Fair Do's

by David Nobbs

  ‘Lovely.’

  ‘Good idea, that raffle, Rita. Imaginative. Caring. Great.’

  ‘Ted!’

  Ted kissed his ex-wife tenderly and moved off before she could see the embarrassing moisture in his macho Yorkshire eyes.

  ‘Ted!’

  She rubbed the table top blindly.

  There was nobody in the shop to hear the words of ‘Hernando’s Hide-Away’ being hummed with blurry imprecision. There was nobody to see Rodney Sillitoe as he searched for his elusive spouse.

  Behind him the door of the store room opened and Betty emerged carefully, clutching a glass of carrot juice. They circled slowly round each other, not seeing each other. At last Rodney saw her.

  ‘Betty! There you are.’

  Betty hiccuped.

  ‘Hiccups?’

  ‘Lentils.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘I ate a bit of lentil and aubergine bake rather too fast.’ Betty’s words were slurred.

  ‘Betty!’ Rodney was appalled. ‘Are you drunk? On carrot juice?’

  Betty became conspiratorial, as if the shop were crammed with customers.

  ‘I have a confession to make. Because I was so nervous, because I wanted tonight to be a success, because it’s important, because I love you, I … hid a bottle of vodka in the store room. Dark in there, but with all the carrot juice I could see quite well!’

  She gave a peal of laughter.

  ‘Sssh!’ said Rodney urgently. ‘We mustn’t let anybody realise or we’ll totally destroy our crebidility.’

  ‘Crebidility? Rodney, are you drunk too?’

  ‘I have had a bit. Topped it up a bit. Vodka. In the office. Because I was nervous, because I … what you said.’

  ‘And, because we haven’t drunk anything for ages …’

  ‘Longer than that. Very ages.’

  ‘It’s gone straight to our heads.’

  ‘It mustn’t leak out. We’ll be a laughing stock if we’re known as the only two people in the history of the … the thingummyjig … big round thing …’

  ‘The world.’

  ‘That’s it! To get drunk on carrot juice.’

  ‘While preaching teetotal … itarianism. What are we going to do?’

  ‘Sober up. Walk slowly, with dignity. Drink ginuine … genuine carrot juice. Eat a lot.’

  ‘Use very short words.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Right.’

  They set off, slowly, carefully, into the restaurant. Slowly, carefully they made their way towards the food counter. They were stopped by Rita. They smiled at her slowly, carefully.

  ‘I’ve been thinking,’ she said. ‘There’s going to be an awful lot of clearing up to be done. We could stay late and do it all tonight or come in early and do it all tomorrow or do it half and half. What do you think?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Rodney and Betty Sillitoe.

  They floated on towards the food counter, slowly, carefully, like two swans on a placid river.

  Rita hurried over to consult Jenny, who was chatting, surprise surprise, with Elvis.

  ‘Jenny? Can I have a word?’ she said. ‘In private.’

  ‘Mum!’ Elvis was hurt.

  ‘Sorry, Elvis, but this is shop. Shop shop.’

  Rita pushed Elvis. He moved away, slowly, reluctantly, indignantly, towards the bar, turning several times to look back at the two most important women in his life, his mother and his lover.

  ‘You can trust Elvis,’ said Jenny.

  ‘Can I? He’s the media.’

  ‘He’s your son.’

  ‘He’s a professional. I don’t want to give him a good story that he might have a crisis of conscience as to whether to use or not.’

  ‘Good story? Nothing’s wrong, is it?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘I feel great.’ Jenny’s words tumbled out enthusiastically. ‘I’ve eaten only organic food and drunk only organic drink and I feel … well … really organic.’

  ‘Yes, well, I’m afraid Rodney and Betty are as organic as newts.’

  The Sillitoes turned away from the food counter, their trays piled high with food. They made their way towards the nearest table, swaying and lurching as if on a ship in a gale.

  In the bar, while Elvis searched grumpily for something drinkable, Ted tackled Neville and Liz. With Corinna’s words floating sexily through his bloodstream, he was warming to his mission of peace. His heart was filled with glasnost. He would tear down every Berlin Wall in his life.

  ‘You aren’t not speaking to me, are you?’ he asked.

