by David Nobbs
‘Yes. Immensely witty,’ said Elvis.
‘Simon didn’t mean kissing is distasteful,’ explained Lucinda unnecessarily. ‘He meant you two kissing today is distasteful.’
‘Your husband’s in prison, Jenny, or had you forgotten?’ said Simon with the scorn of an elder brother whose sister expects a relationship based on equality and not on protectiveness.
‘No, she hasn’t quite forgotten,’ said Elvis.
‘Don’t start giving me moral lectures, Simon,’ said the ungrateful younger sister, ‘or I’ll start to resent you. Are you and Lucinda so morally pure yourselves?’
‘Yes,’ said Lucinda.
‘Simon!’ said Elvis.
‘Apart from Simon’s isolated lapse, which he’s told me all about and I’ve forgiven,’ said Lucinda smugly.
‘No lapses at all in your past, Lucinda?’ said Jenny.
‘Unfashionably for this day and age, no. In fifty-seven days Simon will become the first person in the world to know my body.’
‘We were planning to invite you both,’ said Simon hastily.
‘I’ll watch with interest,’ said Elvis. ‘I may even be able to give you a tip or two.’
A person who has suddenly seen the light needs disciples. A person who has made a painful climb towards maturity and fulfilment hunts, more modestly, for a protégé. Councillor Rita Simcock, former housewife and grey smudge, hadn’t realised that she had been hunting for a protégé and hadn’t realised that she had found one. She began to realise it now in the surge of warm affection which she felt as she approached Carol Fordingbridge, former beauty queen.
‘Enjoying the exhibition?’ Rita asked.
‘Well … roads. They aren’t really me. But thank you for inviting me on your great … on what would have been your great …’
‘Well, I –’
Rita broke off as she saw Liz making a rather strange exit on the far side of the room. Liz gave Rodney a meaningful look. Rodney pretended to ignore it. Betty didn’t. Neville, watching, frowned. Rita, watching Neville watching and frowning, frowned.
‘Good Lord!’ she said. ‘What’s …?’ She stopped.
‘Liz up to?’ said Carol.
‘No. Well, none of my … How are you, Carol?’ It was a meaningful question. The unspoken sub-text was, ‘After your typically disgusting treatment at the hands of a man, my son.’ Carol understood the sub-text and said, ‘I’m fine, Mrs Simcock. Honestly.’
Mrs Simcock! Didn’t Carol realise that she was Rita’s protégé? ‘Mrs Simcock!’ reproved Rita. ‘I’m not your boy-friend’s mother any more. Call me Rita.’
‘Are you so much more friendly to me now because I’m not your son’s fiancée?’ asked Carol.
‘I suppose I became sympathetic to you because of how he treated you. And then I realised how much I … how much I …’
Rita broke off again as she saw Rodney attempt to make an unobtrusively obtrusive exit. He made his way to the door with painfully studied nonchalance, walking with slow soft steps, as if hoping to sound as if he was hoping not to be heard, and with hunched shoulders, as if hoping to look as if he was hoping not to be seen. Neville, watching, frowned again. Rita caught Betty’s eye and didn’t know how to respond. She turned back to Carol.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Where was I?’
‘I’m not quite sure. You said you realised how much you … and then you went into a kind of trance.’
‘Sorry. I just wondered what …’
‘Rodney’s up to.’
‘No. Well, none of my … No, I realised how much more there is to you than my wretched boy realised. Look, I’d love to have a chat with you about life and things. Why don’t you come to supper one night?’
Elvis, scurrying past them in the hope of beating Jane Turnbull to his next interviewee, said, ‘What are you two plotting?’
‘My exciting future without you,’ said Carol.
‘Oh God!’ said Elvis, hurtling onwards to nab his man.
‘I will,’ Carol told Rita. ‘He’s talked me into it.’
‘Sandra!’ said Ted. ‘Can I have a word? Please.’
‘I can’t just drop everything,’ said Sandra, who was carrying a plate of water biscuits spread with cream cheese.’
‘Why not? You usually do.’ Ted winced. ‘Sorry. Tasteless joke, bitterly regretted. No, I … er … what are you doing here, anyroad?’
