Fair Do's

by David Nobbs

  ‘I’m the media, Mum.’ Elvis looked like a drowned rat, having been told that raincoats were not trendy wear for up-and-coming media men. ‘This is a propaganda exercise.’

  ‘It’s not.’ The councillor in Rita was indignant. ‘It’s the process of public consultation by your user friendly council.’

  ‘To persuade the users to be friendly towards what you’ve decided,’ said the cynical Elvis Simcock.

  Rita turned her attention to Jenny, who had adopted a rather Chinese appearance. She was wearing a pale grey and blue large-check, mandarin-style jacket, with short baggy navy cotton trousers, and decidedly ethnic earrings.

  ‘Elvis takes me with him whenever he can,’ she said. ‘Any objections?’

  ‘Well, no. Well, yes. Well, you know why. The very-day Paul gets six months, and here you are …’ She couldn’t say it.

  ‘Flaunting our love?’

  ‘Well, no. Well, yes.’

  ‘Paul and I’d split up before he went to prison. Elvis isn’t a marriage breaker.’

  ‘I know. I just think of Paul behind bars.’

  ‘Do you think I don’t?’

  Jenny stalked off indignantly. Elvis gave his mother a sad, reproving look, which infuriated her. Then he hurried after Jenny, catching up with her just as she met Simon and Lucinda. They looked so trim, Simon in his dark suit, Lucinda in a black and apricot jacket, with apricot skirt and top, that Elvis suddenly wished he hadn’t got so wet.

  ‘We’re awfully sorry to hear about Paul, Elvis,’ said Simon.

  ‘You must both be very upset,’ said Lucinda.

  ‘There’s no need to sound so disapproving,’ said Jenny. ‘We are.’

  ‘There’s no need to be so defensive,’ said Lucinda. ‘We know.’

  ‘What are you doing here anyway?’ asked Elvis, going onto the attack the moment his lover was accused of being defensive.

  ‘New roads affect a lot of our properties,’ said Simon.

  ‘And a lot of business gets secretly and irregularly put your way.’

  ‘This is yet another slur on our profession.’

  ‘No, it’s yet another slur on you.’

  Simon Rodenhurst, of Trellis, Trellis, Openshaw and Finch, looked more than somewhat hurt. But now he had Lucinda Snellmarsh, of Peacock, Tester and Devine, to soothe him. ‘Don’t let him get under your skin, sugar plum,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, I won’t, sugar plum. Don’t you worry! Elvis get under my skin? Some chance!’ Simon glowered at Elvis and delivered his devastating coup de grace, which turned out to be, ‘Huh!’

  ‘Well, have a nice day, sugar plums,’ said Jenny.

  ‘Jenny!’

  Simon was astounded by his sister’s uncharacteristic bitterness.

  Rita stood alone for a moment, smiling vaguely, hoping to keep people at arm’s length without offending them. She gazed round the huge Gadd Room, dark-panelled, decorated only by a relief map of the Gadd Valley on the wall opposite the platform and a painting of the exterior of the town hall, of its extravagant curved gables and off-centre tower, reminiscent of, but sadly not of the same quality as, the Palazzo Vecchio in Florence. Today, scaffolding encased the building, hiding its façade, which one architectural critic had called ‘a Baroque Gothic Victorian extravaganza, a rare piece of nineteenth-century frippery in stone’ and another had described as ‘a pig’s breakfast’.

  And now there were graphs of traffic flows, models of road plans, photographs of derelict areas through which the outer inner relief ring road would pass, photographs of sweet corners that would be destroyed by the inner inner relief ring road. All this because her election had swayed the balance of power. All this to say, not ‘You, the public, will decide,’ but, ‘We’re right, aren’t we?’ The workings of a semi-democracy, an almost free society.

  Rita felt dreadful about Paul being in prison. Dreadful about Elvis being here tonight while Paul was in prison. And dreadful about something else, something which she couldn’t isolate from her general unease.

  So she was quite pleased when Eric Siddall, barman supreme, who was giving up his night off because she had asked for him, appeared beside her with a tray of glasses.

