Fair Do's

by David Nobbs

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Liz. ‘Really.’

  Rodney hurried after Betty.

  Liz closed the door. Only Ted and Rita remained in the hall. Rita had helped Ted to the door of the living room.

  ‘I’m sorry, Liz,’ said Ted.

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Liz. ‘I think the dear man would have seen the funny side, don’t you, Rita?’

  ‘Yes, I rather think he would, Liz,’ said Rita.

  Ted struggled sideways through the door into the living room.

  ‘I think it would have tickled Neville pink,’ said Liz.

  The two women gave each other long, wondering looks.

  ‘Oh, Liz,’ said Rita.

  She returned to the living room.

  Liz, still the hostess, went to clear a dirty plate which had been left on a small table by the dining room door. As she passed the foot of the stairs, she stopped. Her spine was tingling again.

  She hardly dared look up the stairs. She could hardly breathe. She forced herself to look.

  ‘Wouldn’t it, my love?’ she said.

  There was nobody there.

  She sighed. Then she cleared away the dirty plate.

  Seventh Do

  October:

  The Civil Wedding

  Geoffrey Ellsworth-Smythe’s nostrils twitched as the light October wind bore exotic spices along Commercial Street. His sister sniffed the wind more warily, her nose wrinkled in disapproval. She had never been inside either the good Indian restaurant or the bad Indian restaurant. They weren’t her style.

  The forecourt of the council offices was steaming, as warm sunshine dried off the effects of a recent shower. The temperature was average for the time of year. So were the rainfall, the sunshine and the wind speed. Yorkshire was experiencing that extreme rarity, an average day. Later, the Meteorological Office would state that it had been the most average day since 1678.

  But for Geoffrey Ellsworth-Smythe this most average day was the most extraordinary day of his life. It was his wedding day. He looked up at the solid, squat council offices, which housed the social services department, the housing department, the planning department and the register office. He sniffed the scents of turmeric and fenugreek, cumin, chillies and garam masala, garlic and ginger, cardamon and coriander, saffron, mace and cinnamon. He recalled palmed paradises, dark rain forests, deep jungle clearings, crocodile rivers, cathedrals black with vultures, bare bodies, painted bodies, ritually scarred bodies, grinning teeth, decaying teeth, and mouths with no teeth at all. Now he was to become a husband and live in England. He took his sister’s arm and escorted her between the cars of the heads and deputy heads of departments, neatly parked in their reserved spaces in this neat, reserved comer of the world, and entered the council offices.

  They blinked in the dark interior. Gradually, they became able to see dark, panelled walls, studded with doors, one of which bore the legend ‘Register Office’. There were benches around the walls. Double doors led to the social services department, and a wide staircase led up to the housing and planning departments.

  ‘Oh Lord!’ sighed Liz.

  ‘What?’ said Geoffrey.

  ‘Nothing.’ She paced the unlovely hall, a caged tigress.

  ‘No, please. Tell me. We mustn’t start drifting apart again. I need you today, Liz. I’m scared.’

  Surprise halted the tigress. ‘Scared? The great anthropologist, who’s faced head hunters, witch doctors and poisoned blowpipes?’

  ‘The great bachelor. The great wanderer. The great loner. Terrified.’

  ‘Terrified she may not turn up?’

  ‘Good heavens, no. She wouldn’t do that … twice. Would you be happy if she didn’t turn up?’

  ‘Really, Geoffrey! What a thing to ask! Of course I would. I’d be ecstatic.’

  ‘Oh, Liz! I thought you were friends again.’

  ‘I was very emotional at Neville’s funeral. I said some foolish things I bitterly regret.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Such as, “Shall we end this stupid feud, Rita?” Whereupon she marries my brother, and her son exposes my son and loses him his job. Damnable Simcocks!’

  ‘You still haven’t told me why you said “Oh Lord!”’

  ‘The last time I stood here, I was getting married.’

  ‘Oh Lord.’

  ‘Sorry. I don’t want to cast a pall over your great day.’

  ‘Liz?’ Geoffrey put his hands on her shoulders, as if blessing her. ‘Rita and I both want you to be a frequent and regular guest at our house.’

  ‘Watching you touching each other?’ She wriggled free of his touch. ‘Enviously listening to your creaking bed-springs? Terrific. I can’t wait.’

