Fair Do's

by David Nobbs

  Ted approached Rodney diffidently, regretting the extent of his earlier rudeness. He noticed that Rodney was swaying slightly. Perhaps he’d have forgotten.

  ‘Hello, Rodney,’ he said. ‘You seem to be chatting to Liz a lot tonight. I mean … not that I’ve … but you can’t help …’

  ‘I dream about it every night.’

  ‘With Liz? Rodney!’

  ‘Meat.’

  ‘Meat?’

  ‘Pork chops. Steak. Even saveloys. Last night I dreamt it was Christmas. We didn’t have paper chains. We decorated the house with chains of black puddings. We didn’t have an angel on top of the tree. We had a rissole. No fairy lights. Illuminated faggots.’

  ‘But I thought you were totally committed to vegetarianism.’

  ‘Betty is. And I didn’t like all that factory farming. But things that aren’t factory farmed, and game, and fish, and … more fish. All my employees, and specially Rita and Jenny – and my Betty – they all think I’m a born-again vegetarian. A fundalentilist.’ Rodney paused briefly, to admire his incredible cleverness. ‘I’m not. I’m a businessman. It’s profitable. I identified a gap in the market. I filled it.’

  Ted hesitated. Was Rodney in the right state to be receptive? But the cue was too good to miss.

  ‘Is that offer of a job still open?’

  Rodney was amazed, if rather slowly. ‘But you were very offensive.’

  ‘Only in fun,’ said Ted hastily. ‘Well … I mean … I thought you were on a moral crusade. Shrewd business venture, that’s more my line.’

  ‘You were very rude, Ted. So I suggest you stuff yourself up your own backside, boil yourself for two hours over a moderate heat, and serve yourself with noodles and a tossed salad.’ He laughed, loudly, slowly, several times, with deep, rich satisfaction at his immense wit.

  He moved on, still laughing, put his empty glass on Eric’s table, took a full glass and lurched towards Carol.

  ‘Carol!’ he said. ‘You look lovely.’ He attempted a gracious smile. It came out as a bit of a leer.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Carol.

  ‘I’m very happily sliced …’ Rodney looked puzzled. ‘No, not sliced, that’s meat … honey-roasted ham, juicy rare beef, glistening with blood … happily spliced. If I was younger, I’d – and unspliced – I’d … but other, younger people are, and I hope one of them will.’

  ‘Thank you very much,’ said Carol drily.

  Sandra was serving coffee, that gesture of apparent hospitality which is actually a hint that it’s almost time to leave.

  Councillor Mirfield sprang into action. He approached Rita with a sense of urgency.

  ‘High time I made a little speech, Rita,’ he said. ‘Nothing formal. Er, it has been suggested that since this is, er … in a way … your …’

  ‘Great night?’ It wasn’t quite as painful saying it as listening to it.

  ‘Well … yes.’ Councillor Mirfield was put out. He didn’t like being interrupted. ‘That you should make a little speech. You don’t want to make a speech, do you?’

  ‘Heavens, no.’

  ‘Good. That’s settled.’

  ‘I will, though.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘You wouldn’t want me to disappoint my public, would you?’ Rita smiled. Councillor Mirfield tried not to look too obviously sour. ‘Right, then. That’s settled. I’ll just have a word with Geoffrey. I’d like to give him the chance of escaping before I make my speech, in case it embarrasses him.’

  ‘He can’t be much of a …’ Councillor Mirfield realised that his annoyance with Rita was making him indiscreet.

  ‘Of a what?’

  Councillor Mirfield found himself forced to explain, against his wishes, despite all his experience.

  ‘Well, whatever he is to you,’ he said. ‘Lover, as I’m led to believe.”

  ‘I see. And who’s led you to believe that?’

  ‘Your ex-husband.’ Councillor Mirfield gave a grim smile. He didn’t mind landing Ted in it now that the subject had been broached. But he didn’t expect his answer to galvanise Rita to quite the extent that it did. He said, ‘Rita! Time is pressing,’ but he said it to her departing back.

  Rita’s anger swept her towards Ted, through groups of small-town big-wigs, who scattered before her like guillemots before a liner. But Ted was deep in conversation with an attractive, dark-haired lady in her thirties, and a lifetime’s careful practice of good manners proved stronger than Rita’s spurt of fury. She stood watching, waiting, fuming, while her ex-husband chatted up this younger woman.