  ‘A glass of wine, madam?’ he said. ‘Help you put the whole sad business out of your mind on your great night? ’Cos I know you’re upset, you’re forced to be – headlines plastered all over the town, court makes an example of newest councillor’s son – ’cos you’re a mother, and I’ve always had this empathy with mothers, me, always been able to get right under their … I’ve red or sweet or medium-dry white.’

  ‘I’ll have a medium-dry white, please.’

  ‘Can do. No problem. There you go, madam. Tickety-boo.’

  ‘Thanks. And Eric? Thanks for helping me put the whole sad business out of my mind.’

  ‘No problem, madam. All in a day’s …’ Eric’s smile and his words dried up as Rita’s gentle sarcasm dawned on him.

  Rita took a sip of her wine and wished that the council didn’t feel quite so strong a need not to waste public money.

  And then she saw him.

  ‘Ted!’

  ‘I’m touched that so much affection still lingers.’

  ‘No, I meant … I was surprised, that’s all. I mean … who invited you?’

  ‘Well … I’m unemployed. I’ve made a fool of myself with a conwoman. And now me son’s a cause celebrated of street protest. Who do you think would invite me?’ Rita was at a loss. ‘Precisely. No bugger.’

  ‘Ted!’

  Rita was a little ashamed, after all she had achieved, to find herself looking round anxiously for fear somebody might have heard her ex-husband using bad language. But we aren’t snakes. We can’t slough off old skins.

  ‘It’s true,’ said Ted, who was wearing a decent suit and looked fairly respectable apart from his wet hair, for he regarded umbrellas as evidence of softness. ‘When you’re down, the whole world queues up to kick you in the cobblers.’

  ‘So … how did you get in?’

  Rita knew how difficult it was for the uninvited to make their way undetected across the vast, gloomy, forbidding foyer, past the human Rottweiler on the desk, and up the long, curved, self-important staircase, onto the dark, first-floor corridor, whose brown gloom was broken only by the occasional scarlet fire extinguisher.

  ‘Simple. By saying, “I am Councillor Simcock’s husband.” They all know you.’

  ‘Ted!’

  ‘Well … all right … I left out the “ex-”. What are two letters and a hyphen among friends? But … I mean … Rita … I hoped you might be pleased that I wanted to be with you on your great night.’

  ‘It’s not my great night. Our son is in prison.’

  ‘I know. Dreadful. You feed them. You educate them. What do they do? Turn round and kick you in the crutch.’

  ‘Is that how you feel? No sympathy?’

  ‘He broke the law.’

  ‘He got over-excited about things he feels very strongly about. He got carried away.’

  ‘Yes, by three policemen.’ A touch of pride flitted across Ted’s face. ‘It took three, I’ll give him that.’

  ‘Ted! Our son, the …’ Rita hesitated as two councillors’ wives walked past. One of them gave her a frosty smile which contained bottomless hostility towards women who didn’t know their place.

  ‘Fruit of our loins?’ said Ted.

  ‘Well, yes. Though it sounds right silly saying that now … locked up, because he couldn’t control his warm heart. Are you ashamed of him? Don’t you love him?’

  ‘ ’Course I do, Rita. ‘Course I love him. I mean … I do. But.’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘It’s not very nice, is it? Your name plastered all over the papers.’

  ‘It wasn’t your name. It was mine.’

  ‘I know. And how do you think I felt about that? No mention of ex-foundry owner’s son. No mention of ex-toasting fork magnate’s son. I don’t exist any more, Rita. I’m a nothing.’ A dr
op of rainwater slid off his hair onto his nose. He brushed it off hurriedly, in case Rita might mistake it for a tear of self-pity.

  ‘Is that what worries you most, today of all days?’ said Rita.

  ‘Rita! ’Course it isn’t. Our Paul worries me. But it isn’t very nice walking in here, being a nobody. It isn’t, Rita.’

  ‘So why have you come?’

  ‘You call yourselves the user friendly council. I’m a user. I came to be friendly.’

  ‘What’s your real reason?’

  ‘I’m interested. I’m a responsible citizen, deeply concerned about town planning.’ Rita looked sceptical. Ted tried to stare her out. ‘I am. And I thought, I must come, even on such a foul night.’

  It was indeed a foul night. Later, the Meteorological Office would announce that it had been the wettest August day since 1809, in the wettest August since 1792. That month, in fact, Otley had more rain than Tierra del Fuego.

