Fair Do's

by David Nobbs

  Councillor Mirfield glowered. Rita saw him glowering and said, ‘Oh Elvis – I will do that interview for you. A mother in torment. One o’clock suit you?’

  ‘Great. I’m doing a father in torment at eleven. Bye. See you both.’

  Jenny kissed Rita. ‘Even if there are “facilities”,’ she said, ‘I don’t expect they’re allowed to go during the night.’

  Elvis’s bleeper bleeped.

  ‘News desk! Next scoop!’ He hurried out, followed by Jenny.

  ‘I hoped I might influence you, Rita, profile-wise,’ said Councillor Mirfield.

  ‘Oh, but you have,’ said Rita. ‘I wouldn’t have agreed to do the interview but for you.’

  ‘Are you trying to sabotage your political career?’

  ‘No. Just telling you I won’t be playing by your rules.’

  Councillor Mirfield gave Rita a final sour, disillusioned look, and stomped off.

  ‘He’s bitten off more than he can chew with you, Rita,’ said Ted.

  ‘Thank you, Ted.’

  ‘It wasn’t a compliment.’

  ‘I liked it, though.’

  The Gadd Room was buzzing with discussion and debate. Councillor Rita Simcock, who had set the cat among the pigeons, stood in momentary silence with her lover and her ex-husband.

  ‘You’re very quiet, Geoffrey,’ said Ted. ‘Are you wondering what you’ve let yourself in for?’

  Geoffrey gave Ted one of his gentle smiles, which were disconcerting, because the sarcastic ones were so difficult to tell from the affectionate ones.

  ‘Sorry to disappoint you, Ted,’ he said, ‘but, no, I’m pretty good at chewing. Our mother taught us to chew everything thirty-two times.’

  Ted gave Geoffrey up as a bad job. ‘No, but … I mean … Rita … do you think you’re cut out for politics?’

  ‘Listen. I care about the world’s problems, and I want to be of some use, and not entirely waste my life, and I want to be honest and open, and I want, if I make mistakes – and I will – to admit them.’

  ‘This is what I say. Do you think you’re cut out for politics?’

  Eric, dapper in his white jacket and bow-tie, brought a tray of glasses.

  ‘More wine, anybody?’ he enquired.

  Rita took a glass and thanked him.

  ‘Eric!’ said Ted. ‘What you did just then … I mean … wasn’t it? Amazing.’

  ‘Amazing, sir? Why?’

  ‘Well … I mean … you’re … aren’t you?’

  ‘Ted!’ said Rita and Geoffrey.

  ‘Well, he is.’

  ‘With respect, sir, that’s stereotyped thinking,’ said Eric. ‘My fellow barman Alec Skiddaw – I don’t know if you know him, he’s the only barman in this town I’ve any respect for – he told me that his great-uncle from Hereford was as bent as a nine pound note and undefeated in thirty-two fights. Only knocked down once, and that wasn’t in the ring, it was in a fracas at chucking out time in Leominster after an auctioneer’s runner had called him a nancy boy.’

  Ted stared at Eric in amazement, partly that anybody could listen to one of Alec’s stories with sufficient attention to remember it, and partly because of the contrast between his behaviour tonight and his performance at the Christening.

  ‘Yes … but … I mean …’ he said, ‘… Sandra knocked you down.’

  ‘Call me a male chauvinist pig if you like,’ said Eric, ‘but I’d never hit a woman. Not in me. But tonight, well, my job is serving alcohol. Alcohol is a civilised pleasure. Abuse of that civilised pleasure is abuse of my professional standing. So, I stand up and am counted. Tickety-boo.’

  Eric moved on to offer drinks to the Registrar of Births and Deaths and Mrs Fradley.

  It was a stunned little group that Simon and Lucinda joined.

  ‘Simon wants to know if you can get the ring road plan scrapped,’ said Lucinda to Rita.

  ‘Hasn’t he got the courage to ask me himself?’ said Rita to Lucinda.

  ‘Haven’t you got the courage to ask her yourself?’ said Lucinda to Simon.

  ‘Of course I have,’ said Simon to Lucinda, ‘but, unlike some of my mother’s close relatives …’ he flung a resentful glance at Geoffrey, ‘I care about her.’

  ‘Of course he has,’ said Lucinda to Rita, ‘but, unlike some of his mother’s close relatives …’ she flung a resentful glance at Geoffrey, ‘he cares about her.’