‘Unlike some people, your ex-wife is loyal to her friends.’
Ted winced again.
‘She asked me if I’d be free if she recommended me, and I said, “Yes, I can always change with Antonio. He’s terrific about things like that. Well, having no ties over here it doesn’t make much difference to him.”’
Ted found himself having unpleasant thoughts about other things about which Antonio with no ties might be terrific.
‘Please, Sandra,’ he said. ‘I must talk to you.’
‘Can’t live without me?’
‘Something of the sort.’
‘We had better talk then.’
‘We don’t want tongues wagging,’ said Ted. ‘I’ll go first. You follow. Meet you in the store cupboard opposite the top of the stairs.’
Ted hurried off before Sandra could ask him how he knew about the store cupboard. He didn’t want to admit that not an hour earlier he had steeled himself to face a crowded room of local bigwigs, and found himself smiling at rows of cheap, folding chairs.
‘Would you like to come to my yoga class some time?’ said Carol eagerly.
‘Sorry. I missed that,’ admitted Rita. ‘I was just wondering what …’ She stopped.
‘Ted was doing.’
‘No. Well, it’s none of my …’
It was Sandra’s turn to attempt an unobtrusive exit.
‘Now we know,’ said Carol.
‘You don’t miss much, do you?’ said Rita.
‘Not a lot. Nor do you.’
‘I miss nothing. It’s awful.’
In the store cupboard, which was lit by one bare bulb, there were rows of folding chairs, two tea urns that had known better days, a selection of environmentally unsound cleaning fluids, banished now that the council had gone green, a bronze griffin presented by the City of Namur at a twinning ceremony, and a series of cruel framed cartoons lampooning councillors long forgotten and, to judge from the lampoons, deservedly so.
In this unlikely setting, Ted Simcock faced the unemployed bakery assistant he had met at the DHSS, and with whom he had fallen so rapidly in and out of love. He looked embarrassed. The cake-loving Sandra Pickersgill looked almost serene as she waited, plate of water biscuits in hand, for Ted to speak.
‘Sandra?’ he began without confidence. ‘I just wanted to say …’
‘There’s no point,’ said Sandra firmly.
‘All right. All right. But I want to say it anyway. All right?’
‘Yeah, but make it quick.’
‘Right. I’ll make it quick.’ He searched for the words. ‘Oh heck.’
‘Was that it – “Oh heck”?’
‘You know it wasn’t. Would I get you in here just to say “Oh heck”. I mean … would I?’
‘Well hurry up. I’ve work to do.’
‘Right. Right.’ Ted tried to smile. Sandra waited impatiently. ‘Sandra?’ Words failed him again. ‘Oh heck.’ Sandra looked at her watch. ‘Sandra? I …’ Ted couldn’t meet her eye. He looked away, met the griffin’s eye, and looked back hurriedly. ‘I treated you very badly over … that woman, and everything, because … I had false values. I worshipped false shibboleths. I abased myself before empty icons.’
‘You what?’
‘I craved for success, money, respect among my peers, fame.’
‘Fame?’ Sandra sounded incredulous.
‘In my small pond. I wanted to be a big fish. I was seduced by glamour, charm, elegance, sophistication.’
‘All the things I haven’t got.’
‘Yes. No! Yes. All the things you don’t need, b
ecause … you’re Sandra. You’re yourself. You’re honest … you’re fun … you’re beautiful. Yes, Sandra. Beautiful.’
‘I didn’t argue.’
‘No. Why should you? Because you are. No, I mean it.’ Ted gulped. He was absurdly aware of the griffin. ‘I love you. I did before, and I didn’t realise it, and I’ve treated you right badly, and it’ll serve me right if you ignore me, but I don’t care about any of those things any more – fame and image and credit rating and the latest car registration and all that cobblers. If you have me back, which I won’t blame you if you won’t, but if you will, I’ll love you for the rest of your life … my life.’
Ted’s words echoed into silence. Sandra stood as still as the folding chairs, as unyielding as the tea urns, as fierce as the griffin.
‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘Can I go now?’
‘What?’ said Ted. ‘Oh. Yes. Yes. There’s no … no pressure. No, go. Go. Right.’