  ‘What’s your real reason?’ repeated Rita.

  ‘Because, Rita, I’ve no alternative. What do I do? Slip down back alleys every time I see old friends? Drink in the public bar because folk who once queued to buy my quality door knockers are supping in the lounge? I’m not going to run, Rita. There’s nowhere to run to. I’m not going to hide, Rita. There’s nothing I need hide from.’

  Sandra approached with a plate of quartered sausage rolls.

  ‘Well, almost nothing.’

  He fled.

  ‘Sausage roll, madam?’ said the cake-loving Sandra Pickersgill.

  ‘I’m a vegetarian,’ said Rita.

  ‘These are from the Vale of York Bakery,’ said Sandra. ‘I know how little meat goes in them.’

  Sandra bore her gastronomical delights onwards. Rita was astounded to see Liz and Neville arrive.

  ‘Good Lord!’ she said. ‘I didn’t expect you here.’

  ‘In my time …’ began the immaculate Neville Badger.

  ‘Don’t answer her, Neville,’ commanded his ravishing wife.

  ‘Sorry, Rita,’ said Neville.

  ‘Don’t apologise to her, Neville,’ commanded Liz.

  ‘Sorry, darling.’

  ‘Oh, Neville, don’t apologise to me either.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Neville, apologising for apologising. ‘Sorry,’ he added, apologising for saying sorry.

  ‘Oh, Neville!’

  Liz marched on, as though she were still dressed as Queen Elizabeth. In fact she was wearing black silk trousers and a silk camisole top, with a pink, blue and black cummerbund, a petrol blue silk jacket, large black and gold earrings and a gold neck chain; yet, to many women’s chagrin, she managed not to look ostentatious.

  Neville caught up with her by the model of the route of the outer inner relief ring road.

  ‘No, but, Liz, please, listen,’ he said. ‘I must speak to you.’

  ‘Neville! Are you being masterful?’

  ‘Yes. Sorry. I mean … yes! I understand your reasons for refusing to talk to Rita, but please, Liz, today Rita is a mother in torment.’

  ‘Do you think I’m not? My daughter’s road sweeper husband is in prison. My daughter’s name is being dragged through the mud.’ Liz bent down to examine the model. ‘And what is she doing, my daughter? Carrying on in public with her husband’s brother, who, from which I suppose I should glean a tiny crumb of comfort, is not a road sweeper. My association with the Simcock family has been a total and unmitigated … Neville! Look!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That’s our house.’ Liz pointed at the tiny cube which represented their marital home. ‘Look at our garden.’

  Neville peered at the model.

  ‘I can’t see our garden,’ he said.

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It isn’t there. It’s gone.’

  ‘Gone? Gone where?’

  ‘Are you being deliberately obtuse? It’s gone into the ring road. We’re not losing twenty yards of garden. We’re losing all our garden. This is what the woman you used to take to dinner and can’t stop apologising to has done.’

  Neville took another close look at the model, as if he hoped that this time the evidence would be different. He faced the same stark picture: their home. On three sides, greenery. On the fourth, touching their home, the silver snake that represented the outer inner relief ring road.

  ‘The model may not be accurate,’ he said, straightening up with some difficulty.

  ‘Well go and ask her.’

  ‘You now want me to speak to Rita?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Forcefully.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Coldly but politely, with icy dignity.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Without the remotest hint of apology.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Well go on.’

  ‘Right.’

  Neville set off reluctantly, and returned instantly.

  ‘You don’t think there’s a risk that in having refused to talk to Rita, and then talking to her two minutes later, I’ll make myself look rather … er … indecisive … er … a bit of a dog’s-body doing your dirty work, enabling you to maintain your uncompromising position of total isolation while I make myself look a … slight … total idiot?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Right.’

  Neville set off again on his reluctant mission. Jenny approached Liz, who was staring at the model as if she could shame it into changing its route.

  ‘Hello, Mum,’ said Jenny, smiling.

  Liz didn’t speak or move a muscle.

  ‘Mum! Aren’t you speaking to me?’ Jenny’s frail smile ended its mayfly life.

  Liz didn’t speak or move a muscle.

  ‘Oh Mum!’

