Fair Do's

by David Nobbs

  From the second car there stepped Liz’s brother, Geoffrey Ellsworth-Smythe, Neville’s brother, Arthur, and Arthur’s wife Glenys, who was Welsh.

  From the third car there emerged Liz’s skeletal, ramrod uncle Hubert, Neville’s Cousin Edith from Morpeth, who loathed being called a Geordie, and his nephew, Arthur’s elder son Mark, who taught.

  From the fourth car came Lucinda, demure in a grey and cream spotted dress with pleated skirt, navy jacket and a navy straw hat. She was escorting two obscure relations, long lost except at times of disaster.

  The majority of the family mourners were as sombrely dressed as it was possible to be without flouting Neville’s wish that they should not wear mourning.

  ‘Don’t say it,’ said Rodney, watching from the porch between Rita and Betty.

  ‘Don’t say what, Rodney?’ said Betty.

  ‘What you’re both thinking.’

  ‘How do you know what we’re thinking, Rodney?’ said Rita.

  ‘Because I can see it in your eyes.’

  ‘What can you see in our eyes, Rodney?’ said Betty.

  ‘What you’re thinking.’

  ‘What are we thinking, Rodney?’ said Rita.

  ‘“Look at what she’s wearing!”’

  ‘Well … look at it,’ said Betty.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Rita.

  ‘It’s up to her, isn’t it?’ said Rodney. ‘To interpret what Neville would have wanted in the way she thinks fit. … Come on. Let’s get in that church.’

  They entered the church. Behind them, Liz addressed the family mourners.

  ‘Well come on,’ she said. ‘Don’t all look so miserable. It’s not what he’d have wanted.’

  The funeral service was almost perfect. Dignified but not solemn. The new young vicar had done his homework. His address went off almost perfectly. When he said, ‘He didn’t have an enemy in the world,’ everybody thought, ‘That’s usually a cliché, but in this case it really is true,’ and he said, ‘I know you’re thinking that’s a cliché, but in this case it really is true.’ That was just before it happened. Just as it happened, Rita was thinking, rather sorrowfully, that the new young vicar seemed more at ease with death than with life. When it happened, he was thrown only briefly out of his stride. He even told a little joke, about Neville’s absent-mindedness, about how, after a hard spell of Latin revision, he’d gone to the station and asked for a third person singular to York. It produced a gentle, affectionate laugh, which wasn’t quite swallowed up in the vastness of the dark church. There was a rousing rendition of Neville’s favourite hymn, ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’. Many eyes were moist. Rita and Ted fumed. Jenny was in turmoil. There was a short prayer, and it was over.

  Elvis was waiting outside, pacing nervously.

  The moment they came out of the church, Ted and Rita made a bee-line for him. Ted hobbled his way through the mourners at astonishing speed, wielding his crutch furiously.

  ‘Well, I was mortified,’ he shouted. ‘Mortified.’

  ‘Don’t raise your voice, Ted,’ pleaded Rita breathlessly. ‘Let’s not have a family row. It’d hardly be appropriate.’

  ‘“Hardly be appropriate”, the woman says!’ shouted Ted. He was heaving for breath after his exertions, but his anger was unabated. ‘What’s appropriate about being bleeped in the middle of a funeral oration? I couldn’t believe it. Solemn moment. Bleep bleep bleep. Solemn moment straight down the pan.’

  ‘I didn’t even know I was going to be bleeped.’ Elvis was raising his voice too, in his indignation.

  ‘You should have switched it off,’ said Rita.

  ‘I’d regard that as dereliction of duty. Your true reporter never sleeps.’

  ‘Do you keep it on while you’re at it?’ said Ted.

  ‘There’s no need to be crude, Ted Simcock,’ said Rita, turning her anger onto Ted. She couldn’t help glancing towards the other mourners, but they seemed to be ignoring this public row with a studied tact which mortified her all the more. They were Neville and Liz’s friends and relations. They knew how to behave.

  ‘I mean …’ said Ted, ‘… walking out in the middle of a funeral oration. I was. I was mortified.’

  ‘I had to. I could hardly talk to my news desk in the middle of a funeral oration.’

  ‘What was so important that it couldn’t wait, anyroad?’ enquired his mother.