  ‘I wonder who he has in mind?’ said Geoffrey.

  ‘Tell him, “No, I can’t get it scrapped,”’ said Rita to Lucinda.

  ‘No, she can’t get it scrapped,’ said Lucinda to Simon.

  ‘Damn!’ said Simon to Lucinda.

  ‘Damn!’ said Lucinda to Rita.

  ‘Simon? Thanks,’ said Ted.

  ‘What on earth for?’ said Simon.

  ‘Every time I meet you, I think, maybe my sons aren’t such berks after all.’

  Simon and Lucinda flounced off.

  Ted had noticed Rita’s look and said gently, ‘Sorry, Rita, I just can’t resist that Simon. I don’t really think they’re berks. I mean, not … er … and, I mean, I do love them.’

  ‘Ted!’ Rita became quite gentle too. ‘Sorry I interrupted you with that woman.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry about that,’ said Ted. ‘The affair was doomed from the start. The knob fell off her poker.’

  He moved off. Before Rita could say ‘Poor Ted’ he’d returned.

  ‘And don’t pity me,’ he said, as if he could read her mind. ‘There’s no need. I still have me moments. Women still occasionally make me offers I can’t refuse.’

  On Sandra’s face there was a proud, purposeful, even serene expression. She walked up to Ted and smiled, as if she might be about to make him an offer he couldn’t refuse.

  ‘Sausage roll, sir?’ she said.

  ‘Thank you, Sandra,’ said Ted with dignity. He took a quartered sausage roll, shoved it in his mouth, and shrugged his shoulders at Rita.

  Rodney stumbled into the room, pursued by Betty.

  ‘No! Rodney!’ she pleaded.

  ‘No, Betty. It must be said,’ he said.

  He tacked his way into the middle of the room, narrowly missing crashing into several people. All conversation had stopped.

  ‘Rita!’ he said. ‘You’ve had problems. Son in prison and other son carrying on with the son in prison’s wife and your ex-husband’s ex-lover’s husband who is the stepfather of the son in prison’s wife dragging her away in the middle of speeches, and I want to show that great twat-arse Councillor Thingummy that you have some friends who know how to behave.’

  He tried to smile at Rita, who stared back in horror. He lurched, tripped, tried to regain his balance, failed, and fell spectacularly backwards onto the model of the outer inner relief ring road. The table overturned, and Rodney and the model fell to the ground in a heap. The model buckled and cracked. Rodney lay there, legs in the air, head half in the Gadd and half in the fractured remains of Commercial Street, buttocks jammed in a ravine where the abbey and Tannergate had been.

  He looked up at Rita, his employee, his friend.

  ‘So,’ he slurred, ‘just wanted to say, thank you very much for inviting me. It’s been a privilege to witness your great night.’

  Rita screamed.

  Sixth Do

  September:

  The Funeral

  On a day as grey as the face of a dying man … no. Too obvious. After weeks of mellow, golden sunshine, a pall of dark cloud hung over the old abbey, as if the universe itself were in mourning … no. More like a weather report than a piece of memorable broadcasting.

  ‘Hello.’

  The long-haired Carol Fordingbridge’s greeting filtered slowly into Elvis’s brain. He looked up in some surprise.

  ‘Are you here?’ he said. ‘Oh Lord. I’ve given you another chance to be sarcastic about my deeply searching philosophical questions.’

  ‘I wouldn’t. Not today.’ Carol was wearing a navy, two-piece suit, with a lime
-green skirt. The effect was tasteful, restrained, yet attractive.

  ‘What I meant was,’ explained Elvis, ‘I’m surprised you’ve been invited, since you aren’t family.’

  ‘I haven’t. I’ve come because I felt I must. Sorry, was I interrupting something?’

  ‘No. No.’

  He couldn’t tell her that while he’d been sitting on a bench beneath the abbey, he’d been imagining that he was honing a colour piece on the funeral of a world leader for this week’s ‘Letter From Yorkshire’.

  Rita greeted them with quick kisses and silent speculation. She was dressed soberly, but not entirely in black. Her pleated skirt was black, but her cross-over jacket had a large floral pattern, in green and cream as well as black.

  ‘It’s all right, Mum,’ said Elvis. ‘Nothing’s happened. We aren’t together again.’

  ‘I wasn’t even thinking you might be.’ She was telling more little social lies, and telling them with greater smoothness, now that she was a councillor. That would have to be watched. In the meantime she might as well round off her little lie. ‘It’s hardly the time for idle speculation.’

