by David Nobbs
‘But it’s true.’
‘That makes it all the more cruel and unfair.’
Rodney joined them, clutching his carrot juice.
‘Ah! There you are,’ said Betty.
‘Here I am,’ said Rodney cheerfully. ‘I’m going to go and beard Eric in his den.’
‘I’ve just got to check something in the store room,’ said Betty.
Rodney and Betty went off in opposite directions, clutching their carrot juices. Simon and Lucinda were also moving off, Lucinda peering anxiously, protecting her tray of food from dimly-seen terrors. Rita felt that she had been abandoned. She felt suddenly tired. Tired of this feud. Tired of trouble. Tired of challenges. She closed her eyes. This wouldn’t do. She opened them and saw Simon and Lucinda talking with Carol Fordingbridge. She stood and watched and tried to regain her strength.
‘Yours turned up?’ Simon asked.
‘Has he heck?’ said Carol wryly.
Simon shook his head in mystification. ‘I don’t understand it,’ he said. ‘I simply don’t understand it, Carol.’
‘You what?’
‘A beautiful girl like you. She is beautiful, isn’t she, Lucinda?’
The short-sighted Lucinda Snellmarsh peered closely at the long-haired Carol Fordingbridge.
‘Yes,’ she said.
Simon smiled. He had introduced two attractive young women to each other. He was handling their meeting well. He was sophisticated. Life was good.
‘Highly desirable?’ he said.
‘I’d have thought so,’ said Lucinda, somewhat drily, though Simon didn’t notice.
‘I’m a woman, Simon, not a house,’ protested Carol.
Simon did notice her dryness. He strove to deal with it. ‘A very attractive woman. A beautiful woman. A gorgeous woman. Wouldn’t you say so, Lucinda?’
‘Well … attractive.’
Simon did realise now that Lucinda was getting somewhat miffed at his praise of Carol. But she could handle it, unlike Carol, who, though lovely, wasn’t out of the top drawer. So it was Carol he strove to placate.
‘Absolutely,’ he said. ‘So where are the men with taste?’
‘Thank you, Simon,’ said Carol bitterly, and she stomped off.
Simon was hurt. ‘I thought I was being extremely complimentary,’ he said. His lips curled scornfully. ‘Women!’ He noticed Lucinda’s expression. ‘Apart from you, of course.’
‘Eric. A word.’
‘Certainly, sir,’ said Eric Siddall without enthusiasm. ‘Can do. Tickety-boo. We have a lull.’
‘Erm …’ began Rodney. ‘A little bird has told me that you earlier uttered the words “it just isn’t me, isn’t carrot juice”.’
‘I know what you’re going to say, and you’re right.’
‘You what?’
‘You were going to say, “Eric,” you were going to say, “I have not employed you on this important night to be lukewarm over your beverages,” you were going to say.’
‘Well, yes.’
‘The rebuke is merited,’ said Eric Siddall, barman supreme. ‘I have served, during what I like to think of as a modestly distinguished career behind the pumps, four years on the Cunarders, head barman in the cocktail bar of the Savoy Hotel … Hunstanton, eighteen years stewardship of the golf club, until … well, we won’t go into that. I’ve smiled through streaming colds, gout and a trapped disc. I’ve endured, with stoic fortitude, heavy seas, leaking roofs, golfers’ anecdotes, and the lager playing me up. I have to say that your drinks have depressed me, and I’ve shown it. I’ve let you down. I’ve let meself down. All I can say is, I’m very, very disappointed in meself.’
‘Yes, well,’ said Rodney,’ I just wanted to say, “Never mind, Eric. Keep at it.” Jolly good.’
It would have been difficult to say which man was closer to tears.
‘Hello, Mum,’ said Jenny, smiling bravely. ‘Hello … Neville.’
‘Hello,’ said Liz warily.
‘I’ve something to … er …’ began Jenny. She was determined to tell them before they found out. ‘Earlier, Mum, you said you hoped I’d find somebody soon.’
‘Yes,’ said her mother even more warily.
‘Well, I have.’
‘That was soon,’ said Neville.
‘Yes. You said you hoped he’d be nice. He is nice.’
‘That’s nice,’ said Liz and Neville.
