by David Nobbs
‘I see.’
A short-sighted bee examined Liz’s floral top. She whooshed it away imperiously. It obeyed.
‘I’m talking to you today, and today only, because Neville would have wished it, and today his wishes are paramount.’
‘I see. Well … yes … yes, of course.’
They were on the second level now, approaching a flower bed given over to lupins and roses.
‘This little corner was Neville’s pride and joy.’
‘Ah. Well, it’s … very nice.’
Liz moved on. Rita, the obedient guest, followed.
‘That’s a lovely clematis,’ said Rita, as they passed the purpleblue of a tall clematis jackmanii.
‘I prefer the Nellie Moser,’ said Liz.
They sauntered on. Rita kept silent, after what she took to be a rebuff.
‘Neville and I had separate beds,’ said Liz.
‘Ah. Well … I … er … I don’t think I really want the details of …’
‘In the garden. I was speaking of the garden, Rita.’
‘Oh. Well … of course. As if you’d … I mean … well, anyway, it’s none of my … sorry.’
It was becoming a nightmare for Rita, this slow passage through the autumn garden on this grey, empty day. They were on the lowest level now. Liz led her to a border where dahlias and phlox and begonias were in bloom.
‘This was my area, over here.’
‘Ah. It’s very … “was”? Will you move?’
‘I haven’t thought yet. Will I be able to sell, with your ring road being built at the bottom of my garden?’
‘Ah.’
Rita found herself imagining juggernauts roaring through this third level, and through the narrow strip of woodland beyond, which screened these houses from the Dalton Wood Estate.
‘And here is the magnolia. The fateful magnolia.’
‘Ah.’
It was not, in truth, a particularly splendid example, but then it wasn’t in flower. Rita felt that Liz was angry with it for not being in flower, as if it had let her down. But maybe the anger was for her, its destroyer. It sat, motionless, flowerless, in a circular bed studded with miniature roses.
‘How naive of me not to realise where we were heading.’
‘Yes. I was surprised. Beautiful, isn’t it?’
‘Beautiful.’
‘Soon to be no more.’
‘Er … no.’
‘I must go back. Do my duty. Thank you, Rita.’
‘What for?’
‘This little talk. This little walk. They’ve made me feel better.’
Liz set off back to the house, briskly.
Rita followed her, slowly.
Several minutes later Rita was standing in the brown hall with a plate of food, which she couldn’t remember selecting. Sometimes, when driving, she would pass through a village without noticing it, yet apparently drive with perfect safety. And now she seemed to have chosen her food quite consciously, for everything on her plate was vegetarian. But this gap in her memory, here today, was an unpleasant shock.
The drone of conversation in the living room was more animated than when she had left. She was reminded of those times, in the bad old days, when she’d gone to make tea or coffee, and had heard merry laughter from their lounge, and had believed that the world was a jollier place when she was absent. Now, although all that was over, she felt once again the sheer dread of entering a room full of people.
But there was a difference now. Geoffrey Ellsworth-Smythe was in that room.
She tried not to meet anybody’s eyes. Not Betty’s slightly bloodshot eyes, for that would make her cry. Not the unsmiling eyes in Morris Wigmore’s smiling face, for he would buttonhole her and discuss committees and agendas. Not Matthew Wadehurst’s grave legal eyes, for he would feel obliged to say something to her; all sorts of people spoke to her now that she was a councillor, now that she was somebody.
Geoffrey was standing by the unlit fireplace. She squeezed his arm and said, ‘Hello,’ but her tone suggested that she meant, ‘Thank God.’
Geoffrey understood and said, ‘Rita!’ as if he were saying, ‘What a wonderful stroke of luck. It’s you, the person I most want to see in the whole world,’ causing Rita to say, in a low voice, ‘You aren’t going to tell me that you want me again, are you?’ Geoffrey, in a voice even lower than usual, said, ‘Not if it upsets you.’ He gave her a close look, and said, ‘You are upset, aren’t you?’
‘It’s Liz.’
‘Snap.’
‘She showed me the magnolia.’
‘Ah.’