  ‘I’d have thought Carol and I being together again, if we were, which we aren’t, would be too important to be described as “idle speculation”.’

  ‘Oh Elvis! Don’t say that today of all days the great philosopher is discovering a talent for linguistic analysis.’

  ‘Mum!’

  ‘Sorry. It’s nerves. Well, it’s all very well saying, “It’s not to be a sad occasion. It’s to be the celebration of a life, not the mourning of a death,” but it puts us all in a very awkward position. If you do care, you’re so sad you can’t smile. If you don’t care, you’re so anxious to look as though you do that you daren’t smile.’

  ‘I think everybody today will care,’ said Carol.

  ‘True.’

  ‘I feel so … you know …’ said Carol, ‘… some of the things I said … I feel awful.’

  Elvis gave her a quick kiss.

  ‘Oooh! Rodney!’ said Betty Sillitoe, over-excited as usual. ‘Elvis just kissed Carol.’

  Betty had come to an abrupt halt, forcing Rodney, who was holding her arm, to stop also.

  ‘Don’t be so inquisitive,’ said Rodney. ‘It isn’t appropriate at a funeral, isn’t curiosity.’ He was wearing a crumpled suit. His tie was sober, but not black.

  They moved on slowly, arms linked, between the gravestones.

  ‘No, I know,’ said Betty, ‘but … I was looking for crumbs of comfort.’

  Now Rodney stopped dead, forcing Betty to do so also.

  ‘Crumbs of comfort?’ he said. ‘Elvis and Jenny are in love. Elvis kissing Carol isn’t a crumb of comfort. It’s a slice of trouble.’

  ‘No, but … I mean …’ Betty’s dress and hat were black, but her top had a large flower pattern in fuchsia, yellow and blue, and she had a gold chain round her neck. ‘If Elvis went back to Carol, then when Paul came out of prison, maybe he and Jenny … I mean, Paul is still the father of her children. And I like Carol. Well, I like them all.’

  ‘Well, we can’t just stand here all day, liking everybody. Come on. Best foot forward.’

  They set off again, slowly. The graveyard had recently been mown. The cuttings smelt of expiring life.

  ‘And smile,’ said Rodney.

  ‘You what?’

  ‘They said it was to be a happy day. He would have wanted it. Not that I imagine they had riotous joy in mind. So smile a bit, but not too much.’

  ‘Oh Lord.’

  They glided towards their friends, smiling a bit, but not too much.

  ‘Hello,’ said Betty to Rita, brightly, but not too brightly. ‘Hello,’ she said to Elvis, vivaciously, but not too vivaciously. ‘Hello, Carol,’ she added, inquisitively, but not too inquisitively.

  ‘Oh, we haven’t got together again, Betty,’ said Carol. ‘We just ran into each other.’

  ‘You make it sound like a traffic accident,’ said Elvis.

  The cynical Elvis Simcock closed his eyes in uncynical horror. The thrusting media man was submerged beneath a tidal wave of gaucherie.

  ‘The first tactless remark of the day,’ said Rita, and she immediately wished that she hadn’t.

  ‘Well, it saved me,’ said Rodney. ‘I was just going to make the first tactless remark of the day.’

  ‘What?’ said Betty, eagerly, but not too eagerly.

  ‘Well, it’s tactless. If I make it now it’ll be the second tactless remark of the day.’

  ‘You can’t not now. Not after you’ve … well, not whetted our appetites exactly, we don’t have such insensitive appetites that they’d be whetted by tactless remarks on such a sad occasion,’ said Betty, over-garrulous as usual. ‘But if you don’t tell us we’ll be wondering, I mean, we’re only human, thinking it might be something even more tactless than what it is.’

  ‘Well, all right, then. I was going to say, “Fancy this happening to Ted of all people. He’s always prided himself so much on his safe driving.”’

  ‘Well, there you are,’ said Betty. ‘That’s life.’

  ‘Hardly life, exactly, in this case,’ said Rita.

  ‘I think that’s the trouble with funerals.’ Carol leapt into the conversation. It was as if they all felt that a moment of silence would be unbearable. ‘Everything you say … the circumstances seem to blow it up out of all proportion. If you say, “We’ve gorra nice day for it,” it seems heartless. If you say, “We’ve gorra rotten day for it,” it seems depressing.’