‘Yes. You said you hoped he’d be of my – I can hardly use the word, I find the concept so distasteful – class.’
‘Well, I did, yes,’ said Liz.
‘Yes, well, I suppose he, although I don’t think in those terms any more, but if I did think in those terms any more I’d have to say, isn’t.’
Neville smiled with vague alarm, and left the conversation entirely to the women.
‘Yes, well, I suppose I might have guessed he wouldn’t be,’ said Liz. ‘Especially as I was so foolish as to suggest he should be. Will parents never learn?’
‘He … er … I’m afraid he may disappoint your hopes pretty considerably in one particular respect.’
‘What?’
‘I’m afraid he fails, utterly and totally fails, the criterion of … er … oh Lord … of … er … not being a Simcock.’
Neville looked puzzled, as if mentally checking through a long list of possible Simcocks.
Liz was quicker.
‘Elvis?’
The Hebden Bridge Griddlers were cheerfully instructing the guests to ‘Look at the Coffin’. Lucinda was on to her dessert. The decaffeinated coffee was flowing. Rita and Jenny were busily selling raffle tickets.
Gordon Trollope, the bewildered butcher, told them that last Sunday, over at Thirsk, when asked to recite a nursery rhyme, his vegetarian two-year-old grand-daughter had said, ‘This little piggy went to market, this little piggy stayed at home, this little piggy had lentils, this little piggy had none.’ They laughed. Jenny said, ‘Terrific,’ and Rita said, ‘Oh, that’s beautiful.’ It was the wrong response. Gordon Trollope only bought one ticket.
While Jenny sold raffle tickets, Elvis chatted to Ginny Fenwick about media matters. He told her that he planned to become a TV personality. She didn’t tell him that, more than thirty years ago, she’d dreamt of becoming a famous war correspondent. He told her that he was in love and it was the real thing. She didn’t tell him that she had twice believed it to be the real thing, and it hadn’t been either time. When he wandered off, she began to think of those old times, on that other Argus. Where were they now, those two men, Ted Plunkett and Gordon Carstairs, neither of whom had been the real thing? Where were kind, effete Denzil Ackerman and podgy Henry Pratt?
It was no use looking back.
Rita hovered beside Trevor Coldwell and James Whatmore. They were in high good humour. No matter tonight that Trevor’s exquisite paintings were barely known outside his home town. No matter tonight that all James Whatmore’s good ideas had come just too late and been just wrong – his BBC puppet idea, The Magic Ferris Wheel, his book for older children, The Tiger, the Witch and the Cupboard, his great character for younger children, Milkman Mike. Tonight, they were kings, as they laughed at success and scorned Metropolitan society, and all the temporary gods who were made and destroyed by fashion. They rejoiced that, in a world full of false values, they had not achieved the success that proves one’s worthlessness. They were happy because, in a warm, genuine corner of their untalented and self-deceptive souls, they really did put a low value on worldly riches. When at last Rita managed to attract their attention they bought ten strips of tickets each, and their old bloodshot eyes grew moist for the Third World, and they counted themselves lucky.
Jenny hovered beside Prunella Ransom and the Mayor and Mayoress. The Mayor waxed eloquent about his cats, who were called Edward Heath, Nigel Lawson and Geoffrey Howe. Prunella, having abandoned her hopes of finding a suitable man tonight, was happy to listen. She almost said that having one of the Mayor’s cats named after you seemed to be
a recipe for political extinction, but she resisted. She had long ago learnt that few men liked clever women.
Jenny sold Prunella three strips. The Mayor and Mayoress could hardly buy less.
The sale of raffle tickets was complete. It was time for the draw. Everyone moved into the restaurant, even Eric Siddall. An air of excitement and tension sat suddenly on that room of brick and pine, an atmosphere altogether out of scale with the size of the little event. Some people wanted to win very much. Others were hoping, equally fervently, that they wouldn’t. Some of the massed vegetarians and conservationists felt moved by the knowledge that they would be raising money for the Third World. Others felt embarrassed by the utter insignificance of the likely sum. Some felt uneasy at making any kind of excitement, having any element of fun, about problems and miseries that were so vast.