‘It’s become an obsession with her. Sometimes, which is an awful thing to say, I wonder if she cares more for that magnolia than … what do you mean, “snap”?’
‘I’m upset about Liz. I’m dreadfully ashamed.’
‘What about?’
‘My dislike of her. When I left England she was a selfish, spoilt girl. I suppose I assumed she couldn’t change and hadn’t changed.’
‘Has she changed?’ Rita was surprised.
‘Well, I certainly didn’t think her capable of the courage she’s shown.’
‘Courage?’ Rita was very surprised.
‘Hiding her grief so bravely.’
‘Hiding her grief?’ Rita was very, very surprised.
‘Excuse me. Be back soon.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘Big brother is going to be supportive for the first time in his life.’
And Geoffrey was gone. And Rita, reeling but no longer able to cope, found that her legs had decided to take her past the oatmeal settee towards the front window, past a dimly seen man in an oatmeal armchair, who said, ‘Don’t speak to me, then.’
‘Oh. Sorry, Ted,’ she said. ‘I didn’t realise it was you.’
‘There are lots of people encased in plaster, aren’t there?’
‘Sorry.’ His face was grey with pain. She pulled up a Windsor chair and sat beside him. ‘How are you?’ she asked.
Ted smiled bravely. ‘I’ll recover,’ he said. ‘The scars will heal.’
‘And … the mental scars?’
‘Healed. Almost. Forgotten she ever existed. Almost.’
‘She? Oh, Corinna! No, I meant … the accident … the …’
Ted leant forward, to speak yet more confidentially. His left arm, the one in the sling, was almost digging into Rita’s bust.
‘Rita,’ he said. ‘You’re a woman.’
‘Ten out of ten for recognition.’
‘I suppose this isn’t really the time or place. But.’
‘But?’
‘Is it possible, Rita, for a woman to entirely … utterly … fool a man over experiencing … sexual ecstasy?’
‘You what, Ted?’
‘Incidentally, I’m … er … luckily under the … I’m … er … undamaged in …’ Ted glanced down, as if making a final check that everything was still there, ‘… those areas.’
‘Oh good. I’m relieved to hear it. I speak disinterestedly, of course.’
‘Oh yes. I realise that. Those days are … but … I mean … sexual ecstasy … can it be simulated?’
Rita glanced round the room, full of respectable people, dressed quite sombrely, and a few, who hadn’t known of Neville’s wishes, wearing black.
‘Should we be discussing this here today?’ she said.
‘No. No. I agree. Not the … er … at all.’ Ted lowered his voice a further notch. ‘But … I mean … Corinna conned me in business. Could she have conned me in … er … well … bed? I mean, she … regularly made …’ he searched for a description that might not be too unseemly for a funeral, ‘… movements consistent with gratification. She regularly … uttered cries indicative of ecstasy. I mean, she must have liked me a bit, mustn’t she?’
‘Oh, Ted. This really isn’t the time or place.’
‘No, no. I know. Right. Let’s change the … but I mean you sometimes … in our marriage …’
�
�Made movements consistent with gratification?’
‘Well … yes. Well … you did.’
‘Uttered cries indicative of ecstasy?’
‘Well … yes. Well … you did. I mean … were they …?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘You what?’
‘Sometimes they were genuine. Sometimes I was … giving you what I thought you wanted to hear.’
‘Rita!’
‘I really think we ought to change the subject.’
‘Oh yes. Yes. Right. You see, I don’t think I could ever again trust a woman in … if I … if I felt … I mean, Corinna couldn’t have found me utterly repulsive, could she?’
‘No, Ted, I daresay she couldn’t have found you utterly repulsive. Oh Ted!’
‘Thanks, Rita.’ Ted’s voice went through a gear change, as if it was entirely his idea to change the subject. ‘I … er … I see Liz is talking to you.’
‘Only for today. After that, it’s back to silence.’
‘That’s pathetic.’
‘Rather inconvenient, too, as I’m in love with her brother.’
‘I like your clothes.’
Big brother’s support of Liz was taking place near the back window, beside the unused dining table, far from Rita and Ted.
‘Good heavens.’
‘Why “Good heavens”?