  Liz went to study a notice board which contained information on where to go if you needed marriage guidance, had VD, or needed advice about alcoholism or AIDS.’

  Simon Rodenhurst, no longer of Trellis, Trellis, Openshaw and Finch, came in rather shyly.

  ‘Hello,’ he beamed.

  ‘Hello, Simon.’ Geoffrey nodded towards Liz. ‘Fragile. Handle with care.’

  ‘Oh Lord!’ Simon went up to his mother, smiled hugely, and kissed her. ‘You look fantastic.’ Liz was wearing a green, large-collared jacket, green skirt, and a black tricorn hat with green and white squiggles. ‘Everyone’ll think you’re the bride.’

  ‘Not this time, Simon.’

  ‘Oh Lord! Crunch! Thud! Sacked estate agent drops brick. Sorry, Mother.’

  Liz turned on him. ‘A minor indiscretion compared to your recent efforts. I can just forgive you for being dishonest, Simon. But for being stupid enough to be found out by Elvis, never.’

  She stalked off, plonked herself on a bench, and stared resolutely into space.

  ‘Phew!’ said Simon, letting out the tension like air from a taut tyre.

  ‘Bad luck,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Lucinda all right?’

  ‘Oh yes. The wedding isn’t off. It’s just postponed till I find myself a job.’

  There she was, in the doorway. For her third wedding day, and her second wedding, Rita had chosen a grey and cream tiered dress with a wide grey suede belt, a corsage of turquoise orchids, a double-row pearl bracelet and a large turquoise straw hat.

  Was there relief in Geoffrey’s eyes and disappointment in Liz’s?

  Rita gave Geoffrey a curiously shy, self-conscious little kiss. ‘Well, I’ve turned up,’ she said. She looked round the gloomy hall, whose only natural light came from a grimy skylight five stories up. ‘Unlike most other people, it seems. Elvis rang. The little swine’s been bleeped. Emergency. He’ll meet me here. Who’d have sons? Monsters.’

  ‘Paul?’

  Rita gave Simon a look. Even he couldn’t fail to understand that she didn’t want to talk about Paul in front of him. ‘Oh, I’ll just slope off, tactfully,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you, Simon,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Do it tactfully enough, without a word, we won’t even notice.’

  Simon sloped off, tactfully, to read the notice board and wonder why he regretted having led such a sheltered life.

  ‘He’s gone fishing,’ said Rita.

  ‘Fishing?’ said Geoffrey.

  ‘He’s finding it difficult to cope with life outside prison. Crowded rooms make him panic. And I don’t imagine he’d have relished facing Elvis. He phoned, though. Cried a bit. Sent us his love and blessing.’

  ‘But … fishing, today! And him a vegetarian!’

  ‘No Jenny yet?’

  ‘Not a sign. Nor Carol.’

  ‘Yes, well … I’m afraid marrying you is making me a traitor to the cause to which I’ve recruited Carol. Even you changing your name to mine hasn’t mollified her. No Rodney and Betty either. That’s odd.’

  Rita noticed Liz for the first time, and raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Fuming,’ whispered Geoffrey. ‘Back to square one.’

  ‘Oh dear.’

  The dapper, ageless Eric Siddall entered enthusiastically. He was wearing an ordinar
y tie, instead of his bow-tie, in order not to look like a barman.

  ‘Thank you so much for inviting me, Mrs … well, it’s still Simcock, isn’t it? For a few minutes.’

  ‘Please. Call me Rita.’

  ‘In my career I’ve done twenty-seven nuptials, Mrs … Rita! Twenty-seven!’

  ‘Amazing.’

  ‘Well, no, what I … well, I suppose it’s not a bad tribute, I’d never really … but what I mean is … you’re the first one ever to invite me to the ceremony. I’m … I …’

  ‘Eric!’

  Rita kissed him.

  ‘Oooh!’ he said. ‘I won’t wash for a month! I’ve checked everything at the hotel, Mr Ellsworth-Smythe. It’s all … well …’

  ‘Tickety-boo,’ prompted Geoffrey.

  ‘Incredible. You’ve taken the very words out of my mouth. You must be psychic. You’re one in a million, Mrs … Rita. You’ve seen through the barman to the human being underneath. I’ll never forget that.’ Eric moved away, in case he was outstaying his welcome. He found himself looking at the door of the register office, just as it opened. ‘Oooh!’ he said, pointing excitedly.