Sandra went.
‘Oh heck,’ said Ted.
More than half an hour had passed since Rodney’s unobtrusively obtrusive exit. The sky had no colour left in it. Sandra had returned, followed by Ted. The deputy housing officer had choked on a water biscuit. Rodney made an unobtrusively obtrusive entrance, dripping with innocence.
‘Nice time?’ enquired Betty sharply.
‘No. Let’s just hope it works.’
‘Oh yes. Awful if you had to do it again.’
‘Yes. Yes! It would be, Betty. Betty!’
‘Sorry. I trust you.’ She tried to smile. ‘I don’t trust her. And I don’t quite trust you … not to be defeated by her.’
‘I think I’d better go and have a word with Neville,’ said Rodney. ‘I don’t want this dragging on.’
He hurried over to Neville, who excused himself from a numbing conversation with the anaesthetist. Neville’s face, usually so eager to please, was a state archive. ‘Hello, Rodney,’ he said. ‘Been outside?’
‘Yes. I fancied a bit of …’
‘A bit of what?’
‘Air. A bit of air.’
‘Ah. Air. See anybody else out there, fancying a bit of air?’
‘Yes. Funnily enough. Liz. Funnily enough.’
‘Ah.’
‘I think I can claim a bit of insight into psychology, Neville, and it seems to me that Liz is – how can I put it? – trying to cement your marriage by having a little flirtatious chat with me, to make you fume with jealousy.’
‘Ah.’
‘To make you commit yourself. As I see it, Liz knows what Laurence would have done – ignored it. She just has to know that history isn’t repeating itself. She can’t let her life go down the lines it did with Laurence. She’s hoping that you’ll make a scene, sweep her off her feet, take her home and make mad, passionate love to her.’
‘What, tonight?’
‘Yes.’
‘What, make a scene tonight, in front of everyone here tonight, tonight?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh Lord.’
Ted was flattered to be spoken to with such interest by the Labour leader, even though the conversation was about his ex-wife. Councillor Mirfield had the knack of seeming to be interested in you alone, so that it was only afterwards you realised that he had been using you. A self-important man, an ambitious man, but not an evil man. A man genuinely dedicated to helping the weak against the strong, but flawed by vanity and dislike of women.
‘You were married to Councillor Simcock, our rising new star, for quite a while, weren’t you?’ he asked.
‘Quarter of a century.’
‘Rita must have been devastated when you …’ Councillor Mirfield stopped, as if sparing Ted from the need to feel guilty.
‘Well … yes. She’s put a brave face on it. Got a job. Gone into politics. Got engaged.’
‘Failed to turn up at the wedding.’
‘That’s right.’
‘And now she’s … er … I believe.’
‘That’s right. She is.
‘With Liz Badger’s brother?’
‘Not running her down,’ said Ted, ‘but the reason she’s throwing herself on unsuitable men is to fill the chasm caused by our bust-up. It’s sad. I’m very sad for her.’
‘Will there be wedding bells there, do you think?’
‘I doubt it.’ Ted, so close to being a social outcast, felt a man of the world again, being asked his views on matters of such delicacy by such a worldly man. ‘I think Rita feels she can get what she wants without marriage.’
‘What does she want?’
‘You know. Companionship. Happiness. Intellectual and emotional fulfilment. Nooky.’
‘They sleep together?’
‘Conversations I’ve had recently with Geoffrey and Rita render that conclusion unavoidable.’ Ted was pleased with the dignified sentence. Then it struck him that he might be painting himself in rather a prying light, so he added hastily, ‘I mean, not that I care. Why should I?’
‘Quite,’ said Councillor Mirfield. ‘Thank you, Ted.’
Councillor Mirfield moved on, leaving Ted rather puzzled.
‘Thank you?’ he said to himself. ‘What for?’
Elvis approached, carrying a beer and a glass of white wine.
‘Dad?’ he said. ‘Will you do an in-depth interview with me? The torment of the father.’
Ted was outraged. ‘You mean you intend to use your brother’s misfortune to further your career?’ he said. ‘You selfish unprincipled swine.’