  ‘I used to run the Jupiter Foundry,’ Ted was saying. ‘You may have heard of it.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, we made … you have?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Ted tried to hide his surprise.

  ‘In fact, I bought a poker off you,’ said the dark-haired lady. Her brown eyes were twinkling.

  ‘Good Lord!’ said Ted. His eyes strayed to Sandra, standing beside a display of photographs of urban dereliction, gripping her tray of coffee cups with whitened knuckles. She turned away sharply. As his eyes followed her, he saw Rita, watching, fuming. He forced his eyes back onto this rather sultry, youngish woman with the gently twinkling eyes. ‘Good Lord!’ he repeated. He must concentrate on her. This was the chance of a lifetime. ‘It’s a small world! Fancy that. You and me, linked by a poker.’

  ‘Amazing.’

  ‘Absolutely. Is it a sign, I wonder?’

  The brown eyes twinkled even more. ‘Not a happy sign, if it was. The knob kept falling off.’

  ‘Oh heck.’ Could it be that she was laughing at him? And what did Rita want? And what did Sandra think? Why, suddenly, in the emotional desert that his life had become, all these women, and all so difficult to handle? He heard his voice chuntering on. ‘We did have design problems at one …’ He turned towards Rita and, holding his hand beside his back, made a frantic signal to her to go away. He turned back to the dark-haired lady, looked deep into her twinkling eyes and said, ‘Anyroad, changing the subject from pokers, would you like to …?’ and at that moment Rita could stand it no longer.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘Ted, I have to have a word.’

  ‘Rita!’ said Ted angrily.

  The dark-haired lady scuttled off almost as if making an escape.

  ‘Rita!’ repeated Ted. ‘I was talking to that young lady. We were having a very interesting chat. Establishing social rapport. I was on the point of cracking it.’

  ‘Well if you don’t want to be interrupted while you’re cracking it you shouldn’t go round gabbing about me and Geoffrey.’

  ‘Rita! I don’t gab. I mean … I don’t. I don’t know what you and Geoffrey get up to, anyroad. Maybe you make love. Maybe he ties you to a totem pole and worships you and sacrifices live chickens to you. Just don’t tell Jenny if he does. Or maybe you just play scrabble. I don’t know. I don’t care. I’m not interested. I mean it. I’m not.’

  Anger is hard to sustain, and Rita felt hers slipping away. She felt, instead, a subtler desire, to tease Ted. He had given her the perfect opening.

  ‘We do,’ she said. ‘Regularly. Almost every night.’ Ted tried not to look upset. ‘Geoffrey loves scrabble.’

  ‘Ah.’ Ted tried to hide his relief. ‘Good. I’m very pleased to hear it.’

  ‘And then we make love.’

  Ted tried not to look as if he’d been hit by a juggernaut. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Very good. Terrific. For a moment there you had me worrying that he was … you know … all scrabble and no trousers. I’m very relieved. But has it ever occurred to you that maybe I’d like to make love to somebody too, and not be interrupted in the middle of cha … well, not chatting them up, that sounds crude … in the middle of establishing social, emotional and cultural rapport?’

  ‘How dare you gab about my private life to Councillor Mirfield?’

  ‘Rita! I didn’t.’ Ted had all the indignation of a deeply wronged man. ‘He cross-
examined me. Wormed it out of me. It’s true, Rita. I mean … have I ever lied to you?’

  ‘Yes. Often.’

  ‘Yes. Often. What? No. Well, yes, it’s true, I have. Sometimes. But not this time. I didn’t even realise he was crossexamining me till he said “Thank you”, and I didn’t know what he was saying “Thank you” for. It’s true, Rita. It …’

  But Rita had gone. She knew that it was true. Once again she was striding angrily past little knots of talkers, creating worry on the faces of Councillor Wendy Bullock and Councillor Alf Noddington, and amused speculation on the faces of Mrs Bellows, the town clerk’s wife, and Morris Wigmore, the deputy leader of the Conservatives, whose son had met a sticky end in Brisbane.

  Councillor Mirfield excused himself from the Medical Officer of Health and Mrs Barraclough, when he saw the expression on Rita’s face.

  ‘Did you systematically question Ted about my private life?’ hissed Rita.

  Councillor Mirfield smiled an appeaser’s smile. ‘You’ve made an excellent start as a councillor,’ he said. ‘Already you’ve proved yourself an invaluable committee man … woman … person.’