  ‘Good Lord, no,’ said Liz. ‘You’re a fellow victim of Rita. A fellow compulsory purchasee.’

  ‘Speak to her. There’s no point not.’

  ‘When I intend to appoint you as my spiritual adviser, Ted, I’ll let you know.’

  Ted smiled. ‘Your sarcasm can’t wound me now, Liz. It’s water off a duck’s back. Give it up. Learn to be at peace with yourself,’ said his eloquent smile.

  Ted himself, less eloquently, said, ‘Yes … well … I … I want to … apologise.’

  ‘What?’ said Liz.

  ‘Good Lord!’ said Neville.

  ‘No need to sound so surprised,’ said Ted. ‘I am human.’

  ‘Apologise for what, Ted?’ said Neville.

  ‘For … what I did at the Christening. I mean … telling everyone …’ he dropped his voice to a whisper, ‘… that he’s my baby.’

  ‘It’s a bit late for whispering now, Ted,’ pointed out Liz.

  ‘Most people knew anyway,’ said Neville.

  ‘Yes, but while they didn’t know that everybody else knew they could pretend they didn’t know.’

  ‘Anyway, thank you,’ said Neville. ‘A handsome apology.’

  ‘Happily accepted.’ Liz smiled.

  ‘How is he?’ Ted asked.

  ‘Marvellous. Bright as a button,’ said Neville proudly.

  ‘Aaah! Just like his …’ Ted glanced at Liz, and narrowly avoided a return to tactlessness, ‘… mother.’

  ‘Neville’s so proud. Such a good father. He changes his nappies almost as much as I do.’

  ‘Liz!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I have a position to keep up.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Senior partner in Badger, Badger, Fox and Badger. Tough, unyielding, determined. A scourge of the criminal fraternity. I don’t want it noised abroad that I change nappies.’

  ‘Corinna and I’ll be going away soon. To Africa.’ Ted made the ‘Africa’ sound very casual, as if he’d said ‘Torquay’.

  ‘Good Lord!’ said Liz, and this time Ted was pleased that she was surprised.

  ‘May I take this opportunity …’ he lowered his voice to a whisper again, ‘… of wishing nothing but the best for the lad.’

  ‘There’s no need to whisper, Ted.’ For some reason best known to herself Liz was also whispering.

  ‘I know,’ whispered Ted, ‘but I prefer it. And of wishing you both many years of happiness.’

  They stared reflectively at Ted’s departing back.

  ‘Good Lord!’ said Liz.

  ‘Liz!’ said Neville. ‘I must speak out. Abandon this feud!’ It was almost an order. ‘Stop behaving in a way that makes it difficult for me to admire you and look up to you as much as I want to.’

  ‘I don’t want to be admired and looked up to, Neville. I want to be loved.’

  ‘You are. I love you.’

  Neville kissed her as he had never kissed her in public before.

  ‘Neville!’

  As Elvis strolled away from the bar with his loganberry and tonic, he came face to face with Carol, who was attempting to slip out without anybody noticing.

  ‘Carol! Are you going?’ he said.

  ‘Another deep, philosophical question from the same great brain that gave the world “are you here?”.’

  ‘Carol!’

  ‘Let’s see if my little bra
in can cope with it. Think logically. There’s the door. I’m walking towards it. Yes, I think I am going.’

  ‘He didn’t …’

  ‘Turn up, then? I’m getting the hang of your style. No, he didn’t. He rang. I’m meeting him in the pub. Well, he’s a bit of a lager lout, and you don’t get carrot juice louts, do you?’

  ‘You, with a lager lout?’

  ‘Yeah. He’s dead ignorant. He’s great.’

  ‘You’re just trying to annoy me.’

  ‘Bye, Elvis.’ Carol walked briskly to the door. Without turning round, she said, ‘I’m no longer there, therefore I’ve gone,’ and she stepped out into the windy, slushy night.

  Elvis turned away and found himself face to face again, this time with Simon.

  ‘Simon!’ he said. ‘I see you have a companion tonight.’

  Simon didn’t reply.

  ‘Ah. We’re not speaking. What an improvement on our previous conversations.’

  Simon didn’t reply.

  ‘Really?’ said Elvis. ‘Hey, you were at such pains to tell me you’d given up sex forever, does she know she’s wasting her time?’