Rita wondered why she kept letting herself in for things that were so embarrassing. She stood facing the gathered guests, smiling glassily. On a table in front of her were the three wicker hampers. Behind her sat the Hebden Bridge Griddlers, glad to rest their feet. Normally they kept their energies going with pints of bitter. Whortleberry juice was no substitute.
She gave the cardboard box containing the tickets a vigorous shake and held it out to the small, corpulent Mayor. He shook his head and indicated that the large, corpulent Mayoress should draw the first ticket. ‘Ladies first,’ he muttered shyly.
Netta Ponsonby dived deep into the box and brought out a yellow ticket.
Rita took the ticket and read out the number. ‘First prize! The First World hamper. Yellow ticket number 127. Oh no! That’s me!’
There were some cheers, a few groans, and a cry of ‘Fix’ from an embarrassed Elvis.
‘Better put it back,’ said Rita. ‘It’s not right I should win.’
‘Rubbish,’ called out Rodney. ‘You entered. You paid.’
‘But I don’t want it. I won’t enjoy it,’ said Rita. ‘I’ll feel guilty.’
‘I thought that was the idea.’ Heads turned to see who had spoken. Ted tried to look as though it hadn’t been him.
‘Oh well …’ said Rita. ‘It’s a bit embarrassing though. Oh well. Let’s hope I don’t win the second prize too.’
Rita shook the box again and presented it to the Mayor. He drew a blue ticket and handed it to her.
‘Blue ticket number 141,’ she announced.
Nobody spoke. There was much hunting in pockets, and checking and rechecking.
‘That could be you, Liz,’ said Neville, not without a trace of unbadgerly excitement. ‘You were just before me, and I’m 151 to 160.’
‘Shut up,’ hissed Liz. ‘Don’t be so stupid.’
‘Oooh. It’s me,’ said the lady griddler. ‘Oooh! I’ve never won anything before.’
There was relief all round. In the safety of the applause, Neville said, ‘Maybe I’m being stupid, but why did you say I was stupid?’
‘Because I don’t want to have to smile at Rita, and I’d have looked a bit of a bitch if I hadn’t smiled at her, stupid.’
Neville still looked puzzled.
‘Now the third prize,’ said Rita. ‘Isn’t this exciting?’ She wished she hadn’t said that. It was wrong to be excited.
She shook the box and held it out to the Mayor. He again indicated the Mayoress. Nothing became the Mayor and Mayoress more than their love for each other. He was proud of the honour only for her. She was proud of it only for him.
The Mayoress drew another blue ticket and handed it to Rita.
‘Blue ticket again, number 84,’ she announced.
‘Good Lord!’ said Corinna.
‘Oh heck!’ said Ted.
There were gasps. It seemed so wrong, and therefore so right, that of all people in that room the Third World hamper should go to Ted Simcock.
Ted looked thoroughly discomfited. He was damned if he’d go and get the bloody thing. Rita could bring it to him.
The moment she realised that Ted wasn’t going to move, Rita hurried over to him, clutching the tiny, the absurd, the tragic hamper.
Ex-husband and ex-wife stared at each other, he grumpily, she embarrassed but also a little amused.
‘Congratulations, Ted,’ she said.
‘What do you mean, congratulations?’ said Ted, falling to the occasion. ‘Have I to live a whole day on this?’
‘No, darling, on half of it. I’ll share it with you,’ said Corinna.
‘Whose side are you on?’ grumbled Ted.
‘I didn’t realise there were sides,’ said Corinna.
‘It’s a stupid idea,’ said Ted.
‘I don’t think so.’ Corinna smiled at Rita so sweetly that Rita felt like murdering her. ‘I think Rita hoped it might go to somebody who needed to have their eyes opened to their greed and complacency.’
‘It has,’ said Rita.
The evening resumed its steady course. Some people went to the bar. One or two left to go to the pub. Others wanted to, but hadn’t the nerve. Some wanted more of the delicious food, but didn’t like to take any, after the business with the hampers. Others decided that, in a world short of food, waste was the real crime, so they piled their plates high. The Griddlers went into a huddle, pretending to debate about the next number, but actually sharing a joke about a nun and a traction engine. Alderman Spigot confessed to the worrying possibility that Nigel Lawson might have worms. Jenny disappeared briefly, to breast-feed Steffie. Ted talked to his fiancée, his vision in rust, his Corinna.