  ‘You didn’t answer,’ said Rita, unappeased. ‘That means you did. I’m learning about politics fast. There’s no need to be evasive with me, Councillor Mirfield. I’m not a TV interviewer, just an obscure local councillor.’

  ‘Obscure?’ Councillor Mirfield twitched. ‘Hardly obscure. You hardly habitually keep a low profile, social life-wise. The actions of your son plastered all over the papers, overshadowing this launch.’

  ‘You’re jealous of me.’

  Councillor Mirfield was too old a hand not to be able to respond to a direct accusation with a fine-sounding phrase.

  ‘There’s no such thing as a private life in public life, Councillor Simcock,’ he thundered.

  ‘Come on, Councillor Mirfield. Let’s make those speeches. Time is pressing,’ said Rita.

  ‘Are you all right?’ said Betty Sillitoe anxiously.

  ‘Never been lesser righter in my life.’

  ‘Oh, Rodney.’

  ‘I’m a sham. No, I am. I’m a sham. It’s a shame, but I’m a sham. Do you see what I’m driving at?’

  ‘You’re a sham.’

  ‘So you’ve realised it too!’

  Rodney staggered off. Liz buttonholed him, and Betty wasn’t going to demean herself by making a scene, so she stood and watched, nervously.

  ‘Oh, bloody hell,’ said Rodney. ‘Not you again.’

  A strange noise, like a pigeon crashing into a wall, floated across the room. Councillor Mirfield was testing the microphone.

  ‘Look, nothing personal, Liz,’ slurred Rodney, ‘but … wouldn’t touch you if you were the last bargepole in China.’

  ‘I don’t want you to touch me. Just talk to me.’

  At last Neville strode up to his wife’s rescue. There was a hard, hurt look on his normally good-natured face.

  ‘This has gone on long enough,’ he said firmly.

  ‘Absolutely,’ agreed Rodney.

  ‘Neville!’ said Liz.

  ‘You’re drunk, so I’ll speak slowly,’ said Neville.

  On the platform, Councillor Mirfield, satisfied with the microphone, held up an authoritative hand, silently demanding silence.

  ‘Good idea,’ said Rodney. ‘Because I’m drunk, so if you speak slowly I’ll have a better chance of understanding. That’s clever.’

  Several people, seeing Councillor Mirfield holding up his hand, began to ask for silence. Their cries of ‘Sssh!’ and ‘Quiet!’ drowned the beginning of Neville’s stern, slow warning to Rodney.

  ‘If … you … so … much … as … glance … at … my … wife … again …’

  Silence fell rapidly. Those nearest turned to listen to Neville.

  ‘I … will … put … my … dignity … at … risk … and …’

  By now the silence was complete. More and more people turned to listen to Neville. Councillor Mirfield found himself facing a sea of backs.

  ‘Visibly … thrash … you … to … within … an … inch … of … your … life.’

  Rodney considered Neville’s words carefully. ‘Terrific,’ he said. ‘Isn’t that terrific, Liz? What a terrific idea.’

  ‘Come on, Liz,’ said Neville. ‘We’re going home. I insist.’

  ‘Oh, Neville!’ said Liz delightedly.

  ‘Have you quite finished?’ called out Councillor Mirfield drily.

  Neville looked towards Councillor Mirfield and saw the whole gathering of big-wigs staring at him.

  ‘Oh Lord!’ he said, his new assertiveness draining out of him. ‘You mean everyone’s … oh Lord!’

  ‘I don’t care,’ said Liz. ‘Come on.’

  She led Neville towards the great double doors of the Gadd Room.

  ‘He’s taking me home,’ she told the gathering. ‘He insists.’

  ‘Yes, I’m taking her home. I insist,’ echoed Neville, as Liz pulled him out of the room.

  ‘Can I begin?’ said Councillor Mirfield.

  Slowly, almost reluctantly, as if the climax of the evening’s entertainment had already passed, the assembled guests turned towards Councillor Mirfield.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ said Councillor Mirfield. ‘Tonight is a great night.’

  Rita squirmed.

  ‘A great night,’ repeated Councillor Mirfield. ‘Soon our traffic congestion …’

  A young man, scruffily dressed in jeans and a dirty T-shirt, burst in, drinking from a can of lager and shouting, ‘Here we go, here we go, here we go.’

  ‘Oh my God!’ The dapper, ageless Eric Siddall turned pale, as the lager lout weaved towards the bar.