‘I just thought, as a prominent ex-foundry owner, given a public platform – ’cos a lot of people listen – if they heard you making an impressive defence of the values you believe in, a moving analysis of the clash between your parental love and your respect for law and order … you never know … it might further your career.’
‘Eleven o’clock tomorrow suit you?’
‘Right.’
Elvis took Jenny her glass of wine.
‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘Do you think he’ll have “facilities”? It must be awful having to slop out.’
‘Stop thinking about him,’ said Elvis. ‘I’m not worthy of such constant love.’ Rita was approaching, smiling. ‘Please, Jenny,’ he implored hurriedly. ‘If thinking about Paul could get him out of prison, I’d think about him all night.’ He turned to Rita. ‘Mum! You look cheerful.’
‘Don’t I?’ said Rita. ‘I’m doing my best.’
‘It’s a very interesting exhibition,’ said Jenny. ‘And all because you got elected. This really is your great night.’
‘If one more person calls it my great night, I’ll scream. My son, your children’s father, is in prison. Or had you forgotten?’
Elvis hurried after his mother, leaving Jenny staring with her mouth open, like a trout that has heard bad news.
‘Mum!’ Elvis’s cloak of cynicism was ripped from him by the tide of events. ‘Jenny’s been talking about nothing but Paul all night and I begged her to stop and that’s the only reason she wasn’t and you shouldn’t have said that. Not today.’
‘Oh Lord.’ Rita returned to Jenny, full of contrition. ‘Jenny! I’m sorry. I’m all on edge.’
‘Me too.’ Jenny managed one of her watery little smiles. ‘You see, Elvis, it just isn’t any use trying not to think about Paul tonight.’
‘As we are thinking about him,’ said Elvis, ‘how about doing an in-depth interview with me tomorrow, Mum? The torment of the mother.’
‘Elvis!’
‘Your mother doesn’t want to exploit Paul’s predicament for your career, Elvis,’ said Jenny.
‘Thanks, Jenny,’ said Rita, with just a slight edge to her voice. She didn’t quite feel that it had been necessary for Jenny to spell this out.
‘Hell’s bells,’ said Elvis. ‘Women!’
‘I know,’ said Carol, passing by with withering timing. ‘They do get in the way of your meteoric rise to fame, don’t they?’
Elvis looked at his ex-fiancée, and then at his mother, and th
en at his lover, and felt hard done by.
The last of those who had made unobtrusive exits made her obtrusively unobtrusive entrance. Liz Badger, a woman not known for her unobtrusiveness, approached her husband with a carefully casual air.
Neville greeted her with a carefully neutral smile.
‘You look better after your spot of air,’ he said. ‘There’s a touch of colour in your cheeks. Almost one could mistake it for … a flush of excitement.’
‘The wind, I expect. I walked across those little gardens that lead down to the river. Rather pleasant. Lots of salvia and roses. Everything steaming after the rain. And a gash of colour in the Western sky.’
‘Very picturesque. And the Gadd, was it romantic?’
‘It was muddy and swollen.’
‘Did you see … Rodney out there … at all?’
‘Rodney?’ Liz widened her eyes in simulated amazement. ‘Why on earth should I have?’
‘Well … he popped out just after you popped out, and he popped back in just before you popped back in, and he looked as if he … had a flush of excitement.’
‘The wind, I expect,’ they said in unison.
‘I did see a shadowy figure,’ said Liz reflectively. ‘I heard … grunts. I thought it was either an escaped pig, or two people being passionate.’
‘Rodney and someone?’
‘It’s possible, I suppose.’
‘Wouldn’t they have got rather damp?’
‘They might have had a rug.’
‘They might, mightn’t they?’ Neville paused. He hoped it was a dramatic pause. ‘So you didn’t yourself actually see Rodney yourself … at all?’
‘Neville!’ Liz sounded as if the thought had just crossed her mind for the first time. What a leading lady the Gadd Players had lost, because she was too snobbish to join an amateur group. ‘You don’t think Rodney and I … Neville!’
‘Liz?’ said Neville decisively.
‘Yes?’ Liz was excited by his decisiveness.
‘I … would you like another drink?’
Liz’s head sank onto Neville’s shoulder in disappointment.
Neville looked puzzled.