  Simon waited long enough to show that he wasn’t giving even a flicker of response, and strode off to the bar counter.

  ‘Terrific,’ said Elvis.

  He entered the restaurant, where the Griddlers were still griddling, the Sillitoes were still eating, Trevor Coldwell and James Whatmore were still demolishing with feline delight the entire artistic and literary establishments and the Mayor and Mayoress were worrying because Geoffrey Howe was off his milk.

  ‘Psst! Son?’ called out Ted.

  Elvis approached his father cautiously, fearing further social blows. Imagine his astonishment when Ted’s first words were, ‘I thought a chat would be nice.’

  ‘Good God!’

  ‘Am I that inhuman? Have we drifted that far apart?’

  ‘No. No, Dad.’

  ‘I’d like to get closer, Son. I mean … I would. Much closer. Much much closer.’

  ‘Well, so would I.’

  ‘I’ll be going away soon.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Nairobi.’

  ‘I don’t want to quibble, Dad, but won’t that prove a slight obstacle to our getting closer?’

  ‘I hope not. I hope you’ll visit. With Jenny.’

  ‘Oh. You’ve heard.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I don’t have the right to express any views, do I, the cock-up I’ve made of my … until now, of course. I hope you’ll come to see Corinna as a, as a new mother …’

  Rita smiled at them warmly as she passed with camomile teas for the Mayor and Mayoress.

  ‘Without – hello, Rita – without losing your old mother as … an old mother.’

  Jenny scurried up, smiling. Little Steffie had dropped off again. She was a happy baby and didn’t miss her father because she didn’t know she was supposed to have one.

  ‘Hello, Jenny darling.’ Ted had a big, affectionate kiss for his daughter-in-law, who looked as if she might become his ex-daughter-in-law, in order to pave the way for becoming his daughter-in-law again. ‘I hope you’ll be very happy and visit us regularly in Nairobi.’

  Ted hurried off, lest Jenny might see that his eyes were moist.

  ‘Good Lord!’ said Elvis.

  ‘I know!’ said Jenny. ‘Nairobi!’

  ‘I meant me dad being so nice to me,’ said Elvis.

  Conversation was buzzing, the Griddlers were huddling and griddling, the Mayor was anxiously discussing the texture of Edward Heath’s stools, and Eric Siddall was in danger of becoming positively enthusiastic about his non-alcoholic cornucopia.

  Rodney and Betty, their vast meals safely stowed away, walked slowly and carefully through to the bar, acknowledging the congratulations of their guests with carefully enunciated thank you’s.

  Ted and Corinna, sipping their peach juices, watched them enter with fond amusement.

  Elvis and Jenny, happy in their new-found love, watched them with indulgent smiles.

  Neville and Liz, keeping their own counsel in their chosen corner of the bar, watched everybody watching each other.

  Rita joined Elvis and Jenny, and Liz stiffened like a cat.

  ‘Liz!’ said Neville. ‘I’d like you to go and talk to Rita.’

  ‘Neville!’ Surprise fought with remonstration in Liz’s voice.

  ‘Hatred is so destructive. Political hatred. Religious hatred. Racial hatred. Sexual hatred. All hatred.’ Liz would have been open-mouthed in her astonishment if she hadn’t known that she didn’t look at her best open-mouthed. She had never heard Neville speak like this. ‘Mouths that hate grow hard and ugly. Eyes that hate reveal how self-destructive hatred is. Life is so short, and people waste so much of it on hate. I’ll love you however you behave, but for your sake, darling, I beg you, make peace with Rita.’ He kissed her on the forehead. ‘More fruit juice needed.’

  Liz stood stock still, as if in shock.

  At the bar, not quite believing, himself, that he had actually said what he had just said, Neville smiled at the Sillitoes, who were leaning on the counter for support as they drank their unadulterated carrot juices.

  ‘It’s extraordinary,’ he said. ‘No alcohol has been served, nobody has had a drop …’ The Sillitoes had the grace to look uncomfortable. ‘Yet the buzz has grown louder, the chat more cheery, inhibitions have begun to break down, as if perhaps being sociable is itself an intoxicant. What do you think? What’s your explanation?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Rodney and Betty.

  And Liz stood stock still, looking inwards, thinking. Then she glanced irresolutely towards Rita.