  ‘An ongoing enquiry into professional corruption involving a guest at this funeral do.’ Elvis was beginning to regain his professional sang-froid.

  ‘What?’ said Rita.

  ‘Who?’ said Ted.

  ‘I’m not at liberty to reveal,’ said Elvis rather grandly.

  ‘You aren’t going to start in-depth interviewing at this time of solemnity?’ said Rita.

  ‘ ’Course not. Do you think I don’t know how to behave?’

  ‘Yes!’ said Rita and Ted, momentarily united by the behaviour of their son.

  Liz approached them, smiling strangely. Elvis legged it unashamedly.

  ‘We are sorry, Liz,’ said Rita.

  ‘We’re mortified,’ said Ted.

  ‘Oh please. Don’t worry,’ said Liz. ‘I think Neville would have rather enjoyed it.’

  She moved on, doing her social round with every appearance of composure.

  ‘Is that woman made of ice?’ said Rita.

  ‘I didn’t think so once,’ said Ted.

  ‘I hardly wanted to be reminded of that!’ Rita turned away in fury and found herself face to face with Geoffrey.

  ‘I love you,’ said Geoffrey. ‘I want you.’

  ‘Geoffrey! Shut up!’ whispered Rita. ‘It’s not appropriate.’

  ‘Grief is an aphrodisiac,’ said Geoffrey Ellsworth-Smythe softly.

  ‘Well!’ said Simon Rodenhurst, of Trellis, Trellis, Openshaw and Finch, contemptuously. ‘I think that was despicable, and so does Lucinda.’

  ‘No sign of Andrew Denton and his wife and your child?’ said the cynical Elvis.

  ‘Don’t change the subject, you worm,’ said Simon. ‘I think your behaviour today has been absolutely disgusting, and so does Lucinda.’

  ‘It was very important that the news desk contact me before the do at the house,’ said Elvis.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘They want to interview somebody who’s been involved in widespread corruption and dishonesty.’

  ‘You’re going to interview this corrupt person at my … mother’s husband’s funeral?’ Simon swept a gaze round the mourners, some of whom were moving towards their cars, while others were held captive in shared embarrassment. ‘I think you’re a reptile, Elvis, and so does Lucinda.’

  ‘No,’ said Elvis, ‘I’m going to arrange to see this corrupt person at a time which suits this corrupt person. What time does suit you?’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘You.’

  ‘Oh my God.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Wharfedale Road was an oasis of moderate wealth, surrounded at an almost discreet distance by estates of moderate poverty. Its houses were separated by large, well-wooded gardens, although two houses had already been replaced by luxury executive flats, and ‘The Elms’ had become a retirement home. One of its residents had taken to roaming the streets in a raincoat three sizes too large and shouting. Otherwise all was peace, except for the noisy exhausts of the vans of the carpet cleaning contractors and the burglar alarm installers.

  On this sullen September day, when no twigs stirred and even the chaffinches were listless, the cars of the mourners slid apologetically to a halt beside the privet hedge that protected ‘Antibes’ from prying eyes. The Badgers’ home was a well-mannered, immaculate red-brick house, tastefully proportioned, built in 1928 in the Georgian style. Not for it the excesses of its neighbours, the pseudo-Dutch gables, green-tiled roofs and mock-Tudor facing. These houses shouted, ‘We’re rich!’ Neville’s house whispered, ‘It’s not my fault if I’m privileged.’

  Liz stood by the door of what Neville had called
the drawing room. She called it the sitting room. Jenny called it the living room. Simon called it the main reception room. Rita and Ted called it the lounge. It was a pleasant room, divided by an arch into two sections. In the front section there were a three piece suite in discreet oatmeal and four antique hard chairs which Simon, in the nearest he ever came to wit, described as Brown Windsor. The back section sported a small mahogany dining table which was never used for dining, and a bookcase which contained a complete set of Dickens and a variety of legal tomes. Paperbacks were kept upstairs, out of sight. The room was dotted with ornaments, including several tall Japanese vases. The effect was of a gathering together of things that didn’t clash rather than a positive expression of personal taste.

  ‘What a nice name – “Antibes”,’ said Mrs Wadebridge, who was big in the Red Cross, and fairly big in the Badgers’ living room.