‘I know people haven’t got enough to eat,’ he said. ‘I don’t need this.’
‘My father would say that you know it intellectually and this is your chance to know it physically. My father would say, use this to dedicate yourself to being a better human being. My father would say, be thankful for what you’ve got.’
‘What have I got?’
‘Me, for a start.’
‘Oh. Right. Granted. You. Absolutely,’ said Ted hastily. ‘But … I mean … what else?’
‘Aren’t I enough?’
‘ ’Course you are, love. More than enough. You’re everything to me.’ Corinna waited for Ted’s ‘but’. ‘But.’
‘But what?’
‘You aren’t a career. You’re me evenings.’ Ted leered. ‘Me nights. Where’s me nine to five? Me job?’
‘Don’t you believe in my East Africa idea?’
‘Well … I don’t know … I mean, it’s so far off. I mean, will it really work?’
The Hebden Bridge Griddlers, their huddle completed, launched themselves into ‘Old Flames’.
‘I know that country,’ said Corinna decisively. ‘I believe it will. A new life. A new adventure, in a new world. Accept that you’re a lucky man, Ted, and learn to be at peace with yourself.’
‘I am at peace with myself, Corinna. I mean … I am.’
‘Are you? You’re resentful of Rita. You’re guilty about Sandra. You have almost no relationship with your sons.’
‘I’m disappointed in them.’
‘Maybe you wouldn’t be if you helped them more. They need you, Ted. So don’t be embarrassed about winning this. Use it. Make your peace with everybody. Start now. With Rita. Now.’
‘Hell’s bells, Corinna. You aren’t half pushing me around.’
‘Only because I want you to be happy,’ said Corinna, so quietly that Ted had to lean forward to hear her over the music. ‘Because I love you so very, very much, my darling.’
Ted gulped.
‘Corinna Price-Rodgerson, you are one extraordinary woman,’ said the former toasting fork tycoon.
‘I know,’ said Corinna Price-Rodgerson.
‘There you go, sir,’ said the dapper, ageless Eric Siddall, barman supreme. He handed Rodney a fresh glass of carrot juice. ‘One juice of the carrot au naturel! They can’t touch you for it.’ He leant forward, to whisper, ‘I’ve regained my professional pride.’
‘Well done, Eric.’ Rodney tried to walk off. His legs buckled. ‘Oops! Odd. Floor’s
moving.’ He looked round the bar. Nobody seemed to have noticed. ‘Where’s that wife of mine gone?’
He moved off very carefully.
Warmed by Corinna’s words, Ted found the strength to admit to himself that his past behaviour had often been unworthy of his true nature, of that better, nicer Ted Simcock who had never fully expressed himself.
Backed by the music of the Hebden Bridge Griddlers, he approached his ex-wife nervously. She was wiping a table on which natural yoghurt had been spilt.
‘Rita! Hello!’ he said.
‘Hello, Ted.’ She turned to face him.
‘Hello.’
They stood smiling at each other. Rita was kneading her yoghurty dishcloth tensely.
‘Well, we can’t go on saying hello forever,’ she said. ‘We’ll have to think of something else.’
‘Yes. Rita, I’ve come to … er … I’ve been a bit of a prat.’
‘We’re all bits of prats sometimes, Ted.’
‘I realise now that it was none of your doing. The route for the road smashing Chez Edouard. I was stupid to think it was.’
‘Well … I understand, because I understand how disappointed you must have felt. Will you open a restaurant somewhere else?’
‘Yes. Nairobi.’
‘You what?’
‘We’re going away. We’re going to be married in East Africa and live there. You’ll be shot of me.’ Rita turned away, and resumed her wiping of the table. ‘No more keeping bumping into each other embarrassingly at do’s. You never need see me again. Great news, isn’t it?’
‘It should be.’
‘You what?’
She turned away from the table again to look him full in the face.
‘Aren’t we stupid?’ she said.
‘Who?’
‘Folk. People. This is ridiculous. I feel quite sad. At the thought … I’ll never see you again. I feel … oooh … all … well, I hope you’ll be very happy.’
‘We will be.’
‘And successful.’
‘Most probably. We’ll have a farewell party before we go. A real classy do.’