‘“Good heavens, Geoffrey is making small talk.” “Good heavens, Geoffrey has said something nice to me,” and, “Good heavens, Geoffrey likes my clothes, because everyone else disapproves.’
Geoffrey Ellsworth-Smythe tried not to look too rueful. His beard was a great help in this deception. He hadn’t really noticed Liz’s clothes. He wasn’t a man for noticing clothes. It had just been a random throw in his awkward attempt to find a comfortable conversational level with his sister. Once started, however, it was as good a subject as any.
‘I didn’t mean these particularly,’ he said. ‘I meant … all your clothes. I like your dress sense.’
‘Good heavens.’
‘Once again, why “Good heavens”?’
‘“Good heavens, a member of the male sex has noticed my clothes.” “Good heavens, the great anthropologist, who’s spent a lifetime studying people who run around in the buff, can appreciate dress sense,” and, “Good heavens, Geoffrey has now said two nice things to me,” making, when you include all the childhood years, the grand total of … two.’
Alec Skiddaw, the great loomer, loomed.
‘More champagne, madam?’ he said.
‘Thanks. Tickety-bloody-boo.’
Alec Skiddaw looked somewhat surprised by this remark, and Liz realised that it was Eric Siddall who said ‘tickety-boo’ and that when she’d asked Geoffrey to ask Alec to serve the drinks today, she’d meant Eric. And so she displayed, briefly, a condition rarely seen on the face of the ravishing Liz Badger. She displayed social confusion.
Alec Skiddaw, also socially confused, scampered off.
Geoffrey, single-mindedly bent on offering his support, hadn’t listened to this brief exchange. He waited until it was over. Now he resumed his mission.
‘Well …’ he said, ‘I’ve missed you all these years I’ve been abroad.’
‘Good heavens. Meaning, “I hadn’t the faintest idea.”’
‘Nor had I really till now. Silly, isn’t it? Look, anything you need, Liz – help, support, a roof, a shoulder to lean on.’
‘You can help me now.’
‘At your service.’ Geoffrey, pleased, made a tiny mock bow, and adopted an eager-to-please expression.
‘Here comes Ted. I think I know what he wants to talk about. You can make yourself scarce and leave us alone.’
‘Oh.’ Geoffrey tried not to look too disappointed. ‘Well, that was hardly … well, all right.’
He moved off, reluctantly.
Ted hobbled slowly towards Liz, negotiating with slight difficulty the small step which separated the two areas of the room. The mourners pretended that they hadn’t seen him, since they didn’t know what to say to him, but it was clear that they had seen him, since they moved away to make room for him. Ted therefore approached Liz through a wide tunnel formed by two rows of backs. Liz stood at the end of the tunnel, waiting, as if she was still dressed as Queen Elizabeth the First.
‘Hello, Ted,’ she said, when at last her injured serf had reached her. ‘I’m flattered.’
‘You what?’
‘You, struggling all the way over to speak to me.’
‘Well … since you didn’t even move an inch towards me …’
‘Oh Lord. I never thought.’
‘Not your strong point.’
‘Thank you very much.’
‘Oh heck. Not a good start.’
‘On what?’
‘Diplomacy. I’m not very good at it.’
‘Not having had much practice.’
‘Ouch. No, but, Liz, doesn’t it? A thing like this. Put everything in proportion.’
‘Yes.’
‘So …’
‘No.’
‘What?’
‘The answer’s “no”, Ted.’
‘I haven’t asked the question yet.’
‘The question is, will I end my feud with Rita forever? Become friends. You were going to say that I’m going to need friends and shouldn’t be petty.’
‘Oh heck.’
‘Nicely put, Ted, but the answer’s “no”.’
‘Why, Liz?’
‘I can’t do it. I don’t know how to.’
‘I’m sorry for you.’
‘Spare me your pity and go.’
‘Right. Right.’
Ted hobbled off, banging his crutch unnecessarily hard in frustration at the total failure of his mission.