  ‘It was named after Neville’s first honeymoon,’ said Liz, and Mrs Wadebridge blushed blotchily. ‘We went there for our honeymoon too. I felt it better to be under Jane’s shadow for a fortnight rather than for the rest of our life together. I didn’t realise then how short that would be.’

  Mrs Wadebridge hurried off, thoroughly discomfited. Liz greeted the Sillitoes brightly.

  ‘Hello, Rodney. Hello, Betty. Thank you for coming.’

  Liz’s brightness made Rodney and Betty uneasy. They exchanged anxious looks, uncertain how to respond.

  ‘Er … lovely service,’ said Betty.

  ‘Just what he would have wanted,’ said Rodney.

  ‘I think so,’ said Liz. ‘How’s business?’

  ‘Well … it hardly seems right to say it today,’ said Betty, ‘but … it’s going very well.’

  ‘Up 7.3% across the whole spectrum last month.’

  ‘Rodney!’

  ‘No,’ said Liz. ‘Please. Neville specifically wanted this to be a happy occasion. And 7.3% across the whole spectrum! That makes me very happy. Now there’s champagne. Please don’t hold back, from some sense of social propriety. Indulge yourselves just this once. For Neville. Ted!’

  Liz had turned her smile onto the next arrivals. The Sillitoes, anxious to escape from this discomfiting conversation, found themselves even more discomfited by their abrupt dismissal. They slid on into the room, trying not to look as if they were searching for the champagne.

  Ted hobbled in, helped by Carol Fordingbridge.

  ‘Are you coping, Ted?’ Liz enquired.

  ‘Carol is being very helpful.’

  ‘Thank you for inviting me back, Mrs … Liz,’ said Carol. ‘I didn’t expect it.’

  ‘I know,’ said Liz. ‘And if I thought you had, I wouldn’t have invited you.’ Carol found herself dismissed. ‘Simon! Lucinda!’

  Ted hobbled off on Carol’s arm, and Simon tried not to look for Elvis.

  ‘So!’ said Liz. ‘Six weeks to go!’

  ‘Mother, I think we should put back the wedding,’ said Simon. ‘And so does Lucinda.’

  ‘I don’t think there’s any alternative,’ said Lucinda.

  ‘I won’t hear of it,’ said Liz. ‘Neville would be most upset.’

  ‘Besides …’ Lucinda hesitated, ‘we … er … I … er …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I don’t want any shadow hanging over my great day.’

  ‘Me neither. Over my great day.’ Simon tried not to look as sick as he was feeling. There already was a shadow over his great day. Elvis had put it there.

  ‘Isn’t that a little selfish of you?’ said Liz. ‘Think of Neville. He thought of everybody’s happiness all the time. Think of me. I want a wedding. I’m going to need some fun. Now off you go, stop worrying, and have some champagne.’

  ‘Champagne?’ Well-bred though Lucinda was, she couldn’t hide her astonishment.

  ‘To celebrate.’

  ‘Celebrate?’ Simon looked puzzled.

  ‘Neville specifically asked for champagne in his will, Simon. To celebrate his life. His happy life. His long, idyllic first marriage. His short, idyllic second marriage. His life. Mr Perkins! Good to see you. And Mrs Perkins! What a charming little hat!’

  It was Simon and Lucinda’s turn to feel dismissed. They turned to watch Liz give a dazzling smile to Neville’s old schoolfriend, now the manager of Travelorama in Tannergate, a slightly less dazzling smile to his wife Barbara, and a totally undazzling smile to her charming little hat.

  ‘Thanks. You’re a great girl,’ said Ted, as Carol eased his bandaged right foot onto a frilly velvet pouf placed there by her for just such a purpose. ‘My son’s a fool.’ He saw Jenny approach. ‘Well, not a fool. I mean, how could …?’

  ‘I’ll go and find you some food,’ said Carol.

  ‘No, Jenny,’ said Ted, as soon as Carol had gone. ‘I was just saying … nobody could say anybody was a fool to fall in love with you.’

  ‘Thanks, Ted,’ said Jenny. ‘Neville wanted today to be normal and there you are putting your foot in it as normal.’

  ‘Jenny!’

  ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. Not today.’

  ‘Yes you should, according to your argument, because you normally say things like that.’