  Rita felt a tingling right down her spine.

  ‘I think your mother is thinking of coming over and talking to me,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, I hope so,’ said Jenny.

  Liz took a first step, as though she still hadn’t quite decided.

  ‘Oh Lord,’ said Rita. ‘Should I go to meet her or what? I feel like a jelly.’

  ‘Go on, Mum,’ said Elvis.

  Rita stepped towards Liz.

  Liz continued to walk towards Rita.

  ‘They’re going to talk,’ said Corinna.

  ‘Great,’ said Ted. ‘I mean that. No … I do.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘No buts at all, my cherry blossom.’

  Rita and Liz walked right up to each other, and stopped. All eyes in the bar were upon them.

  They faced each other in silence, not smiling, not hostile, not quite sure whether to speak first or what to say.

  A good-looking man with greying hair and a luxuriant grey beard entered on a blast of cold air from Arbitration Road. He wore a light grey suit and a dark Crombie overcoat. His smile revealed none of the agonising which he had endured before finally deciding to come.

  Rita saw him first.

  ‘You came!’ she said.

  He spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness, of capitulation to destiny.

  ‘How could I not?’ he said. ‘How could I not, Rita?’ He turned to Liz, who was staring at him in horror. ‘Hello, Liz.’

  ‘You know Liz?’ said Rita.

  ‘I’m her brother.’

  ‘Oh!’ Rita’s hand went to her mouth, as if to hide the beginning of a smile.

  Liz fainted. Nobody moved as she crashed to the ground.

  ‘Oh my God!’ said Ted and Corinna together.

  Neville Badger turned away from the bar, with their drinks in his hand, a good-natured smile relaxing his sometimes anxious face. The smile gave way to puzzlement, and then to consternation as he saw his wife lying unconscious on the floor.

  ‘Oh Lord!’ he said.

  ‘Oh heavens,’ said Rodney and Betty Sillitoe, and they collapsed into great chortling, trilling peals of tipsy laughter.

  All heads in the restaurant turned towards the bar. Even the Griddlers wavered momentarily in their griddling.

  F
ourth Do

  June:

  The Farewell Party

  The midsummer wind howled in frustration as it hurled itself impotently against the rain-dribbled concrete of the Grand Universal Hotel. Its fury grew as it failed to batter down the wide, treble-glazed windows of the gleaming, patriotic Royalty Suite.

  Ted Simcock surveyed the empty, air-conditioned suite. All was calm and quiet, order and confidence. The elements were derided. Mankind was king here. ‘You futile wind, all you’re doing is making us feel smug,’ purred the man-made Royalty Suite. ‘My day will come,’ wailed the wild and wicked wind.

  If mankind was king here, Ted Simcock was emperor. He seemed confident, excited, even cocky. And he was dressed as Napoleon.

  To his right, as he admired his kingdom, was the bar. To his left stretched the flexible multi-purpose function room. The rooms were joined by a panelled wall, which was set half open, allowing the bar a separate identity, but within an integrated whole.

  The walls were white, the carpets red, the wide square armchairs blue, with chrome arms. The chrome ashtrays revolved when pressed and could mash cigars into small pieces. In the flexible, multi-purpose function room the chairs and tables were set round the walls, affording a spacious dance floor in the centre. At the far end, on a platform reached by two inappropriately pretty curved little stairways, sat four musical instruments. On the big drum, in large letters, were the words ‘The Dale Monsal Quartet’. Below the platform a long table smirked with food. Beside the buffet there were bottles of champagne, two of them in ice buckets.

  Ted examined all this, and saw that it was good. He struck a Napoleonic pose and said grandly, ‘Not tonight, Josephine.’

  He didn’t see the approach of the head barman, and jumped out of his imperial skin when that worthy thrust a plate under his nose and said, ‘Olive, sir?’

  Ted returned slowly to reality. Josephine disappeared. His army vanished. He found himself gazing at the dark, intense Alec Skiddaw, thirty-seven and still beset by boils. Alec was dressed as a Bavarian peasant, with green hat and braces, and Lederhosen shorts. He had spindly, prematurely varicosed legs. The costume was chafing the boil on his scarred neck.

  ‘Would you like some stuffed olives before the rush?’ he asked.