, with my father. It’s a rapidly expanding area for Brits. What ain’t they got? They ain’t got good British cooking.’

  There was a smattering of applause. The Hebden Bridge Griddlers had finished their rendition of ‘Prickly Eye Bush’. They went into a huddle, as if their programme were spontaneous and sensitive to the individual demands of the evening, although it had all been decided in advance. It was the programme they always did.