•
Simon Rodenhurst decided that it was time to show his mettle. He strode briskly across the spacious main reception room. He had no eyes for the exceptionally attractive arch, for the pleasant views afforded by the double-glazed windows, for the six power points, or for Ted Simcock, struggling in the opposite direction, as if Simon were going with the tide and wind and Ted straight into them. He had eyes only for Elvis.
‘How much do you know?’ he demanded.
‘About what?’ said Elvis.
There was a pause.
‘Nothing,’ said Simon. ‘I’ve done nothing wrong.’
‘Why did you say, “How much do you know?” then?’
‘Because I’m not very good at this sort of thing.’
‘What sort of thing do you think this sort of thing is?’
There was another pause.
‘Hounding innocent people. Making false allegations. The media. All right, let me put it another way. What exactly do you falsely and ludicrously claim I’ve done?’ said Simon Rodenhurst, of Trellis, Trellis, Openshaw and Finch.
‘I can’t talk about it here, Simon. It’s not the time or place,’ said the cynical, almost smirking Elvis Simcock.
Having replenished his glass – ‘He’d have wanted me to’ – Ted struggled towards Rita, who was still sitting on the same chair, trying not to look as though she was enjoying her food.
‘Thank you for not coming to meet me,’ said Ted.
‘I know how much you enjoy feeling hard done by,’ said Rita.
‘I see,’ said Ted, in his feeling-hard-done-by voice. ‘So this is my reward for trying to help.’
‘Trying to help?’
‘I begged Liz to be friends with you.’
‘Ted! Why?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe I wanted you to remember me with some affection.’
‘Oh.’ Since Ted showed no sign of sitting down, Rita felt it incumbent upon her to stand up, in gratitude for his efforts. ‘Thanks, Ted.’
‘No. I failed. She said, “I can’t do it. I don’t know how to.”’
‘I’m sorry for her.’
‘That’s what I said. She wasn’t thrilled.’
‘Oh, Ted. Well, thanks, anyway.�
�
Rita smiled at her ex-husband. He didn’t quite smile back, but nodded, as if acknowledging that Rita’s smile had been the correct response. He hobbled off, making a slow bee-line for the Sillitoes, who were remaining close to each other and the champagne.
‘Ted! Love! How are you?’ said Betty, her voice over-effusive as usual.
‘Terrific. Limping’s my hobby.’ Ted paused, to let the full weight of his sarcasm sink in, then changed his tone abruptly. ‘I realise this isn’t the time or place, but how’s business?’
‘Well,’ said Rodney, trying to look lugubrious, ‘if it wasn’t that on an occasion like this it would seem rather insensitive to say so, I’d say, “extremely satisfactory”.’
‘Up 7.3% across the whole spectrum,’ said Betty.
‘Betty!’ said Rodney.
‘Well, if you did say that,’ said Ted, ‘I might say, perhaps equally insensitively, “any chance of your reconsidering the possibility of my working for you?”’
‘If you did say that,’ said Rodney, ‘I might well reply, not only insensitively but extremely bluntly, that you described us as “crackpot lunatic fringe animal rights trendy health food freaky nut nuts”.’
‘Well, folk exaggerate, don’t they?’ said Ted. ‘No, I’ve had time to think, and reappraise my ideas vis-à-vis other offers I’ve been considering, and … well … frankly, I was … well … wrong. That’s all there is to it.’
He gave an apologetic little smile. He looked, at that moment, as dignified as it is possible for a man to look when he has one foot in plaster, an arm in a sling, a neck brace, and a large bandage on his bruised forehead.
‘Well, under the circumstances, I feel …’ Betty smiled warmly at Ted. ‘Don’t we, Rodney?’
‘Yes, Betty, we do.’ The former big wheel behind Cock-A-Doodle Chickens also smiled warmly at Ted. ‘We have a vacancy for an experienced person to supervise our rapidly expanding fruit and vegetable buying operation.’
‘Incorporating nuts, grains and spices,’ put in the joint big wheel behind Sillitoe’s.
‘Well, thanks. Thanks. I … er … I like the sound of it.’ Ted tried to look deeply excited. He must have known that he’d failed, since he felt it necessary to emphasise the point. ‘No. I mean it. I really do. But.’
‘But?’