  ‘Ted!’ Jenny’s face looked as if it was about to crumple into tears.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Jenny. It’s the pain. I’m finding it hard to be my usual sunny, jovial, generous self.’

  ‘No, it’s me as well, Ted. I’m finding it awful, trying to be normal when I want to cry my eyes out. I … all of us really … we used to be quite rude to Neville at times, and he was such a lovely man. Why are we all so selfish, Ted?’

  ‘Because we’re human, Jenny.’

  ‘Oh!’

  Jenny gasped, and hurried off in distress.

  Ted stared up at the ceiling. ‘Because we’re human,’ he repeated, in case God hadn’t heard. ‘I rather like that.’

  ‘I beg your pardon, sir?’ said the dark, intense Alec Skiddaw, looming with a tray of champagne. He was a man with a talent for looming.

  ‘Oh, nothing, Alec. Just … nothing.’

  ‘Champagne, sir?’

  ‘I don’t know that I should, in my …’ Alec Skiddaw began to remove his tray. ‘Well, I’d better, I suppose.’ Ted grabbed a glass. ‘He’d have wanted me to.’

  Ted smiled at Alec Skiddaw, suddenly feeling pity for his dark intensity, for the sadness in his eyes. He wasn’t to know that Alec was feeling fighting fit, being between boils, and was trying to hide his rare, inexplicable, inappropriate feeling of joie de vivre behind a curtain of professional gravity.

  Alec Skiddaw took Ted’s smile to be a brave attempt at concealing his physical and mental anguish, and decided to reward him with an anecdote about his family.

  ‘This takes me back to my grandmother’s funeral,’ he said.

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘What a character she was. Do you know what she asked for on her eightieth birthday?’

  ‘No.

  ‘Well, how could you? A ride on a motorbike.’

  ‘Good Lord!’ Ted hated listening to interesting stories. You felt such a pillock making bored expressions of surprise.

  ‘And she did. Pillion. Eighteen miles. And it was snowing. And icy.’

  ‘Good Lord!’

  ‘And me Cousin Percy, the one with the budgies, I don’t know if I ever told you about him …’

  ‘Yes,’ said Ted hurriedly, in case he did.

  ‘Oh.’ Alec sounded disappointed, but rallied. ‘Well, this furniture van came in the opposite direction – it was near Nuneaton, I forget exactly where – and Percy skidded.’

  ‘Good Lord! And … so … she was … killed?’

  ‘No. He regained control, and when they got home – well, where they were staying, with me auntie – she said, “That was grand. Specially the skid!” What a woman!’

  ‘But … the funeral?’

  ‘She died peacefully in her sleep, when she was ninety-four.’

  Rita met Liz in the hall, which h
ad brown panelled doors, walls the colour of digestive biscuits, and a brown carpet running up the stairs with their dark brown varnished banisters. It was as if they’d decorated the hall last, and run out of colours before they’d come to it.

  As Rita had been striding purposefully across the brown carpet towards the brown panelled door of the dining room, it wasn’t any use pretending.

  ‘I was just going to … er … look for the … er … food,’ she said. ‘Not that I’m hungry, but …’ Her voice trailed away in embarrassment.

  ‘Why shouldn’t you be hungry?’ said Liz. ‘Most people are. Tension makes them hungry. Come and have a look at the garden.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’d like to get out of it all for a moment. Please.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, of course.’

  The garden wasn’t particularly wide, but it was long. It was terraced, on three levels. The lawns were well-kept, the flower beds immaculate. It was a garden where nettles died of shame.

  There wasn’t a breath of wind. There wasn’t a trace of moisture. There was no feeling of heat or cold. The day was still, neutral, grey. The world was waiting … but for what?

  The garden wasn’t at its best that September. The best of the flowers were over, and even those that were sometimes splendid, like the hybrid tea roses, were disappointing. What had been drenched in mid-August had become too dry by mid-September. Later, the Meteorological Office would announce that it had been the driest September since 1776. That month, in fact, Mexborough had been drier than Marrakesh.

  They walked slowly across the lawn that dominated the top level of the garden.

  ‘Liz, I …’ began Rita.

  ‘Please! Before you say something you regret …’ interrupted Liz.

  ‘No, no. No, no. I was going to say something nice.’

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘Before you say something nice, which you’ll regret, I think I ought to make it clear that I’m not burying the hatchet.’