  ‘Best to shut up really,’ said Elvis.

  ‘Elvis!’ said Rita.

  ‘Oh, I didn’t mean it personally, Carol. Oh Lord. I just meant … it’s awful standing around jabbering like this when … oh heck.’ Elvis, on the verge of tears, hurried off along the side of the church, like a hamster staying close to a wall for protection.

  Carol looked as if she felt that she ought to go to him.

  ‘No. I’ll go,’ said Rita.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Carol gratefully.

  ‘If you go, certain people in this gossip-mad town will talk.’

  ‘Rita!’ said Betty. ‘As if anybody would, today.’

  Rita hurried off towards Elvis, smiling at a group of mourners, which included Graham Wintergreen and his golfophobic wife, Angela. Councillor Morris Wigmore, Deputy Leader of the Conservatives, smiled back. Rita realised that she shouldn’t be smiling, and stopped smiling hurriedly, looking almost as gauche as she had in the grey smudge days. Councillor Wigmore stopped smiling too, perhaps because the funeral was reminding him of his son, who had come to a sticky end in Brisbane.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Rita asked her elder son.

  ‘Yes. Sorry, Mum. This is stupid.’

  ‘There’s nothing stupid in showing grief.’

  ‘I was just thinking … it just came home to me … poor Dad.’

  ‘I know. I know. It seems wrong to say it, today, but … since I can’t help thinking it, I may as well say it.’

  ‘I’ll say it for you. Whatever Rodney may say about Dad’s driving, you’re amazed he’s never been in an accident before.’

  ‘Well, yes, I am, frankly. Well, better get in the church.’

  Groups of mourners were moving slowly towards the abbey, like wading birds forced up a beach by the tide. For all the uneasiness of their conversations in that sombre churchyard, nobody wanted to enter the church and admit the finality of death.

  Rita found herself beside Betty as they approached the West Door.

  ‘I didn’t know what to wear,’ said Betty.

  ‘I know,’ said Rita. ‘I mean, if it’s black, at least you know where you are.’

  ‘I know. I kept saying to myself, “What does it matter what I wear?”

  ‘I know. But it does.’

  ‘I know. I mean, I agree in theory. About celebrating a life, not mourning a death. But … where does it leave us?’

  ‘I vowed a long while ago not to worry abo
ut stupid social niceties like that any more.’

  ‘I know. But you still do.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Good God!’

  The cause of the astonishment hobbled slowly round the corner of the church and stood there, beside the vast buttress, resting on his crutch, staring defiantly. Ted’s right leg was encased in plaster, his left arm was in a sling, he had a neck brace, and a large bandage on his forehead, inelegantly held in place by two lengths of Band Aid, only partially hid a great purple and mauve bruise.

  ‘Ted!’ said Rita.

  ‘Dad!’ said Elvis.

  ‘Ten out of ten for recognition,’ said Ted. ‘Well, this is a rum do.’

  There was an awkward silence. Carol Fordingbridge broke it.

  ‘How are you, Mr Simcock?’ she asked.

  Ted gave her a searching look, seeking sarcasm where there was only unself-conscious concern.

  ‘Alive, Carol,’ he said. ‘I’m alive.’

  He hobbled towards the porch.

  ‘I’ll go and help him sit down,’ said Carol.

  ‘Thanks, Carol,’ said Rita.

  Carol took his sound arm gently.

  ‘I don’t know why I should say “thanks”,’ said Rita. ‘It isn’t my responsibility. I’m not married to him any more.’

  ‘It’s because you have a warm heart, Rita,’ said Betty, ‘and you know how Ted’s suffering. There’s nothing more painful than guilt.’

  ‘Not even a broken leg and a broken arm?’ said Rodney.

  ‘No. Probably not even that.’

  They all turned to look, as the hearse and four silent, tactful limousines drove slowly towards the church. Not a squeak came from any of their brakes as they slid to a halt beyond the unshapely ash, bereatn which Gerry Lansdown had addressed his wedding guests eight months ago.

  The four silent, tactful drivers of the four silent, tactful limousines moved round their cars to open the doors in unison.

  Out of the first car stepped the ravishing Liz Badger, twice a widow. Her skirt was black, but her worsted top had a large flower and dot pattern in white, blue, green and pink. With her were her two children, Simon in his dark suit and Jenny with an ethnic look, in a burgundy cross-over bodice top, a maroon patterned skirt, maroon tights, and maroon suede shoes.