  Liz turned on her daughter. Jenny flinched as if she’d been hit.

  ‘You have allied yourself totally with the Simcocks,’ said Liz with cold fury. ‘And not even the same one all the time.’

  ‘Mum!’ said Jenny, quivering on the verge of tears.

  Neville’s journey towards Rita was proving a social minefield. He found himself forced into polite small talk with Alderman Spigot, the small corpulent Mayor, his sister Netta Ponsonby, the large corpulent Mayoress, Craig Welting, the Australian managing director of Radio Gadd – who believed that everybody, including his wife, regarded him as the poor man’s Rupert Murdoch – and Dr Andrew Millard, the anaesthetist, who had just told a story which appeared to have reduced Alderman Spigot, Netta Ponsonby and Craig Welting to anaesthesia. Welcomed as a distraction, Neville had to stay for a few moments. Yes, what an awful summer. It’s the holiday makers I’m sorry for. No, can’t stand caravans, I like my creature comforts. Have you heard the new scare? Brown bread. Gall stones. Well, we wouldn’t eat anything, would we? And all the time, boring into his bored back, Liz’s eyes, accusing him of deliberate delaying tactics.

  At last he reached Rita, who was chatting with Councillor Wendy Bullock, a left-winger of passion and integrity who had unreservedly welcomed the arrival of this new sister among the brothers.

  Rita excused herself with a raised eyebrow that said, ‘Sorry. Neurotic male on the horizon.’

  ‘A word, Rita,’ said Neville.

  ‘Neville!’

  ‘Yes, I know. I’m speaking to you. But … er …’ Neville became masterful. ‘Now the thing is …’ His masterfulness proved short-lived. ‘Incidentally, the reason we’re invited is because I’ve done a bit of legal work for the council.’

  ‘Yes, I realised after I’d asked.’

  ‘Now this plan for the outer inner relief ring road …’ again, Neville’s masterfulness proved short-lived, ‘… incidentally, I’m so sorry about Paul. It’s all very well having scapegoats in theory, but it seems very unfair when one actually knows the goat that’s being scaped.’

  ‘Thank you, Neville.’

  ‘Now on this plan, I have to tell you, Rita …’ It didn’t prove third time lucky, so far as Neville�
�s masterfulness was concerned. ‘I mean I imagine there’s a perfectly good explanation, but there’s no sign of our garden at all. Liz is worried we’re going to lose it all. And so am I.’

  ‘Oh, Neville! We can’t show every blade of grass. Of course you’re not going to lose your whole garden.’

  ‘Do I have your unequivocal assurance? Nothing less will do … or some kind of assurance. I can’t go back empty-handed.’

  ‘You have my unequivocal assurance.’

  ‘Thank you, Rita. And I am sorry about Paul.’

  ‘Get off with you before I cry.’

  ‘Right.’

  Neville managed to return to Liz without serious social mishap.

  ‘We’re not going to lose the whole garden,’ he said. ‘I wormed an assurance out of her.’

  ‘“Wormed an assurance”! You apologised for not talking to her.’

  ‘I did not. Well, only a bit.’

  ‘You said you were sorry about Paul.’

  ‘How do you know what I said? You couldn’t hear me.’

  ‘I saw you. I know your body language. I saw those shoulders saying you were sorry.’

  ‘Well I may have done a bit.’

  ‘You’re still attracted to her a bit.’

  ‘No. Of course not.’

  ‘Two can play at that game.’

  ‘Liz!’

  The lighting was just too dim, on that gloomy August evening, for the exhibits to be clearly seen without peering. The room was just too large for the number of people who had braved the elements. The Conservatives had criticised the holding of this public consultation exercise in August, when so many of the public were away. The Socialists had retorted that the Conservatives wouldn’t have consulted the public at all, and suggested that more Socialists than Conservatives took holidays in August, since the privileged could choose off-peak times. The truth was that no politicians really wanted to consult the public, because the public weren’t experts, so how could they know best? And it seems that the public agreed, since barely half those invited had turned up.

  The joint big wheels behind Sillitoe’s crossed the uncrowded room purposefully. They had something to say to the one uninvited guest who had turned up.

  ‘Ted!’ said Betty. ‘Bra … well, not brave of you …’