  It was indeed a surprising sight. Rita was distinctly surprised to see her ex-husband emerging from the register office, arm in arm with the cake-loving Sandra Pickersgill. She was surprised to see that for this modest civil wedding Sandra had chosen a long ivory flounced lace-edged V-neck wedding gown with large puffed sleeves, a halo of flowers with a short tiered veil, pearl drop earrings, a pearl bracelet and a sapphire engagement ring. She was distinctly surprised to see, emerging behind Ted and Sandra, and all looking like naughty children caught smoking behind the bike shed, her son Elvis, her daughter-in-law Jenny, her protégé Carol and her employers and old friends Rodney and Betty Sillitoe. A passing planner, who was planning to start work that very afternoon on plans to build a separate entrance for the register office, glanced at the scene with his usual faint interest, and was struck by something unusual in the way in which the two groups were facing each other, like opposing buttonholed armies.

  If they had been armies, Rita’s would have been heavily outnumbered. Sandra’s friends and relations were still pouring out of the register office, and they included several burly young men who might prove useful in a scrap.

  Ted and Sandra, still arm in arm, approached Rita and Geoffrey slowly.

  Elvis scurried past them, said, ‘He swore us to secrecy, Mum,’ and scampered back to the safety of the larger group.

  The two couples, one just married, the other about to be, faced each other warily. Ted was smiling uneasily. Sandra’s smile had an understandable touch of smugness. Geoffrey smiled cautiously.

  Rita, who didn’t smile at all, was the first to speak.

  ‘Well, quite a coincidence, Ted.’

  ‘Oh no. Not a coincidence, Rita.’

  ‘So what’s the big idea, then? Sabotage our wedding day?’

  ‘No. No! Absolutely not! Do you think I’d do that? Look at all Sandra’s lot. There’ll be even more at the reception. How many have I rustled up? Five. I’m a social outcast.’

  ‘Please, Ted,’ said Geoffrey. ‘I don’t want to cry on my wedding day.’

  ‘Could I have formally invited my ex-wife and her fiancé? Could I have formally invited …?’

  ‘Your ex-lover?’

  ‘Rita!’ Ted seemed hurt. ‘Not today! I want today to be a day of reconciliation, all round.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Yes! So I thought … when I bumped into you here, I could informally say, “Please pop into our reception.”’

  ‘Strangely enough, Ted,’ said Geoffrey in his gentle, dry way, ‘Rita and I have both decided to go to our reception.’

  ‘But this is the whole point,’ said Ted. ‘They’re in the same hotel.’

  ‘You what, Ted?’ said Rita.

  ‘You’re in the Sir Leonard Hutton Room. We’re in the Geoffrey Boycott Room. Much smaller, and the service is very slow; we aren’t trying to upstage you. I’ve asked the others to try and pop in for half an hour and have a drink with us. Rodney and Betty seemed quite keen. So please, come and have a glass of champagne.’

  ‘Asti spumante,’ said Sandra. ‘We prefer it.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Rita. ‘Well … it’s a bit … we’ll see, shall we?’ Ted had the advantage of surprise. She couldn’t help resenting being thrown on the defensive on her wedding day.

  ‘Please do,’ said Sandra. ‘Hey, I think you look right belting, Mrs Simcock.’

  ‘Well, thank you, Sandra,’ said Rita. ‘You don’t … er … you don’t look too bad yourself, Mrs … Simcock.’

  ‘Hello, Mum,’ said Jenny Simcock, née Rodenhurst, nervously. She was wearing a long, ethnic skirt in black, pink and red, with a pink-shot silk fitted jacket.

  ‘Hello, stranger,’ said Liz, who’d been unable to pretend not to be interested in the confrontation between the two wedding couples, but had just resumed her study of distant space.

  ‘Well, I wasn’t sure what sort of reception you’d give me.’

  ‘Jenny! Friendly, of course. After all, you’ve twice walked out on Simcock boys, and I applaud that.’

  ‘Mum!’

  ‘The only slight cloud being that both times it’s been to move in with his brother, but that’s a mere detail.’

  ‘Mum!’

  Jenny hurried off.

  Elvis intercepted her.

  ‘Crying?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ she sobbed.

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Oh!’

  Elvis strolled on, trying to look as if it was by chance that he was approaching Carol, who was talking with the Sillitoes near the door of the register office.