  ‘Out!’ said Eric, confronting him. ‘This is a private party. OUT, out.’

  ‘You what?’ said the lager lout.

  ‘OUT spells “Out”. LOUT spells “lout”. Out, lout!’

  The lager lout thought hard.

  ‘Are you calling me a lout?’ he said.

  ‘Yes. Want to make something of it?’

  Eric grabbled the lager lout in a half-Nelson and frog-marched him to the doors.

  ‘There’s ladies present,’ he said, ‘and we don’t want trouble, and we don’t want bad language, so piss off.’

  He threw the intruder out of the double doors and turned back to face a fish tank of open mouths.

  ‘No problem!’ he said, wiping his hands. ‘Interruption over. Everything’s tickety-boo. Carry on with your speech, councillor. We’re all agog.’

  Again, the guests turned reluctantly towards Councillor Mirfield, who was just about to open his mouth to speak when Eric added, ‘In fact, I personally have rarely been agogger.’

  Councillor Mirfield fixed upon Eric a glare which would have quelled a lesser man. But this was Eric Siddall, barman supreme, who had served perfect dry Martinis in a force eleven gale off Biscay, but had never had an opportunity of showing himself to the town in his true colours. This man, of whom any golf club could be proud, smiled back, very unquelled indeed.

  ‘No more interruptions?’ said Councillor Mirfield. ‘Amazing. As I say, a great night.’

  Rita squirmed again.

  ‘And all made possible by the election of Rita Simcock.’

  There was loud and prolonged applause. Councillor Mirfield held up his hand for silence.

  ‘Thank you. That’s enough,’ he said. ‘Because time is pressing. And I’m sure you’d like Councillor Simcock to say a few words. Councillor Simcock?’

  Councillor Mirfield was happy to stand down. His love of his own voice had been destroyed so far as that night was concerned. But, as Rita stepped to the microphone, he stood quite close to her, to hint that her election was in a way a triumph for him.

  ‘“A great night”, says Councillor Mirfield,’ said Rita. ‘Not for me, because … well, you all know … and I wouldn’t be his mother if I didn’t worry. I know that in public life we’re supposed to … but I don’t think I can do that.
Anyroad, it’s because of my by-election victory that this exhibition …’

  Rita looked down on the Mayor and Mayoress, on Geoffrey, who loved her, on Ted, with whom she had lived for twenty-five years, on her elder son and his lover, on her employers, on her protégé, on her fellow councillors and council officials and their partners, and they all looked up at her anxiously, because she was pausing for far too long, and the words that she knew she must speak formed themselves as if unbidden.

  ‘I’ve got to say it,’ she said. ‘Things like what’s happened help you get things in proportion.’ She paused again, but this was a controlled pause, well-judged. She felt as if she had made the speech before. She knew what was coming next. The sombre Gadd Room seemed to retreat and approach, retreat and approach, as in a dream, and yet this was no dream. She felt very solid; a woman, a mother. ‘Outer inner relief ring road. Inner inner relief ring road. Outer outer relief ring road. Inner outer relief ring road. It’d be a great relief to me if we didn’t have a ring road at all. Clogged motorways. Look at the M25. Simcock’s Law. Traffic expands to fill the roads available. Too many people rushing to look at places which are being ruined because too many people are rushing to look at them. I think we should stop before we let our town be destroyed by machines. Give it back to pedestrians before there’s nothing left to give. A great night? Sorry, Councillor Mirfield.’

  Rita stepped down hurriedly. Some people applauded enthusiastically, others in embarrassment, others not at all. There was even a jeer or two.

  People hurried up to her from all sides.

  ‘That was unbelievable,’ said Councillor Mirfield.

  ‘Oh, thank you very much,’ said Rita.

  ‘That was amazing, Rita,’ said Geoffrey.

  ‘I was worried you might be embarrassed.’

  ‘Of course not. I love you.’ He began to kiss her, then became aware of Ted. ‘Sorry, Ted,’ he said. ‘I’ve done it again.’

  ‘No, no,’ said Ted. ‘No, no. Be my guest. I mean …’

  ‘We have to go,’ said Jenny. ‘The baby-sitter’s unproven.’

  ‘And I’ve got work to do. That was great copy, Mum.’ Elvis turned to Councillor Mirfield. ‘“Newest councillor’s sensational outburst against road plan”. Great stuff.’