  ‘Hello, Carol,’ he said.

  She turned to look at him gravely.

  ‘Jenny’s gone back to Paul,’ said the cynical Elvis Simcock.

  ‘Good,’ said the long-haired Carol Fordingbridge, who had once loved him.

  ‘Hello, Liz,’ said Ted, with what it would be an exaggeration to call sang-froid. There was no reply, so he continued. ‘Liz? Can we let …’

  ‘Bygones be bygones? Let me save you from your banality.’

  ‘No, but … I mean … will you? Pop in to our reception.’

  ‘Hooray! My life’s ambition achieved. The pinnacle climbed.’

  Ted began to wince, then stopped, as if realising that she had no power to hurt him any more.

  ‘No, but …’ he continued resolutely, ‘… we’re moving away for good, and –’

  ‘Oh, well, that is a cause for celebration. In that case I’ll be delighted.’

  ‘Liz!’

  Ted sounded disappointed that Liz should fall below an acceptable standard of social behaviour on this happy day. And Liz felt all the more angry, because she knew that Ted’s implied rebuke was justified, that he was behaving with more social grace than she was, and that she was unable to do anything about that intolerable state of affairs.

  ‘No Lucinda?’ said Elvis. He could never resist turning the knife in the wound, when the wound was Simon’s.

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Save your “ah”s, Elvis. She hasn’t ditched me.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No. She wouldn’t.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Oh belt up.’

  Simon moved off, as if he felt that his devastating wit had rendered further conversation unnecessary.

  Jenny approached Elvis anxiously, nervously.

  ‘Can we try to at least be civil today, if not for me, for your mum and dad?’ she said.

  ‘Oh all right,’ said Elvis.

  ‘I mean, we don’t have to talk if we can avoid it, but, if we can’t avoid it, and I hope we can, but if we can’t, let’s be at least coolly polite.’

  ‘Well, all right.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Jenny didn’t leave, and Elvis didn’t say any more, and clearly Jenny thought he ought to say something more, for she repeated,
‘Thanks.’

  ‘All right!’ he said.

  The moment he’d got rid of Jenny, Elvis found that he had Rita to deal with.

  ‘You’ve offended Simon and Jenny already, haven’t you?’ she said. ‘What have you said?’

  ‘Let’s think. To Simon I said, “No Lucinda?”, then “Ah”, then “No?”, then “Ah” again. To Jenny I said … er … “Oh, all right”, “Well, all right”, and “All right”.’

  ‘My word. You’re surpassing even your normal level of inarticulacy.’

  ‘Mum!’

  ‘You should try total silence. Britain’s first Trappist philosopher.’

  ‘Mum!’

  The moment Rita had moved off, Ted steamed in.

  ‘Have you upset your mother?’ he said. ‘What have you said?’

  ‘Oh heck. I said “Mum!” and “Mum!’”

  ‘You shouldn’t speak to your mother like that.’

  ‘Dad!’

  It was becoming a nightmare. The moment Ted had gone, here was Rita again.

  ‘Have you upset your father now?’ she said. She saw that he was reeling, and relented. ‘Sorry. But … I mean … on my wedding day … not coming to fetch me, as arranged, not telling me why.’

  ‘I couldn’t. Look, Mum, I’m here now, at your service, and I want to make this a happy day for you.’ He became confidential, as if announcing momentous news. ‘I’ve switched me bleeper off.’

  ‘My God! Greater love hath no man.’ Rita saw the hurt on his face. ‘Oh, Elvis.’ She kissed him. ‘Thanks, Elvis.’ She slapped his face in maternal exasperation. ‘Oh, Elvis.’

  At last it was the turn of the somewhat bewildered Elvis to move off. There weren’t many people he could approach in safety. He decided to try the Sillitoes. Too late. They were already on their way across the dark foyer to explain themselves to Rita.

  ‘Rita!’ said Betty, who was bedecked in a purple and coral tiered dress, with short black shiny gloves, and a pink hat which looked like the intestines of a small, repellent animal. ‘We had no alternative. He swore us to secrecy.’

  ‘And for the first time in your life you kept a secret! Congratulations!’

  ‘Don’t be like that, Rita,’ said the former big wheel behind Cock-A-Doodle Chickens. ‘It’s not every day we’re invited to two receptions in the same hotel.’